The Other Side of the Clouds

 

It was six months, one week and four days into my year of postpartum depression. And it was bad again. Really bad. I couldn't feel anything - and it had been like that for weeks. There would be the panic attacks, of course, just enough to remind my husband and I that I wasn't just a rock. That I was more like a black hole. I had run out of strength. Again. I had reached the cliff and was waiting for the fall, letting fear whisper that I wouldn't be able to get back up again. That I would be lost in the darkness below, and I was afraid. I asked for a blessing. I don't know how I managed it, maybe a few whispered phrases and empty looks at my husband told him. Our friend showed up to assist him, and with as much substances as mist I found myself in the chair with their hands on my head. They began praying. I couldn't hear the words at first. I could barely feel the weight of their hands on my hair. I was in so much pain. Not feeling anything hurts in a way you can't really describe, and it had been six months of nothingness. Then I heard the words. “Your Father loves you." And suddenly, with my head bowed and my eyes closed, I could feel more than see something break apart above me like clouds. The darkness was gone, and I could feel again, and with those feelings I could see my Father in Heaven. I knew He knew me, I could see it in His face how much I mattered to Him and how it was hurting Him to see me go through all of this. That I was never alone, that He had been there the whole time only I was unable to see Him. I had spent six months not being able to feel my own spirit inside of me, let alone any other spiritual feeling, but in that moment I could feel it all: love, acceptance, hope, and the feeling that I wasn't banished to some barren wasteland to sit in darkness the rest of my days. The feeling left me, the vision closed, and I was alone again. I was empty again. I was in pain again. But now I had a memory of what was on the other side of the clouds.(text continues from first image)(text continues from first image)

 

 

M. Misra lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband and three children. After experiencing postpartum depression with all three, she has found healing in writing and sharing her experience with others. She also is a strong supporter of local ice cream, fresh kettle corn, and very loud small girls.