As I was writing in my journal this morning, I realized that my adventures with postpartum depression are similar to earthquake.

The first four months of postpartum depression were the equivalent of an actual earthquake, starting with some trembles and tremors that began to grow and grow in intensity until I felt as if my world was coming to an end. Four months postpartum, when I saw my obstetrician and told her I had thought about killing myself, there was one objective: STOP THE EARTHQUAKE.

I voluntarily admitted myself to the psych unit at my hospital and started taking Zoloft and mirtazipane. Four days later, when I left the hospital, the earthquake had stopped.

It was time for damage control.

After a big earthquake, there are a lot of immediate crises: collapsed buildings and bridges; fires, floods; and dozens if not hundreds of people in mortal peril. There are also broken windows and crumbled chimneys, but first things first: you have to save the people.

For two weeks after my discharge from the hospital, that was my focus. I spent lots of time resting, taking long walks, and writing in my journal. I started seeing a psychologist. I got a massage and a pedicure. I went to the mall with my mom and bought shirts that were not stained with breast milk. In other words, we stopped the fires and floods and rescued all the people trapped beneath crumbled buildings and bridges.

During those two weeks, my husband, baby and I lived with my parents. When I was feeling more like myself, we went home. At that point of my recovery, I was ready to deal with the rest of the earthquake damage: the broken windows and crumbled chimneys; the cars smashed by fallen trees; the fallen power lines; and so forth.

I’m not going to go into too much detail about that part of my recovery because hey, I wrote a book about it. But long story short, when I had finished all the window and chimney repairs, I considered myself fully recovered from postpartum depression.

But something interesting had happened during my personal earthquake.

Like an actual geological earthquake, postpartum depression had ripped open a chasm right across my soul. I was able to peer into that chasm and see the inner workings of my spirit.

The chasm revealed a toxic waste dump.

I could have covered the chasm with dirt and fenced it off with barbed wire and signs that said “Danger: No Trespassing.” Then I could have planted tall trees around the fence and acted as if the chasm had never happened.

I think that’s what most people expected me to do. It’s the polite way to deal with a spiritual toxic waste dump.

But I refused. Instead of burying my chasm, I have spent the past five years climbing down into its depths, hauling out the toxic waste, and sometimes, just holding my hand against the infected soil to draw the poison out with love and patience.

This website is about everything that has happened and has continued to happen since postpartum depression ripped open a chasm in my soul and revealed the toxic waste deposits that were dragging me down.

I have another website, PPDadventures.com, but I want to limit that website to all things related to the immediate recovery from a maternal (or paternal) mood disorder. That website is for the moms and dads who are in the middle of an earthquake and need to figure out how to make the ground stop shaking. It’s for people who are putting out fires and floods. And it’s for the women and men who are still trying to cobble their chimneys back together. That is all difficult and important work, and frankly, while you are doing that work, you shouldn’t have to worry about chasms that reek of toxic waste.

But once all the catastrophes are handled, and there’s this gaping chasm in the wilderness of your soul, then what? What do we do with the chasms?

I’m going to keep writing until I figure that out.