[Editor’s Note:Postpartum Progress reader Katie wrote this on her blog today, and I wanted to share it here. Way to go Warrior Mom! -Katherine]

stig-ma (stig-muh)

1. a mark of disgrace or infamy; a stain or reproach, as on one’s reputation
2. Medicine/Medical
1. a mental or physical mark that is characteristic of a defect or disease.

I am just going to throw this out there. I think there is a stigma against mental disorders, or disorders of mental health or however you want to say it. I was reading Postpartum Progress again, and a post Katherine wrote really got me thinking. She was pleading with the media to please stop assuming every single hurt child out there must have a mom suffering from PPD.

It got me thinking. Really thinking. What was behind the half-smiles and “You’ll get through this” I heard when I confessed my diagnosis? At the time I was so glad to have an answer, a reason for feeling my world spinning. The sleepless nights, the racing thoughts, the utter heartbreak; they all had a reason.

And best of all, labeling it with a diagnosis, from a doctor no less, made it seem less my fault. I felt better telling people it was PPD. It’s the hormones! I am not really crazy; this just happens to some women after they have a baby. It’s completely out of my control. And you won’t judge me right? Because it’s not like I am some knife-wielding psychopath. But wait.

I was being judged. Looking back I whipped out my diagnosis to almost anyone who asked how I was doing. I was in survival mode. And in that mode saying it out loud—I have PPD and PPA—was like a salve to my gaping wounds. Little did I know what most people were probably thinking. Those looks, sometimes of pity, were also sometimes of fear. I am not sure if it was fear that I could lash out at any minute, fear that I was, in fact, crazy, or worse, fear that I was going to harm my child.

Looking back, I wish I would have kept my diagnosis closer to the vest. Not because I am ashamed of it, at all! But because I just don’t feel like society as a whole is accepting of mental illness yet. Even I am not sometimes, honestly.

I got a letter in the mail the other day from my life insurance company, who had contacted my former employer. In my employee file it is listed that I didn’t return to work after the birth of my daughter due to “Major Depressive Disorder.” No, no I thought, I wasn’t depressed in the traditional sense. I wasn’t really crazy, it was just hormonal. I had Postpartum Depression, completely different. My file needs to be corrected, I didn’t have Major Depression. Turns out, the DSM-IV doesn’t specify. And neither should I.

Reading Katherine’s article was informative. But it really got me thinking. What can we do to lift the stigma? Is it enough to know that I have a healthy, thriving daughter? A daughter who crawls over to me and plants the sloppiest kisses on my cheek. A daughter that I would never have hurt, ever. What can be done to lift the stigma placed on all mental disorders? Education? Getting the word out? For now I will do my part.

My name is Katie and I suffered from PPD and PPA, aka Major Depressive Disorder, single episode in full remission, Anxiety Disorder related to Major Depression. I was previously mentally healthy, with no major risk factors.

It can happen to anyone, at anytime. I pray no one ever has to go through what I did, but if I know of someone who does I will not judge them. I will not for one minute. I will simply listen, and give them a hug. And support them.

~crossposted with permission from Katie at the blog I Thought I Loved You Then