My kids are now three and six and I’ve never told anyone about what happened to me during that first year. My sisters didn’t know, nor did my friends or my mother, when she was still alive. They knew I was tired, and I’m sure they would have been willing to help, but they didn’t know just how exhausted I was. It was so heavy that if I had given myself the right to talk about it, this small breach would have been ripped apart and everything would have exploded. I would give to anyone the right to collapse, but I never gave it to myself. I still don’t. I was too… ashamed. Never I would have openly lived with how difficult it was to bond with my daughter. It has gotten easier as she grows older. She talks, she tells stories, and we end up finding each other. But I’ll never relive what I experienced with my first-born and as long as I will compare both experiences, it’s going to appall me. So many things went wrong during her first year and for the longest time, till this day, I think I unintentionally blame her for that. We know about postpartum depression, but no one ever told me this is what I was going through. You know, if my doctor would have taken me aside and said ‘Girl, you’re going through depression’, maybe I would have given myself the right to be treated and cared for. But I didn’t even have words to describe what was happening to me except ‘I’ve had enough.’ It sounded whiny. I wish somebody had told me then. Maybe I would have accepted the help. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard to talk about it. But I did it today. I talked to you. And I hope it'll help other moms to put words on their pain."