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? 

  

    

Treatment

It was one o'clock in the morning and I had just said goodbye to Ryan and Philip.  I was escorted to the building I where I would be receiving treatment.  He unlocked the doors and let me inside.  It was dark and quiet. Everybody was in bed except the three nurses I saw behind the desk when I entered. 

I was not allowed to keep my bag.  I was given a laundry basket and toiletries tub.  My clothes would go in the laundry basket in my room.  The toiletries would go in the cabinet behind the nurses desk.  I could ask for them if I needed them, but had to return them as soon as I was finished.  There was a nurse in charge of medications.  She took my two blood pressure pills, iron supplement, and pain medication.  She locked them up and would call me up twice a day to take them.  After I put my things away, they took my bag to a back room to store until discharge. Will I ever be discharged? Can they help me? 

I was taken to a back room to be checked. They wanted to make sure I wasn't bringing anything in with me.  I had to take my clothes off.  They documented my tattoos and any scars.  I was asked to drop my underwear, bend down, and cough.  I never imagined that I would be checked for smuggling something in my butt.  Next I had to remove my bra and they saw that it had underwire.  They could cut the underwire out or put it with my bag.  No underwire, shoelaces, cell phones, or razors were allowed.  I let them keep my bra with my bag.  Now I had no bra on and was going to leak until I could get nursing pads back on. How had I gotten here? Was this a mistake? 

Philip was still sleeping fine.

I had one more intake procedure.  I had an interview with the night nurse.  He asked about what had been happening and why I was there.  He talked to me about his wife and the postpartum struggles she had.  He said, "Hormones are rough". I was sitting in a treatment facility, talking about my problems, and leaking all over my shirt.  Yeah, I guess you could say, "Hormones are rough". At this point, it was about 2:00 in the morning.  I asked him what time people get going in the morning.  He said between six and seven.  It 
would be an early morning and I needed sleep. Would I be able to sleep? 

They showed me to my room.  It had three twin beds and a bathroom.  I got ready for bed and laid down.  I started to cry and one of my roommates stirred. I put my head under the blanket and tried to stop.  My thoughts were rushing, the room was spinning.  The bad thoughts were attacking. I cannot hurt anybody here, Philip is safe.  The visions swirled and were overwhelming me again.  I need to sleep. Can they fix me here? Will things be the same when I get home? 

I woke up in the morning, still wondering if I had made a mistake.  It was early and I was tired, but it was time to get up. The bedrooms would be locked starting at 9:00. We needed to make our beds, get ready, and head into the main room.  Breakfast was on a table in to-go boxes.  I looked at the scrambled eggs with biscuits. I wasn't hungry at all, but I made myself eat a few bites. It took a lot of effort and I didn't have the energy to spare.  I put it in the trash. Food just doesn't taste good anymore.  Will it always be this way? Is it hopeless?

Orientation started at 9:00.  There were three other newbies, they looked as terrified as I felt. We were told the rules and looked over the daily schedule. I would be on unit restriction until I saw my psychiatrist. I couldn't go to the cafeteria for meals or go out for activities.  I would be locked in this building until I was taken off restriction. The medication nurse called me over.  They couldn't get one of the medications that I needed.  I called Ryan and started crying as soon as I heard his voice.  He would bring it for me, but I couldn't see him today.  There were no visiting hours, I would have to wait 32 hours to see him.  I wouldn't be able to see Philip at all, no children were allowed inside the unit. Did we make a mistake? Does Ryan think we made a mistake? Will they be able to fix me? 

We would have group therapy twice a day.  During my first one, my psychiatrist called me out.  I told him everything. I had been crying off and on all day.  He told me it sounded like Postpartum Depression. Thank you! I figured that was what I was experiencing, but he was the first to agree and verbalize it. He prescribed me a sleeping pill and a mood stabilizer to start the process. Both were pretty low doses and he would see me again tomorrow.  He also took me off of unit restriction. I spent about ten minutes with him, but he had done something! Maybe I will get better.  Will these pills help? Is there hope?  

The rest of the day felt like forever. I was locked in a room with a tv, but I didn't have the remote. There were "fresh air breaks" which I found out quickly were actually smoke breaks. I could make and receive ten minute phone calls. The phone would beep a warning and then cut off. I called Ryan three times throughout the day.  I was also able to go with a supervised group to the cafeteria for dinner.  I still wasn't very hungry.  I saw people from my group going back for more, but not me.  I had eaten a whole grilled cheese for lunch.  

