Coming home

Before I start this post, I would like to say a huge thank you.  
I am thankful for the positive response that I have gotten for this blog. I am thankful for the support of family, friends, and readers.  I am especially thankful for Ryan and his support while I got better.  A lot of people have said that they had no idea, or to the extent, I was struggling. It was easier to say that I was ok.  I figured it wasn't a lie because I didn't say I was good, but I had definitely been better.  If you are struggling, it can get better!  Thank you for helping me on my journey!

Coming home...

I got the all clear to leave treatment.  I had received needed psychiatric treatment. The doctors kept saying that if you had a heart attack that you would seek treatment.  The things I had been going through were like a mental heart attack. Will we tell anyone I had been in treatment? Should I be ashamed? Will people think I am crazy? 

I felt ready, but scared at the same time.  I was armed with a safety plan, prescriptions for a month, and an appointment for half day outpatient treatment.  The real world was coming back fast. Is this all I needed? Was I "cured"? I had a handful of pills to take, but was it enough.  

Ryan was glad to have me home, but we had to figure out where to go from there. Trust needed to be built up again and I couldn't go from zero to a hundred.  The treatment center said to come back if needed, but I didn't want to leave my family again. Everybody is telling me that I look and seem better.  Were they right? Or was it just wishful thinking?

My parents and sister could help me adjust. One of them would watch Philip in the morning while I went to treatment and Ryan went to work. My dad came to pick me up from treatment at noon and then they would babysit me and Philip. I was back to supervised parenting, but half day this time. In the afternoons I was armed with a list of psychiatrists and therapists.  I would need both to continue getting better.  The only problem is that I was having trouble getting appointments. I found a therapist, but couldn't find a psychiatrist.  I called plenty - not accepting new patients, didn't take my insurance, or just didn't answer.  Would I find myself with no help again? What if my prescriptions run out? Will I have to go back to treatment? 


I was making it day to day, but I needed a lot of help. I was still having thoughts of hurting Philip and forcing myself to hold him more.  I was on a sleeping pill, so I was getting enough sleep.  This made me feel really guilty because Ryan was doing the night feedings. I was also still scared that I might act out one of these awful thoughts while I slept. I was fighting the sleeping pill.  The room was spinning and the thoughts were crushing me again.  I had to do something. Should I go back to treatment? I decided that I would feel better if I couldn't get up.  I needed something to keep me in bed, but what? I thought about hand cuffs, but I don't have any.  What do I have? Ribbon! I know it sounds crazy, but I would tie myself to my bed.  I knotted the ribbon to the bed post and made a loop around my foot.  I would have restricted movement while I slept, but that is what I wanted. I couldn't hurt anybody at night.  We were safe again!

I finished outpatient and would go back to full day "babysitting".  Ryan dropped us off at six o'clock in the morning and picked us up after work. Finally after many phone calls, I had scheduled appointments. I would be starting therapy the following week and had a psychiatrist appointment in a few weeks. Philip continued to grow, but this wasn't working.  Ryan's mom would be coming in two weeks to help us.  I would be able to stay at home, but will still be supervised.  I was starting to think about what we would do after she left.  I could pay my sister to be a live in nanny.  I could put Philip in daycare and substitute teach. Why can't I do this? Will I ever be the mother I dreamed I could be? 

During treatment, I heard the phrase fake it until you make it.  That is what I needed to do.  I would make sure Philip is well cared for and hopefully one day I would feel something.  I felt like a horrible mother.  People say that you don't know your capacity for love until you hold your child in your arms.  Why couldn't I feel it? What was I doing wrong?