PPD can kiss my a**

There's a right of passage that every new mom must go through after giving birth, and I've heard you don't necessarily need to be a first time mom to experience it.

Because we are either high from narcotics or natural endorphins, the first few hours and days are a blur. The emotions and days blend in, almost numbing the sensation of being a mom.

I actually wondered, when my husband first brought the little guy over to my head once he came out, who was that kid and if the staff had already switched the little one in the hospital. Looking at my white baby, I wondered if someone out there was taking home a brown baby.

And then there's all the help (and the drugs) in the hospital to keep you numb and free of responsibility to take care of this new life.

You think, with your mind full of mood altering drugs, "Hey, this is not so bad. Being cut open is not that awful. Having a new born is not that much work. I can totally do this!"

That's when they send you home, sans drugs, and the right of passage takes place: the first real meltdown.

To me it happened right away, during the first sleepless night at home. My hormones raging, the pain in my abs crippling me, the hungry baby that screamed terrified at the sight of my breasts, my swollen self in the mirror, my dirty hair, my dirty house, feeling impotent, feeling empty.

I swore to myself I wouldn't cry in front of my husband and mom. Why is it that women feel the need to carry such a strong facet all the time? There's no real point to it at this stage, anyway.

I now understand why people with depression feel so embarrassed, as I turned on the shower to muffle my crying while hidden in the bathroom. The starving baby screamed outside, which brought me back to reality long enough to wipe my tears and face what lies ahead of me.

Because of all the excess fluid in my system, my meltdown face now looked deformed. My mom was nice enough not to comment. My husband, on the other hand, mentioned to baby's pediatrician the next day, "I think my wife has postpartum depression." I looked at him with eyes that said 'I will murder you' and pediatrician said something along the lines of, "Well that is certainly a concern, but she needs to address this with HER doctor." I was mortified.

My intellectual self had been ready for this, however, and instead of embracing my wallowing in self pity, I decided I don't have time for it. I even caught myself singing Carly Simon's "I haven't got time for the pain" as a lullaby for baby.

Ever since then a state of euphoria has taken over, which I am sure will make me crash sometime soon, anyway. For now, however, I will kiss the blues goodbye.