We walked back to the unit.  They counted us several times.  They unlocked the two doors and we were back inside.  There is something about knowing you are locked in and have no freedom. I have never really appreciated my freedom until then.  On any given day, I can go for a walk, go for a drive, or just step outside of my house.  I checked myself in, but it was not my decision when I got to leave.  That was up to my assigned therapist (who I hadn't met yet), my psychiatrist, and the nurses.  They would be taking notes about how I was doing each day.  I wouldn't want to see the notes for that first day - cries a lot, doesn't eat, doesn't interact with others. 


The medication nurse called me up. Along with my other pills, I would start my new ones tonight. It was 9:30 and lights out was at 10:00. I was still tired from the night before and migrated to bed. How will this go? Here goes nothing, but will they even work? I fell asleep in what seemed like five minutes, but anything was less than what I had been doing. I woke up feeling like I slept well.  I was still tired, but it was early. I got ready and went to the main room to eat breakfast.  I opened the box and saw the same meal as the day before.  I was going to force myself to eat at least half of the biscuits, gravy, and scrambled eggs. I took one bite and it was delicious! I ate every single bite.  I was eating again! Had the pills worked? It was too early to get excited? I shouldn't get my hopes up. 

My second day was good.  I talked to my psychiatrist and he upped my dosages.  I didn't think it was a good idea.  I had been tired all day, even falling asleep during group therapy.  He insisted, I guess he is the expert.  The day was similar to the day before, but there was going to be visitation! My parents, sister, and Ryan came. They took turns, leaving somebody at registration with Philip. I was still having thoughts of hurting him and wasn't feeling love.  It was better for him in another building.  He was safe, protected from me.  Visitation didn't last long and then it was gone.  It would be another 48 hours before I could see anybody.  

Each day was similar to the next.  There were activities, meals, group therapy, medications, psychiatrist visits, and a lot of listening to people's stories.  I looked around and saw a room full of non-violent people with problems like my own.  They had attempted suicide, had depression, or had thoughts to harm themselves or others. There were all races and all types of people.  There were sons, daughters, mothers, and fathers. There were also people of every age. There were people dealing with loss, changes, and health problems. I think about that group and it cements the fact that depression can happen to anyone. 

I finally met my therapist and she sat with me as I made a safety plan.  She said that I needed to have a therapy session with Ryan before I could be released. I was fine with that, I had already told him everything.  He was still standing by my side.  Would he think I was getting better? I felt like it, but could people tell.  This is the first time I had heard anything about being released.  I felt excited for the possibility. Was I ready? What if it's the same when I get home? 

Along with a therapy session, there were two more visitations. Ryan came to one by himself, leaving Philip with my parents.  He was doing so much, but was making time to drive across town for me.  He was up every few hours during the night with an infant.  What would a single mother do in this situation? Luckily he was able to take some time off work because I was in the hospital. During the other visitation, I got to see Philip! I still didn't have feelings, but he sure was cute.  My parents, Ryan, and Philip came to the cafeteria when I was eating dinner.  Then visitation began and they rotated like before.   

They started to talk about discharge, but seemed to be very back and forth.  They don't typically discharge on the weekends, due to the different staff.  They said they would release me the next day! I called Ryan and shared the good news.  The next day, they took it back and said I needed one more day.  I was devastated and called Ryan crying. My insurance covered a week, so that is what they wanted to keep me.  At least that's what it seemed like to me.  They ended up changing their minds again and I could go home! I brought my hamper, sheets, and blanket to the front.  They gave me my bag back and I got ready to go.     

I spent six days in treatment. It was the closest thing to prison I will hopefully ever experience.  My freedom was gone, but me and my family were safe.  I was scared that things would be the same as before when I got back home. I would have to come back for outpatient treatment for the next three mornings. Would I have to come back for inpatient? Was I ready? Is this as good as I will get? I am still having bad thoughts.  Will they continue forever? I still had a long way to go, but I was ready to try. 

Ryan took great care of this Little Bug while I got the treatment I needed!

   





   

  

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...

Pills and Postpartum: Part One

I have come to have a love/hate relationship with pills.  Each morning, I take a handful and in the evening is round two.  They are for Postpartum, genetics, and for getting my body back after pregnancy. I have always been hesitant to take pills.  I would rather take a nap to deal with a headache. That doesn't really matter now because I have to take them. 

To understand why I take them, I should explain what happened.  This part of my story began about a year and a half ago.  I was pregnant and excited for the future! Well, that pregnancy wasn't meant to be and I lost "Poppy". I call it Poppy because it was only that small, so it was pretty early on.  After that, we waited a few months for me to recover before trying again.  

