In the past I've invited a person or two to become a regular contributor here at PP, but so many are already so busy with their own websites and jobs and children and whatnot, which I totally understand. I figured Postpartum Progress would someday grow beyond just little ole me writing here, but I have to admit I was afraid of trusting someone else with my third baby. (The other two are humans.) And then I heard from Alexis, and I knew the time had come. So, meet the wonderful Warrior Mom Alexis Lesa from the blog depressionsandconfessions. I am so pleased that she is joining me, and will be writing heretwice a week to help support women who are suffering or have suffered. PLEASE welcome her!!!!!

My first son's birth was nothing short of miraculous, just as every birth should be. The labor was long and intense, and the process wasn't without its frightening moments, but at the end I cradled my baby on my chest and cried tears of wonder. I had never felt love so transformative; in that moment, I went from Alexis-and-that's-all to Alexis-mom.

In hindsight, I thank God I was able to appreciate that moment of pure love, because the motherhood experience I had ahead of me was anything but miraculous.

The first few weeks of my son's life were par for the parenting course: sleepless nights, endless feedings, and a whole lot of cuddling and staring into my newborn's eyes. Life was hectic and full of novel experiences, and I felt exuberant, almost manically so. I stayed up late at night with my son and woke early, yet still found time for lunches with my new-mom friends, frequent walks in the park, and top-to-bottom cleanings of my house. Several people mentioned I hadn't missed a step after having a baby, and that made me immeasurably proud.

The only thorn in my side was breastfeeding. My son latched improperly from the get-go, and all the correcting in the world didn't help him until the day he just magically started doing it properly on his own (he takes after his dad with that stubbornness). By then he was more than a month old, and I'd been through a laundry list of breastfeeding complications. Every time he nursed had been agony, and I remember weeping disconsolately at the sound of his whimpers in the middle of the night. I was terrified of a 12-pound lump of mewling babyflesh.

Around the the time he was six weeks old, we'd finally worked out the feeding kinks, but a resentment had set in, one so deep that I didn't even realize it was there. On the surface I was thrilled with my new life as a mother, but within was a tangled mass of anger, frustration and desperation to return to life as it had been. The most difficult part of all this was that I was still so in love with my son, but I simultaneously wanted to run screaming: "confused" doesn't begin to describe my state at the time.

The following five months are a bit of a blur, to be honest. I know that I was happy in certain ways, but in others I was completely lost. I loved being a mother, but missed being a woman. I was running myself ragged, not getting enough sleep and filling my days with activities until I finally got to the point where I never wanted to leave the house at all.

The one thing I do remember very clearly is that my relationship with my husband was just not right. We'd always had a very solid marriage built on constant communication, but I found myself keeping the feelings of discontent to myself, fearing he'd think me an unfit mother. In addition, my mood swings were completely out of control — one moment I'd laugh hysterically, and the next I'd be in a screaming rage,and the next I'd be a sobbing mess. It was a little frightening, both to me and my husband.

However, I didn't come to the conclusion that something was really wrong with me until the day I hit bottom, which I wrote about at my blog depressionsandconfessions. I'd always had a big personality, and I attributed the mood swings to that personality being magnified by the stress of motherhood. But the thoughts of suicide scared me so much that I immediately sought help.

After receiving a PPD diagnosis and seeking treatment, I told my friends and family what was going on in my life and what I was doing about it. They were all shocked. Not even one person had suspected that I was suffering, and people said things like, "You don't even seem sad," and that perturbed me to no end. The people in my life had no idea what postpartum depression could look like.

I thought to myself, What if there are other women like me? What if someone I'm close to is dealing with what I was going through, and I'm completely clueless? What if she's too scared to come forward because their families aren't as understanding as mine has been?I couldn't bear the thought, so I started to blog, hoping I could shed even a little light on PPD. I have found an online family that supported me through another bout of PPD with my second son, cheered for me when I went back on antidepressants, even if they didn't agree with my methods, and gives me courage to keep on talking about PPD, no matter what the cost.

I felt like I'd hit the jackpot when I received an email from Katherine in April of this year, asking me if I would be willing to write a letter for her Mother's Day Rally for Moms' Mental Health. I was so honored to speak out for other mothers like me, especially at Postpartum Progress, which I use as a valuable resource. Then I met Katherine at BlogHer, and I was struck by her grace and openness.

I am so flattered that she agreed to let me write for her site, and I only hope I can contribute something of worth to the awesomeness she has going on here. My wish is that I'll add yet another voice to the chorus of moms with PPD/PPA/PPOCD/PPP, and that one day we will be so loud that every mother who suffers will hear us and know she's not alone.