Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 110549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 553(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
I could tell she longed to build a connection, but there was that damn block in her brain that kept her from doing that. I never faulted her. She couldn’t control how her mind worked. But I knew West didn’t see it that way.
Lincoln pressed a kiss to West’s lips before he quickly followed me into the kitchen. “She needs to go see Dr. Gresham,” Lincoln whispered.
I nodded in agreement. Lincoln quickly took over making Hope’s bottle and shook it up for me. I drew in a deep breath. “Call and make an appointment,” I told him. “Something has to give. I hate seeing her struggle so much.”
“She’s trying her fucking hardest,” Lincoln agreed. “But it’s not happening for her.”
And that shit was tearing her up inside.
We’d first noticed the signs when Hope was finally able to come out of her incubator, and West was able to hold her. She hadn’t been as happy as she thought she would be, and later that night, Lincoln and I found her crying in the shower because she thought she was as fucked up as her mom.
It had been like this for weeks. We’d thought that maybe having Hope home would help things, but it seemed to only make them worse.
Lincoln pulled his phone from his pocket, and I stepped out into the living room again. West was staring blankly at the TV screen, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. She looked up at me, her face scrunching up as she sobbed. “Oh, baby,” I whispered as I moved to her. “Stand up,” I ordered.
She stood up from the recliner, her shoulders shaking. I sat down and moved Hope to one arm for a moment. “Sit down,” I told her. West sat down in my lap, and I wrapped my free arm around her, going back to cradling Hope in my arms as I fed her, resting her in front of West’s chest. “What’s wrong with me?” West cried. She reached out and ran her hand over Hope’s head. Lincoln settled his hands over West’s shoulders and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I love her so fucking much. Why can’t I just show her that?” she whimpered.
“We think you may have postpartum depression,” Lincoln gently told her. She shook her head, not wanting to believe it. I hated this shit for her. “It’s common, and Dr. Gresham expected it might pop up—told us the symptoms to look out for. We’re going to get you help, baby,” he promised her. “It won’t feel like this forever.”
“I hate this,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. It was breaking my fucking heart to see her like this.
God, I knew she was hurt and so fucking confused by her feelings. But as Lincoln said, it wouldn’t be like this forever.
She would get help.
“Let me feed her,” Lincoln softly requested, reaching out for Hope and her bottle.
Once he had her in his arms, he nodded once at West, who had her eyes closed, tears still sliding down her cheeks. It was a silent command to take care of her.
I wrapped West up tightly in my arms and just gently rocked her, doing the only thing I knew to do at that moment.
Be her rock. The only thing I’d ever been able to do for her.
West
“West, tell me what goes through your head when you’re holding Hope,” Dr. Gresham requested. We were sitting in the familiar reading room that I used to spend most of my days in when I was still admitted here.
“I want to take care of her. I’m her mom—it’s what I’m supposed to do, what I want to do. And when I hold her, it’s okay for a while. Especially when she’s quiet.”
“But you get overwhelmed and no longer want her when she begins to fuss or move too much,” Dr. Gresham said quietly when I stopped.
Tears welled up in my eyes when I nodded. “It sounds so fucking horrible out loud,” I choked out. What kind of mother only wanted her child during the good moments?
“West, you’ve gone through some extremely tough, hard times,” Dr. Gresham reminded me as if I could ever forget. “Postpartum depression happens to all kinds of people, even people that have lived happy, content lives. Unfortunately, it’s something very, very common.”
“So, I’m not a horrible mom?” I asked him, my voice breaking.
He shook his head. “Not at all,” he assured me. I hiccupped. “I want you to begin coming back in for sessions again—once a week.” I sighed, blinking back more tears. “I’m going to prescribe you sertraline. Keep in mind that it may take a couple of weeks for the medication to begin working in your body, so don’t be upset when it doesn’t work right away. I want to keep monitor on you, see how you begin to cope. Each night, I want you to write a diary entry of your day,” he told me. I sighed. Fucking homework. But I’d do it if it helped me love my daughter like I was supposed to. “Each session we have, I want you to bring them in, and we’re going to read through them and talk about some of your feelings.”