I wanted to say: Im not okay, Mom. Im so tired it hurts. I feel like Im being electrocuted in a tub of ice water. I sweat. I shake. I have panic attacks. I dont know whats wrong with me. Im so scared. I didnt know I had postpartum depression—postpartum anxiety to be exact. Even after I found out and was diagnosed with severe PPD a month later, I lied. Even after I was put on anti-psychotic medicine, even after I was registered at the mental hospital in Berkeley, I lied. I lied, because I didnt want my parents to worry. It seemed the right, Confucian, filial thing to do, to protect ones elderly parents from ones own suffering. Most of all I lied because I didnt want to be judged. I already felt like such a failure. I was failing as a mother and I was ashamed. Four years ago I had three miscarriages. Youre not careful enough, my mother said. Youre too active. While I was pregnant with Anza, I learned I had balanced translocation, a genetic condition. We needed to get lucky. Even after explaining this to her, my mother would insist: Go on bed rest so it doesnt fall out. I couldnt risk hearing words that sounded like blame. I already felt it was my fault: I was too soft. My grandmothers combined had birthed and raised 15 children while fleeing the Japanese, the Communists, and poverty. What right did I have to fall apart? So I took selfies of me and Anza smiling and sent them to my parents every day. - See more at: hyphenmagazine/blog/archive/2013/11/smiling-selfies-and-other-lies#sthash.82l6lDIB.dpuf
Posted on: Thu, 20 Nov 2014 02:00:35 +0000
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