The Weird Kid

I don't know what post-partum depression is. I did a in-depth report on it, in college. I'm not sure it means what they think it means.

It seems too simple to deserve a psychiatric term. It is unhappiness as the result of losing posession of your life and becoming the property of a demanding, thankless force. Of losing sleep and losing sexuality and feeling the twist and strain of your husband's love, and becoming the very thing most young women have spent their lives being at odds against, a mother.

Who wouldn't be depressed?

Well, lots of women aren't. Because their baby fits snuggly into their life plans, and they don't think like I do, and the PPD women do.

I won't go on anti-depressants now. Because it is the burning, that those pills smother, which makes me move, fight, crawl, away from the complacencies and compromises. And maybe those are the real reasons I'm unhappy. Not brain chemicals, not seratonin's violent re-uptake.

Of all the pills I've been given, and the mental wards I've been placed (voluntarily) in, no one ever measured those "chemicals," to see if they lacked, if they pumped strong or weak. No one ever suggested, maybe I've just been doing it wrong, my whole life. That I've chosen to be unhappy, over and over.

So now I have to shove through. Lift my head up from my failures and hatreds, the stuff I bleed all over this site, every now and then, long enough to crawl one step forward. I never crawled forwards on the pills.

If it doesn't work...if I achieve what I want and am still wretched, then, fuck it, give me all the pills.

But dammit not yet.



Besides, I think I might be pregnant.