If it weren't for the baby, I'd slit my wrists. I remember feeling this way after Boy 1 was born. I don't want to see friends or family. I caught the BF in a lie, and hate him for it, hate him for trying to lie about the lie, hate him for teasing me about my bad mood-well, shithead, you lied to me and have an online flirtation going on, I don't care that she doesn't live nearby, how about getting off your fucking ass and computer and doing something, am resentful that he's unemployed and I'm supporting everyone. I can't bear the thought of going back to work and leaving the baby. Maybe I'm upset about B 1 going off to college, but it's only down the street, so I don't think so. I feel like I'm reliving the breakdown of the relationship I had with B1's dad, and looking back I probably had PPD-but even if I were on anti-depressants, the BF would still be unemployed, I'd still have to leave the baby, the shithead would still do what he does, and if I were diagnosed, all I'd get is pity, maybe, and condescension, when I actually blame him for not being here much for 6 months, leaving me alone, lonely, exhausted, overwhelmed, insecure, I still haven't fully recovered, apparently. I would have hoped that after years of therapy that I wouldn't be in this position. I love my baby more than anything, anyone, and he's the only thing keeping me from going downstairs and emptying the medicine cabinet.