Pills and Postpartum: Part Two

Disclaimer: This post contains honest thoughts and feelings. Nobody was harmed in any way through these struggles in my life. I hope that I can help others by sharing my experience.  Mental health illnesses are real and can happen to anyone. I didn't expect it, but this is my story.    

Once we were home everything would be ok. Home is my safe place.  Philip was alive, I was alive, and Ryan was there for us both.  Unfortunately, my struggles were far from over.  The first night home was rough.  The little boy that would sleep swaddled in the hospital would now only sleep in someone's arms.  Ryan and I spent the night taking turns sleeping with Philip in our arms in the recliner. The next day we were both exhausted. 

I was also trying to breast-feed Philip, which wasn't going well. He was small, jaundiced, and not growing.  The pediatrician suggested that we supplement with formula - so our new routine began.  I would breast-feed Philip, then Ryan would feed him formula, and in two hours we would begin the process again. My incision hurt, my blood pressure was still high, and I was exhausted. 

Things were slowly getting better, but something else was starting to happen. I was having horrible thoughts. I would see Philip and picture myself hurting him. I also, to this point, had not felt any love for Philip. I thought he was cute, but that was about it.  How can this be happening? All I have wanted was to have a family for as long as I can remember. I tried to ignore these thoughts, but they persisted.  I kept having thoughts of hitting Philip's head on things. When he was in my arms, I would see myself hurting him. When he was laying in his bouncy seat, I would see myself hurting him. I couldn't handle it, so I started to disconnect.  Maybe it would be better if I left.  Would Philip and Ryan be better off without me?

The thoughts were consuming me! I started to look online and see if I could find out what was wrong with me.  I found articles on the different kinds of postpartum.  Do I have Postpartum Depression? I'm not crying or overwhelmed with sadness. Do I have Postpartum Psychosis? Might I actually do the things I have been imagining? Am I broken? I needed to tell someone what was happening in my head because I was drowning.  I was constantly screaming in my head and felt trapped by these thoughts.

My aunt's words about the possibility of Postpartum kept ringing in my head and gave me strength. I am not the only person this has happened to.  I took a deep breath and told Ryan what had been happening. It was hard to explain what was going on with me, but he listened.  What should we do? Ryan was still at home, but soon he would be returning to work. We had dinner with my parents and sister that weekend.  I had to tell them what was going on.  I needed help.  Would they understand? Would they look at me differently? Will they think everyone would be better without me? 

I had to take the risk, I couldn't do this on my own. My family didn't know what to say and assured me it would get better. They talked about how normal it was to have the "baby blues." Ryan was going back to work and I couldn't be left alone with Philip. I wasn't comfortable with it and Ryan didn't feel safe now either.  I couldn't be trusted with my own son.  The consensus was that I needed supervision when I was with Philip. Ryan was going to drop me off at my mom's each morning and pick me up after work.  I needed a "babysitter" to be a stay at home mom. How did I get here?  Is this a normal part of the "baby blues"? Should I go back to work? Should I leave Ryan and Philip? Will I ever be normal again? 

The thoughts persisted, we needed to do something. I was having trouble eating, food just didn't taste good.  I was also having trouble sleeping.  I was afraid that in my sleep I might do something I had thought of during the day.  Could I wake up and find I had done something horrible? I was terrified by that possibility. To help me feel better, Ryan started sleeping in the guest bedroom with Philip. What should we do? We cannot live this way.  

Ryan and I started looking into resources online.  Everything we read said your first resource is your Obstetrician.  Great, I had an appointment scheduled for two days later! We went to the appointment, excited to get some help.  My Obstetrician was not available, she was delivering a baby.  Another Obstetrician came in and said she could see us or we could wait for our's to get back.  We said we could see her.  She checked my scar and said I was healing well.  I definitely didn't feel like it.  She asked if we had any questions and it was time to ask for help.  I explained to her what was happening and she looked stunned.  She looked over to Ryan and asked him how he felt about this.  What? I need help not judgement.  She said she would be right back and left the room.  A few minutes later, I could hear my Obstetrician in the hallway.  She was back, surely she will come in and offer me some help.  Unfortunately, I heard them talking and trying to figure out "what to do with me". I wanted to leave.  They made a phone call and talked to someone about me.  The way they talked sounded like I had Ebola or some other infectious disease.  Isn't this part of their job? Aren't they my number one resource? 

The substitute Obstetrician came back in.  She had a piece of paper with a phone number on it.  It was for a treatment center.  She told me that she had talked to someone who could give me resources.  They couldn't give me any medication because it would take to long to kick in.  She told me that I should go to the treatment center from there. She looked at me like she was afraid for me to leave the building. My fears were correct, I was broken.  I thought I could get help, but I am to far gone.  Should I leave? Ryan and Philip will be better without me.  I thought there was hope, but I was obviously wrong.     

I will just ignore the thoughts and move on. The problem is they kept coming at me.  Ryan was sleeping in the other room with Philip and my thoughts were attacking.  I was laying in bed picturing myself hurting Philip.  The room would spin as the thoughts wouldn't stop. I would kill myself if I hurt Philip; I wouldn't be able to live with myself.  The next day we went to the treatment center that the Obstetrician had recommended. We waited and finally I was let into a room with a man who was going to "evaluate" me.  We talked and he marked off my answers on a checklist.  After spending five minutes with me, he asked if I wanted to be admitted.  No, I just need help! He was surprised and said, "You know this is a hospital?" This place was supposed to give me resources.  He left me locked in the room for about ten minutes.  When he came back he had two sheets of paper. One was a paper for me to sign that I was not seeking treatment.  The other was a paper giving me an appointment with a psychiatrist a week later.  He was so excited that he was able to get me in with a psychiatrist the following week.  He told me how lucky I was. Why didn't I feel lucky? Could I make it a week? Should I just end this? Would it be easier if I killed myself? Everyone would be better off without me.  

The treatment center was in the medical center. There was no help there, but we could find help ourselves.  We drove around looking for mental health doctors. We went into several buildings and were told they were fully booked for months. I also called many therapist and psychiatrist offices.  We were told three weeks to six months from all the people we talked to. I can't do this! The thoughts haven't stopped, I am hardly holding Philip, and I want to die.  I told Ryan that I am scared to be alone with myself now too.  I was afraid I would hurt Philip and myself! How can I live this way? Each night was filled with thoughts and anxiety piling on top of me.  I couldn't breathe.  I am never alone with Philip or myself and things are not getting better.  Do I need a treatment center? 

I called a different treatment center to see what they suggested. The receptionist told me that I should come admit myself.  I would need to bring enough clothes for a few days. How could this be happening? Am I crazy? Do I need a treatment center? I cried as I packed my bag.  It was 10:00 at night and I called my parents and best friend to tell them I was going.  They were supportive and optimistic that they could help.  We were driving to the treatment center.  What were we doing? The process took a few hours and I was checked in. I had to say goodbye to my family.  Was this a mistake? What am I doing? Will I ever get better?

My son was three weeks old and I checked myself into a treatment center...