Depression lies, but that makes it no less real and hard to deal with.

Pooja Makhijani tells it like it was, unstintingly relating her experience with post-partum depression overseas

I crept onto our eleventh-floor balcony with my infant swaddled in a scrap of a well-worn sari. Yellow-breasted sunbirds darted about and palms rustled in the early morning monsoon breeze. I peered over the edge and an image flashed before my eyes: my infant and I splayed on the ground below. I slid the door shut, locked it, and pulled down the heavy blinds, lest I be tempted to venture outside again. My baby slept oblivious, her fontanelle against my chin. What was wrong with me? I was sure that I didn’t love my daughter the way I was supposed to, that I was not cut out to be a parent, that I had made a terrible mistake. [link]


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