The moment my son arrived, I found myself grappling with what many refer to as the typical baby blues. His stay in the NICU amplified my emotions, making my feelings seem more intense than what I perceived other mothers of healthy newborns might experience. I was teary, restless, and unable to quiet my mind enough to catch even a few hours of sleep. During those early weeks, I estimate I managed only about five hours of rest in total. I attributed this to the awe and wonder of being a new mother.
I spent those nights constantly checking my son’s breathing, gripped by the fear of losing him. This vigilance led me to stay awake in the dark, cradling him while others around me slept soundly. I believed I was simply fulfilling my responsibilities as a mother—ensuring my baby was fine. No one warned me that this obsessive behavior wasn’t typical. While well-meaning friends advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I assumed this was just another odd aspect of motherhood.
Months passed, yet my mood didn’t improve; in fact, it worsened. I remained anxious, plagued by irrational fears about improbable scenarios where something catastrophic could happen to my child. I continued to dismiss these thoughts, blaming my lack of sleep for my mental state, convinced that a solid night’s rest would alleviate the craziness I felt.
Eventually, my condition took a turn for the worse. My anxiety morphed into paranoia; everything around me felt threatening to both my child and myself. I found no joy in life, and my relationship with my partner suffered greatly as I struggled to love more than one person at a time. I dismissed my irritability as a common struggle of new motherhood, never bothering to explore what might truly be happening within me.
I briefly mentioned my feelings to my doctor, but after passing both postpartum depression assessments, I continued to feel miserable, hoping I would eventually awaken to a brighter day. Fast forward to today: I’ve welcomed one child and faced the heartbreak of three miscarriages since 2011. The sorrow I felt initially has now intensified, and my anxiety is overwhelming. My mind has become a torment, filled with horrific images of loss and violence that invade my thoughts, especially when I attempt to sleep.
Whenever I close my eyes, I’m besieged by terrifying visions of my child being hurt or dying. While some thoughts seem ridiculous—like the idea of him drowning in quicksand—others have escalated in severity. I’ve found myself picturing tragic accidents or, more chillingly, harming him. The mere presence of these thoughts paralyzes me with fear and triggers anxiety attacks so severe that I’ve been sick to my stomach.
I would never harm my child—no matter how difficult he might be—but the weight of these thoughts is harrowing. They leave me in a state of constant panic, and sleep feels like a distant memory. Now, I dread bedtime, fully aware that darkness brings with it the possibility of gruesome thoughts.
I often feel trapped within my mind, drifting through life in a fog. It seems the world rushes by while I remain stagnant, devoid of the desire to participate. My thoughts race chaotically, resembling a static-laden television channel.
The past week has been particularly brutal. I’ve contemplated suicide, an alarming response to my inability to cope. This turmoil stems from profound exhaustion and an urgent desire for peace from these intrusive thoughts. I never imagined I would struggle with mental illness; I’ve become a mere shell of myself, oscillating between zombie-like lethargy during the day and manic episodes at night. I fear what my mind has become.
Yesterday, I took a significant step by sharing my struggles for the first time. The fear of judgment weighed heavily on me; I dreaded what others might think of me as a mother. However, opening up felt liberating. It was as though a burden had been lifted, and those who listened began to share in my emotional load. Through this process, I found the courage to reach out to my doctor—something I should have done long ago.
My doctor met with me promptly, diagnosed me with postpartum psychosis, and initiated treatment. Although recovery won’t happen overnight, I’m finally on a path toward healing. After nearly two years of suffering, I took a deep breath today and dared to believe that perhaps, just maybe, everything will be alright.
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Summary
This article recounts one mother’s struggle with postpartum psychosis, detailing her experiences from the initial baby blues to the overwhelming anxiety and intrusive thoughts she faced. Ultimately, through sharing her story and seeking help, she begins her journey to recovery.