Victory At King Hill

*PPD is a killer. Even if you survive it, it kills a little piece of us that we never get back. That part inside of us that we have harbored since we were children dreaming of happily ever after. In it's place we find strength of steel and a small serving of melancholia. This is dedicated to all the women out there who have at sometime or another lived a life of quiet desperation. There is hope. I made it across the bridge and so can you.

Victory At King Hill

King Hill, exit 129. It's just a bridge. It spans an impressive gorge under which the Snake River flows. It connects Glens Ferry to Bliss. Nothing note worthy or unique about the bridge. People drive over it everyday on their way to some place else. I drive over it several times a year on my way to someplace else. But there was a time when King Hill was a plausible destination.

In the year of 2001 I gave birth to my last baby. What followed was a mental firestorm of joy, sadness and fear. Lethargy so strong I didn't think I had enough strength to take a breath. As the days crept by I began wanting it to stop, begging and bargaining it to stop. "Passively suicidal" is what they called it.

The first time I saw King Hill through the eyes of PPD was like an epiphany. My heart raced as I realized this was the perfect place. Icy roads, long drop...perfect. How is it I had passed by this place for 4 years and never saw the obvious? As I passed over it this time we seemed to make a promise to each other. The bridge would stay there and patiently wait and I would come back.

After I dropped 2 of my children off with their father I realized this would not be the time. I still had 2 others in the car with me. A shiver ran up my spine as an image of Susan Smith floated just above my consciousness. The bridge understood and reassured me of its commitment. "I'll be here when you are ready."

For months it beckoned to me as I dutifully began my medication. Each trip over the bridge was reaffirmation of our eventual date. Each trip over the bridge there were those remaining 2 reasons that kept me driving. Saddened at my bad timing, my voices would berate me for my hesitation. "Not even capable of dying, Worthless, stupid, nothing."

This time passed slowly. PPD is a subtle slide. You don't know you are moving until you are already moving too fast to catch yourself. Recovery is even more subtle. You get so accustom to feeling despondent that you no longer entertain the thought of feeling better. I was on autopilot. Spring vacation loomed ahead as I once again packed my kids into the car for another trip to their dad's. As I came around the bend in the interstate there it was. I was suddenly confused. Had I forgotten this place? It seemed ordinary and inanimate. Wasn't this bridge my intimate friend? I searched my head. I searched my heart. I searched my body for some reaction. All I found was silence.

After dropping the kids off I returned to the interstate. For an hour and a half I tried to make sense of the quiet. I began wondering if more things had changed and indeed realized that even breathing had quit being a chore. Could this be recovery? How had I not noticed? I glanced into the back of the car and realized that my 2 little reasons hadn't come with me this trip. I was alone. Then as if orchestrated by a God who was desperately trying to get my attention, I crested the hill and saw King Hill exit 129. It was just a bridge. Nothing note worthy or unique. And I passed over it on my way to someplace else. No, my heart danced over it on it's way to someplace else. In an instant it seemed King Hill had become my harbinger of recovery. My celebration of life. My victory.