I don't know what happened. I really don't. Everything was fine until suddenly it wasn't. And just as suddenly as it did before, it hit me like a ton of bricks; postpartum depression. Except this time, it waited 6 weeks before moving in and was much, much worse. I knew what was happening, I could feel it. First, it was the overall feeling of hopelessness, regret and general stress. Then came the anxiety and fear of being alone with her filled with self doubt, and then finally the intrusive thoughts.
I once again was paralyzed on my living room floor in hysterics when my husband found me, just like before. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't control it. Hours earlier I had told him I felt I really was going to go crazy this time and he told me to just lie down for a little bit, but I couldn't. So there I was, a crying mess, physically unable to pick myself up off the floor. My husband came rushing home from work after a string of text messages I had sent him about him and the girls deserving better than whatever I was, that I was going to leave them to live a life without me. He told me we needed to figure this out and began rushing around the house getting the girls' things together; he was taking me to the ER. I cried harder. Why was this happening to me again? I don't want to feel this way!
I ended up driving myself to the ER. I could barely get the words out when they asked me what I needed to be seen for: "I just had a baby. No one trusts me to be around my kids and I have postpartum depression." I felt defeated in saying those words out loud. I had already beat this once before, but now I need to do it again?! They asked me if I trusted myself with my kids, and as much as I was in denial of it, I told them yes anyways. It was the honest truth.
I was taken to a special triage room with locked doors and absolutely nothing else in it but a bed. I was required to strip down to just my underwear in front of two nurses who took all of my belongings away from me, except my cell phone. A behavioral specialist called my husband and talked to him before coming into the room and telling me that they wanted me to be admitted for help. I was reluctant at first, but after a friend tracked me down in the ER and convinced me I needed to do this, I agreed. I hadn't slept in 4 days, had lost 6 pounds in 6 days and my symptoms had manifested themselves into physical symptoms that were so distressing on my heart and abdomen it literally felt like I had always just finished an intense ab workout, but without the great results...I just couldn't let myself keep feeling this way. I sat in that tiny room for 9 hours before being taken by ambulance to another hospital where I was officially admitted to the mental health unit. I remember the drive there. It seemed so fast, yet so long at the same time. I felt so normal strapped to that gurney and asked myself if I was faking it, because this just couldn't happen to me. Nevertheless, it was, and we had arrived at the Grace Unit at 11PM on January 3.
After being required to strip my clothes yet again in front of two more nurses, this time including underwear, I was taken to my room. Again, nothing was in it but a single bed. The walls were empty, the window was huge and bare and I felt so, so small. I stood there, staring at the blank, tan walls and said out loud, "How did I get here? How could I have let this happen?" I felt like I had failed everyone. My husband, my kids, my parents, my brother, my friends, and all the women I had helped over the last few years with their own postpartum depression. I was embarrassed I let this happen, and I was angry that it happened to me again.
Since it was so late, I got a quick tour of the small unit and was given a sleeping pill after they found out I hadn't slept in days. I barely slept that night still, but it was more than I had slept in the previous four days combined. The next day I had breakfast with the other five patients. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to do anything. I felt so stupid and silly and paralyzed with anxiety, but I forced myself to go to every group therapy session everyday anyways. The first two days I had minimal participation, and decided to call my husband at home. I was told my stay could be anywhere from 2-7 days, and I wanted to check in and see how I felt. Unfortunately, I had to end the call early as a full panic attack started creeping up on me and sent me running for my room crying. I couldn't go home.
It got better from there when I started participating. I shared every morning how I felt and set daily goals. I made sure to always meet those goals, and accepted where I was and what had happened that got me there. I knew it wasn't my fault, but still struggled with anyone finding out where I was. I still do. But while there, I met two beautiful souls that I bonded with. As crazy as it sounds, I found peace in being around people who knew how it felt to feel the feelings that I was going through. It was so easy to look at them and say how my anxiety was attacking me right now, and for the response to be that that sucks, but that they would walk the unit with me or watch a funny movie to help distract me. I heard stories from the other patients and learned what it really meant to be grateful, and I talked with the nurses about their own struggles with depression. I knew I wasn't alone, but man, everyday it still feels like I am.
On January 10, I came home. I am not recovered. I am in a full blown relapse and I fight with it everyday. I am struggling. I have fears and doubts. My heart still flutters and my abdomen tenses for sometimes an entire day, no matter what coping skill I try. But I'm sleeping and eating again. I can go an entire day without crying. My symptoms are still there, I still feel and think them, I am just able to better live with them. I thought about hiding this experience from everyone out of sheer fear of judgement, but I know I can't let myself give in to the stigma of mental illness either. I want everyone to know that mental illness does not affect just individuals, but entire families. My children and my husband were without me for an entire week. My husband missed work, neighbors brought him meals, friends babysat so he could work his business....mental illness is not just my illness, it's my families', and as long as I have them, I know I can keep fighting this. And if you're struggling, or someone you love is, know that you can fight this too. Don't ever go down without a fight, no matter how embarrassed or silly you might feel doing it. Fight. Because it's all we have left after depression steals everything else from us. <3
