REDBOOK: MEN GET POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION, TOO
When his wife walked through the front door, she found him on the kitchen floor with his head between his knees, their son playing quietly by his side. Breathlessly, he told her that he had felt like the walls were closing in. He held his hand over his heart as he described the feeling that it would beat straight through his chest. He was having a panic attack. His wife listened, put her hands on each side of his face, and said, "You're getting help."
One wonders what Trump's motives are in sharing it in the first place--to appear more relatable and human to the public? If so, it's the ultimate flimsy front, given that she's clearly unwilling to act to help herself and the millions of women who are going through a similar experience.
I'm lying in an emergency room bed, wires and sticky pads clinging to my chest. My pulse zigs and zags across a screen. Fluorescent lighting illuminates my blue-and-white-striped hospital gown; my hands are folded neatly across my belly. My husband Dan is sitting with our sweet four-month-old baby girl in his lap. Claire is still wearing the white fleece pajamas with pink roses that I zipped her up in last night. They’re my favorites.
"For all of the language and rhetoric about how eating disorders aren't really about thinness — they definitely are. I wanted, at my worst, to be so thin that I frightened people. I wanted to be so thin that people noticed. I wanted to be so thin that I looked like I could be as sick as I was.”