Well, in October we found out that we were pregnant again.  I hesitated to tell my family because I might lose it again.  I told my mom, sister and best friend, but that was about it.  As the weeks went on, I slowly told more people in my inner circle.  We had doctor's appointments, but I was still convinced that this wouldn't last.  I kept thinking about how I would move on again.  Everything was looking good - ultrasounds, movement, etc. As I started to show, I had to tell more people and eventually let everyone at work know.  I was terrified and didn't know how I would tell everyone when it ended.  

Everything was still going well... We found out we were having a boy! He was healthy and continuing to grow.  We were trying to figure out a name, but nothing seemed right.  Ryan's grandpa was sick and we decided that his name would be a great tribute to a great man.  We knew our son would be Philip.  What would it be like to lose Philip? Would I hold him in my arms? Would he be still born? The thoughts were daily, but I dismissed them. Everything was still going well... We bought a crib and got the nursery ready.  We had baby showers.  How would I return all the items? Would I have to?  The thoughts persisted and my blood pressure continued to creep up each appointment.  

I did a 24 hour urine sample and they found I had Preeclampsia. I needed to go on bed rest, but I was a teacher with a few weeks left of the school year.  My doctor said she was ok with modified bed rest.  I worked half days throughout the last day of school.  I was trying to pack up my classroom, ready to be a stay at home mom.  What would I do with all this stuff? Would I be able to get my job back? Could I still stay at home? At this point, the thoughts were bothering me. I didn't want to think about losing Philip.  I was pretty attached already. 

A couple days after school let out, I had my last doctor's appointment.  The doctor checked me and we had an ultrasound. Philip looked good and was about six pounds.  The doctor came in and we knew something was up.  She said, "You are done being pregnant." Ryan kept asking how high my blood pressure was, but she wouldn't say.  All she would say is "High". I was 36 and a half weeks along, it couldn't happen already.  Would he be ok? The doctor checked to see if I was dilated at all.  After shoving her hand inside me, she said I was not dilated. We went to the hospital and began the induction process.  This included a Magnesium drip (for the blood pressure), blood pressure monitoring, and baby monitoring.  I was connected to all sorts of machines.  What if something went wrong? Will Philip be ok? Will I be ok? 


The next morning, things were still moving pretty slowly.  My blood pressure was high so every hour I had to roll to my other side.  The doctor decided to help speed things up by breaking my water.  This meant taking a sharp stick that looked like a crochet hook, sticking it inside me, and pulling on my amniotic sack.  She couldn't get it and had to try a couple times.  This process was quite painful.  Shortly after this, the contractions began.  I got an epidural and things were going well. I could feel Philip moving closer.  They checked me and Philip was sunny side up.  They can still deliver that way, it is just a little harder.  We kept going and I thought we were almost there.  The contractions were getting intense and he would be here soon.  The doctor came back and checked everything.  Philip was coming down with contractions and then sucking back up.  They weren't sure what was wrong.  The doctor started to look at the monitors.  Philip's pulse was declining with each contraction.  He took one big dip and the doctor said, "We're done."  She would take me for a c-section in the next few minutes.  I didn't want to be induced or to have a c-section! What is happening? I started to cry.  Ryan assured me that it would be ok. 

They wheeled me to the operating room.  I was terrified.  What if I didn't make it? What if Philip doesn't make it? What would Ryan do in either case? Ryan had to wait outside as they prepped me for the surgery.  I was shaking from the freezing temperature and my fear.  They put a sheet up against my face, so that I couldn't see.  Ryan came in and stood beside me. I was so tired, but if I fell asleep, I might not wake up. I felt the pressure of the cut and within minutes Philip was born.  Philip was crying and Ryan walked over to see him and watch him be cleaned and cared for.  I could hear him crying, he was ok! Now I could go to sleep and it would be over for me.  They wheeled me back to me room and said I could sleep some.  I figured that meant for ever, but I woke up soon and tried to feed.  That was the schedule for the rest of the night.  

We stayed in the hospital for the next few days as I recovered from my surgery.  My blood pressure was still high, but they could treat me with medications now.  I was on several blood pressure medications and plenty of pain medications. Finally, they got my blood pressure controlled and discharged us.  We were going home... 

This is me!

For months now, I have been thinking about my next steps. Should I start a blog, attend support groups, speak at church, or another option.  I might end up doing all of these, but today I am starting with the blog.  I want this blog to be about sharing my truth.  Can I help someone who is suffering? Or help stop the stigma? Or just help my friends and family understand my reality? I don't know what to expect, but if nothing else it is freeing to write these things down. I have Postpartum Depression and Anxiety.  My son, Philip, is eight months old and I am lucky to get to be a "stay at home" mom. With this blog I have three goals - to share the things I love (family, faith, travel, crafts), to share my experiences with Postpartum, and to share my experiences as a new mom.  

Fun in England!