Even When You Fall on Your Face, You are Still Moving Forward

It is with dogged determination that all parents make it through the day.  So what happens when determination just won't cut it? Everyone gets tripped up along the way, and although others may help you, ultimately it is up to you to pick yourself up and get moving.
The post-partum bit has been done many times over.  No one's story has encompassed a fraction of mine nor will my tale reflect anyone else's.  I believe, the pain someone suffering with depression feels is a singular manifestation. As such, I didn't not find solace knowing that many women shared my story.  But, I do credit my episode with helping shape me as a parent. (After all, what doesn't?)
Maia's birth scared the living be-jesus outta me.  I was filled with an overwhelming love and the crush of hormones. It wasn't until after she was born and we were home that things spiraled out of control. I've never been the most stable person, but I could always get through anything. With the hormones swirling, I couldn't handle anything. Maia's cries immobilized me. I couldn't handle a whimper. She hated sleeping alone. At 8 o'clock, I would lie Maia down in her crib upstairs, run down 2 flights of stairs (As fast as I could. Ha!) to the basement and ball my own eyes out.  This happened for 2 weeks, by midnight each night Geoff would come down to let me know she was still crying (as was I).  From that point, Maia and I bunked together.  Talk about complicating the whole sleeping situation.  To this day, we are still dealing with the repercussions.
Still, I blamed my issues on hormones which would eventually right themselves. I was scared that if I opened up, I would be put on a pill and wouldn't be able to breastfeed anymore.  Geoff had told me a story about one of his co-worker's wives who had to be briefly institutionalized due to depression. I was a wreck, but determined to go forth with a straight face.
When Maia was about 9 months old, I began to fantasize about committing suicide.  I never felt the drive to act.  But as I laid there, Maia snuggling next to me, I couldn't shake the vivid idea of a cold, metallic gun barrel pressed my flesh or resting on my tongue. Still, I suffered in silence. (Wow, how melodramatic!)
It wasn't until an annual physical (probably a little after Maia was a year old), when I finally had the nerve to mention my issue. Nobody judged me. I was prescribed Zoloft and allowed to continue giving Maia her "boob juice." (Yes, I breastfed WAY beyond 12 months.)  Due to a previous experience, I shy away from "therapy."  But, I do know at least three other moms that benefited tremendously from therapy.
Four years later, Maia and I are well adjusted (insanity, is perfectly acceptable in my circle).  I still take a happy pill everyday but, rather than blaming the preggo hormones, I can thank the myriad of other conditions that have befallen me.  Anytime talk of adding another to our brood,  Geoff and I are haunted by the Post-Partum goblins.  Truthfully though, I worry about Maia. I have had to deal with depression in it's many forms, for as long as I can remember. My mom didn't strike me as having an abundance of serotonin, so what are Maia's chances?  Who knows? And why speculate....