Head Balloons!

I finally got myself an appointment with a headshrinker next week and I’m trying to nail down exactly how to tell him how nuts I am.

“Hi, I’m Eda. I wrote a manuscript during my postpartum depression and I’d like to read you an excerpt that sums things up pretty nicely.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. There’s a hole in the world where my chest used to be and what crawls out of it is every twisted ugly fear and insecurity, every shame, every disappointment. My head balloons outward, each string of thought separates like rocket ships splitting as they leave the atmosphere. How do I explain the complexity of my entire being cracking, of feeling each break, hearing each pop, watching in slow motion as every fragment of my soul drifts apart and not having the strength or even the will to pull it back together again? He couldn’t possibly understand. He doesn’t feel it the same way I do. He’ll never know what it is to have the soft fuzzy fabric of security ripped apart, leaving him stranded and alone, never knowing if he’d ever be whole again.

So… do you prescribe medication yourself or…

man person woman face

I feel like… maybe stock photography isn’t really that enlightened about mental health issues because… I mean, this photo. I searched “crazy” not “adorkable.”   Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

 

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