The Bond Everyone Swears By
My Journey Through Postpartum Psychosis
“It feels as if I am losing my mind. I keep trying to tell people I’m not ok, but family, friends, and even doctors all dismiss my symptoms. For months! Assuring me it’s just a bit of the baby blues that everyone gets after they’ve had a baby. But my symptoms aren’t going away. In fact, I’m pretty sure they’re getting worse.” — An excerpt from my diary in January 2011
It’s been 12 years since my postpartum psychosis diagnosis. And in that time, I’ve tried to be an advocate for awareness and proper treatment for new moms struggling with their mental health. But this is the first time I’ve ever felt comfortable enough to share my personal story on a public platform.
I was 20. And I was a new mom. It was a difficult pregnancy, and due to spinal issues, it was a scheduled c-section delivery. But that was ok with me because I couldn’t wait to be done being pregnant, and unlike some, I in no way romanticized labor and delivery. So, hook me up to the machines, put me in a sterile surgical wing, and get this kid out of me already.
12 years ago, this was not a popular take. I was supposed to be in love with my baby. I was supposed to cherish every moment of his development and growth throughout the pregnancy. I was supposed to “glow.” In reality, I glowered. I was having none of it. I loathed every second from the moment the test came back positive. And I was terrified that the feeling wouldn’t change after the delivery like everyone insisted it would.
Personally, looking back, I think their insistence had more to do with their discomfort with me expressing my negative feelings than it did with any kind of expertise on the subject. My honesty upset them. And because I loved my friends and family and didn’t want to upset them, I made a nearly fatal mistake. I stopped sharing my feelings and opinions. I stopped asking for advice. I stopped pushing for change. I stopped feeling altogether because all my feelings did was hurt other people.
Then the mystical, magical moment arrived! He was here! In my arms!
And I was still angry. I was still depressed. And no one wanted to listen or hear about it. They didn’t know what to say or do to “fix” it, so instead, they blew me off, saying it was just a bit of the baby blues, and as my body went back to normal, I would too. That I had nothing to worry about. I wanted to believe them. I wanted to trust them.
But the more “normal” I felt, the more concerned they became. I couldn’t understand it. I was better, wasn’t I? According to them, no. I was “unstable,” which was a new word for me. I’d heard it in passing before as it pertained to someone’s mental state. But that was always reserved for people struggling with mental illness. That couldn’t be me. I was all better and back to normal!
“They’re lying! They’re just doing this to mess with me and get me to rise to the occasion so they have an excuse to take away my baby. But I won’t let them. So what if I don’t put lotion on him every day?! He is clean, fed, happy, and on track developmentally. She wants to steal him. She will if I leave her alone with him. She’s poisoning my husband’s mind against me; I just know it. He’s gonna leave me and take my baby, and I will have nothing and no one, and I won’t let them do this to me!” — an excerpt from my diary in February 2011.
As you can see, I was already experiencing severe bouts of suspicion and paranoia, which are classic symptoms of postpartum psychosis. Delusions and hallucinations were soon to follow in my case. I was convinced my family was going to steal my baby. I was convinced my husband was going to leave me and take the baby. Eventually, it got to the point that I would be afraid to leave my child in their care at all.
Fast forward another 6 months, and I couldn’t tell whether I was coming or going. I have no personal recollection of this time period. The only thing I have for reference is my diary from this era, and it’s not an easy read. It’s a jumbled-up mess of fear, anger, suspicion, paranoia, and a deep sense of betrayal. I had stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and the only time I talked, it was to pick a fight. Naturally, I didn’t realize at the time I was spiraling out of control.
I had “done all the right things.” I had gone to my doctor, and they’d given me a short 20-question survey on my eating and sleeping habits and then blown me off, saying, once again, that it was just a touch of baby blues. So I went to a naturopath who insisted I change up my diet, which in retrospect, is laughable because I wasn’t eating at all. She also put me on an antidepressant. This was a nearly fatal error.
How does the antidepressant commercial warning go again? “Call your doctor if your depression worsens. Or if you have unusual changes in mood, behavior, or thoughts of suicide.” My husband was on the phone with my doctor damn near immediately. And it wasn’t due to unusual changes in mood or behavior. The thing that the commercial’s warning implies that antidepressants have been known to increase suicidal thoughts and behaviors in some people. I was, unfortunately, one of those people.
So then it was off those meds and on to a new doctor. This time a therapist. The one recommended to me was TERRIBLE! He implied I’d be happier if I “worked harder at fulfilling my role as a wife.” Experiences like that make people stop believing in therapy. I know I nearly did. But by that point, too much was at stake. The months of instability, mood swings, paranoia, and even hallucinations had taken their toll on my husband and his family. I had become toxic. So, whether it was right or wrong, an ultimatum was given. I could get better or lose my family. For good.
I was furious at the ultimatum. At the betrayal. But then, at the same time, it confirmed my fears and furthered my paranoia. But I was determined to keep what I had worked so hard for: my happily ever after. So, I found a new doctor and a new therapist, and a psychiatrist. The team realized my problem fairly quickly.
The diagnosis of postpartum psychosis was the answer to so many questions, but also led to many, many more. Why wasn’t I diagnosed sooner? If I was a classic case, if it was so obvious to the right team, why did I end up initially being given a 20-question survey and turned away with a case of “baby blues”? Why was I continually blown off or misdiagnosed for 11 MONTHS?! How are these people still allowed to practice medicine?
Now, on the right meds, I finally understood that what I had was a mental illness. And as time progressed and my moods and behavior stabilized, my thoughts shifted from those plagued by injustice and anger to those of concern and fear. What went wrong? What can be done to fix it? What can I do to make sure no one else goes through what I went through? If I hadn’t had such a strong support system, I wouldn’t be here today. But what about women who don’t have a support system? What about women like me who didn’t recognize what was happening to them?
I’m not a counselor. Not a therapist. Not a psychiatrist. Not a doctor. But I am a writer. A researcher. A woman. And a survivor. For the last 12 years, I’ve advocated for awareness and shared my story with women who were struggling so they would know they weren’t alone. And now I’m sharing it with all of you. Partially because I hope it resonates with you and your personal journey but mostly because I want to spread awareness in the hopes of another woman being saved from the terror I experienced.
