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At home, my husband didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know the evil thoughts the depression had planted in my mind. He only witnessed my rage. He protected the kids from my screaming. He contained me while I threw TV remotes and jewelry boxes around the room. I behaved like an alien, while he cried silently. He held me, while I lashed out at an unknown enemy. . .

I couldn’t tell a soul about those thoughts. I believed if I shared those dark thoughts, I was weak. But I wasn’t weak. Like a broken bone, my brain was falling apart and needed aid.

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Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation

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