The moment I knew I was not okay — Postpartum Depression & Bad Moms Movie

The movie Bad Moms was meant to be a comedy. To laugh and make light at the difficulties of motherhood through shared experiences but what I got was the stark realization that I was deeply depressed.

What I identified most with from the movie was when the women were at the bar talking about their fantasies. Kiki, played by Kristen Bell, shared her fantasy:

“Sometimes when I’m driving all by myself, I have this fantasy that I get into a car crash. Not a big one with fire and explosions, but just like a little one, but I do get injured, and I get to go to the hospital for two weeks and I sleep all day and I eat Jell-O and I watch so much TV and it’s all covered by my insurance. My kids bring me balloons, and the nurses rub cream on my feet, and oh, my God, it’s so amazing. Is that like something you guys fantasize about, too?”

Amy (Mila Kunis) and Carla (Kathryn Hahn) both give a crazed expression and told Kiki, “No. You’re batshit crazy.”

It was meant to be humor. But all I could do was think, “Yes Kiki, that is what I fantasize about too”. Being injured. Being the one who needs to be looked after. Being cared for. Being allowed to feel helpless. Being relieved of these duties, even just temporarily, that feel like a trap.

I never planned to hurt myself but if an accident were to happen to me, I would have welcomed it. I was so alone that I didn’t even know how to ask for the help I needed because I didn’t even know. I didn’t want to hurt myself but I didn’t know how to live anymore.

What it came down to was that I needed fucking help. Not like “go take a nap”. I needed serious help; emotionally, physically, mentally, socially. I needed security. I needed a partner who was with me and I needed my family. I needed a system of support.

I needed so much and didn’t have the capacity to know how to ask for it. What sounded like a dream scenario at the time and the only way to get help would have been through a tragedy. Luckily, I did seek help and never resorted to self-harm. My doctors increased my antidepressant. I found a counselor who specializes in postpartum and maternal counseling. I joined a Mom group. I started talking more openly about my depression. Although I’m on the other side of postpartum depression, my heart still aches for the version of me who watched that scene and thought, “Yes Kiki, that is what I fantasize about too”.