. Twice. However, the luxury of knowing what had taken over my brain was not something I had at the time. I simply believed that by having a child, I was no longer myself.
Months after the delivery of my first son and long after the designated window of when one typically could have "postpartum depression," I began to feel…off.I had returned to work and seemed to be making good progress.
I’ll never forget the pride I felt as my doctor remarked on what a wonderful recovery I had made. So you can imagine my shock when I fantasized that a bus would hit me on my drive home one day.My goal was not to die, but to be knocked unconscious long enough that I’d be taken care of.
The strangest part of these fantasies was that they would make me laugh. The idea of being shot through my front windshield would scare me at first, and then fill me with laughter as I’d imagine a luxury hospital stay far from the responsibilities of my life. (I feel the need to footnote here that I am not a morbid or dark person.
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