In July 2012, Abbey, our infertility miracle arrived. After the three year struggle to create her, severe gestational diabetes (complete with a strict diet and insulin shots), and a mysterious two-month migraine, my quick and natural labor was bliss and we REJOICED!
Within about a week, I developed severe anxiety--particularly with the onset of dusk or poor weather. Then I began seeing and hearing things at night--like a homeless man sleeping on our couch, a wolf in the hallway, and a train crossing right outside our bedroom window. One night I remember being so hungry but unable to eat anything. I was convinced an apple was poisoned, cereal was contaminated, and I would choke on popcorn. I realized all of these things were very ridiculous, but they were also very real to me. I went in to my OB and of course we agreed it was postpartum depression-- "with a psychotic flair," he added. Lucky me. I began taking Zoloft wishing I didn't have to wait for it to build up in my system. Postpartum depression is one of the most unfair things in the world. In fact, it's an unwelcome gift from the devil. I'm not saying this to say "Oh woe is me!" I'm saying this because to anyone out there who has experienced it, I empathize with you deeply.
Well the Zoloft did build up in my system and I was starting to feel pretty good. And then one night in early September, I suddenly felt like the world would be better off without me. Like I was actually doing a selfish disservice to my daughter by wanting to raise her...like anyone would be a better influence on her than I would. I know, pretty messed up, right? Fortunately I was thinking just clearly enough to reach out for help. I called my dad who is a social worker. We had a nice long talk and he did an evaluation on me over the phone. Eventually I calmed down enough to go to sleep.
The next day I went to my OB for a higher dose of the Zoloft because obviously I needed to be happier. He told me if I ever felt that way again I should go to the ER. The higher dose did the trick. I started feeling much better. Once in a while I would see something that wasn't there (like a mouse) and that kind of bugged me, but whatever, at this point I just needed time.
Things just kept getting better and better. I had the best dreary January ever. February, was great and March was AMAZING. I felt SO good and was getting SO MUCH DONE--the garage, the basement, the yard, etc.--I almost felt like superwoman.
Since I felt so good, I decided I was ready to start tapering off the Zoloft and arranged a system with my OB to do so. I was so happy to see the light at the end of the postpartum depression tunnel.
Then all of a sudden on Sunday night after a fabulous weekend which involved Greg winning a huge real estate development contest, hosting a baby shower (me, not him) for a friend expecting twins, and spending time with Greg's family, my world came crashing down on our way home from our weekend trip. It was that night in September all over again--only worse. I felt like the world would be better without me. Various suicide techniques crossed my mind and I told Greg I needed to go to the hospital. I didn't trust myself to go home.
After talking with the crisis worker at the ER, I had settled down but thought I better spend the night in the hospital just to be safe.
I thought I'd just stay overnight and everything would be better in the morning. Nope, I was admitted to the psych unit for a minimum of three days. What?!
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