My husband’s struggle with postpartum depression was my struggle, too

Illustration by Kate Gavino

The depression is a flu that will not abet. Most mornings, D drags himself into the living room on all fours. He lies face-down on the interlocking foam floor tiles, his upturned arms at his sides. The baby crawls over him, tugging his hair, drooling on his t-shirts. He doesn’t move.

He complains of headaches, nausea. He has nightmares. He’s cold all the time. No, he’s hot all the time. He never sings anymore when he moves through the house. Sometimes when he walks, I swear I can hear it, the depression. It’s a liquid sound. I can hear the…

How do we categorize non-sexual, “almost” relationships?

Illustration by Louisa Bertman

When I think about the singer at all, it’s usually because I had a dream about him. It’s amazing how the details are all still there in my brain, even fifteen years later: the rubbed-thin feel of his band t-shirts, the oakmoss notes in his cologne, the way his hair felt on the soft skin on my neck. If we had had sex, I’m sure those memories would be there, too, but we never did.

My relationship with the singer exists in my brain in a kind of category-less limbo — definitely more than a friendship, but not quite an…

Aubrey Hirsch

Aubrey Hirsch is a writer and comics artist living in Berkeley, CA. You can learn more about her at or follow her on Twitter: @aubreyhirsch.

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