When I was hospitalized for postpartum depression, I jokingly referred to it as the “crazy house” when talking to friends. I spent three grueling days in a behavioral health facility, and while I often turn my experiences into jokes, the reality of what I went through is anything but funny. This is my way of coping with the challenges I’ve faced. Discussing this topic is often uncomfortable for many, but I strive to be transparent with my friends about my journey, hoping to create a safe space for them to share their own struggles.
From the outside, my life seems picture-perfect: a lovely son, a husband with a successful career, and limitless possibilities ahead. Yet, I don’t want anyone to believe I’m flawless. That kind of perception leads to unrealistic comparisons and expectations, which I certainly don’t wish upon anyone. I want to remind people that I’m human, with my own shortcomings. I’ve stumbled through college exams, my weight has increased since pregnancy, and I’ve battled postpartum depression.
Being hospitalized in a behavioral unit was one of the most genuine experiences of my life. It stripped away the pretense and laid bare my vulnerability. For the first time, I faced the fact that I was not okay.
My son spent over a week in the NICU due to serious health issues stemming from fetal maternal hemorrhage, a condition that prevented blood from circulating back into the placenta. I hardly had a moment with him until the day after his birth. My hormones were in chaos; I remember sobbing in my hospital room, overwhelmed by the circumstances of my delivery. My focus shifted from my own recovery to the fact that my son needed multiple blood transfusions to survive.
Despite the traumatic experience, my son’s health improved, and I began to heal from my C-section. Before leaving the hospital, I completed a postpartum depression screening and felt relieved to pass. I was eager to go home, believing that I would be fine. However, the labor and delivery nurse had cautioned me about the signs of postpartum depression and psychosis, but I felt immune, convinced I was happy and joking as usual. But everything changed once we returned home.
The transition was gradual, but as soon as my son arrived home a few days later, the weight of reality hit me. Days blurred into nights, and I lost track of time. When was I supposed to eat? When could I sleep? The advice to rest while the baby slept became impossible as I grappled with the never-ending list of chores. My existence revolved around feeding, changing diapers, and little else. Soon enough, even eating and bathing fell off my priority list. Anxiety consumed me, and I couldn’t keep anything down. I was terrified that if I closed my eyes, I would lose my baby. My partner seemed to sleep effortlessly, which only intensified my envy.
Trying to rest during my son’s brief moments of quiet was a battle. I would lay down, counting the time I had left before he needed me again. I recall one instance where I finally drifted off, only to wake in a panic, convinced he had vanished. Thankfully, he was peacefully asleep in his bassinet, but I felt as though I was losing my grip on reality.
The moment of clarity came during a visit from my mom. As she lovingly held my son, she asked how much I loved him. I faked a smile but felt a deep disconnection. I was more focused on ensuring his survival than forming a bond with him.
Eventually, I reached a breaking point. I spent an entire day crying without understanding why. My mind wandered to dark places, fantasizing about leaving everything behind. I would take long drives, feeling the urge to escape. Dangerous thoughts crept in when I looked at the antidepressants prescribed to me—maybe taking the entire bottle would provide an escape from my pain.
Fortunately, I had learned to recognize these harmful thoughts as a signal to seek help. I reached out to my mom, who understood mental health and offered support without judgment. After sharing my struggles, I changed out of my pajamas and woke my fiancé, telling him I needed to get help. Though he was confused, I urged him to trust me.
In my sister’s car, I was driven to the emergency room. I was anxious about what would happen next. Would they understand my situation? To my surprise, the staff welcomed me with compassion, acknowledging the bravery it took to seek help. After some initial assessments, I was informed I would be transferred to a behavioral hospital.
The actual transfer was daunting. As I was wheeled away in an ambulance, I tried to keep track of where we were going. Arriving at the facility, I was taken to a sterile waiting room, where I felt utterly lost. I was offered food but couldn’t bring myself to eat. Watching a movie about carefree characters only deepened my despair; my reality felt so far removed from theirs.
As I waited, fears about how my fiancé would view me consumed my thoughts. Would he think less of me for being here? After what felt like ages, I was finally called in to complete admission paperwork. I willingly signed forms, knowing I needed this help.
The hardest part was saying goodbye to my mom. Overwhelmed, I sobbed in her arms, terrified of the uncertainty ahead. She whispered words of encouragement, urging me to “look for the light,” and I promised myself to hold onto that hope.
Once in the behavioral wing, I was assessed again, stripped of my modesty during a lice check. As I settled into my new room, I lay there wondering about the woman next to me and her story. I was scared but knew I wasn’t alone in facing our demons.
As I tried to sleep, my mind raced with thoughts of my fiancé and son. I felt isolated, but I was determined to find a way through this darkness, holding onto the little glimmers of hope I could find. If you’re navigating a similar experience, I encourage you to check out this excellent resource for pregnancy and postpartum support at NICHD.
In summary, my hospitalization for postpartum depression was a profound journey into vulnerability and healing. It was a step toward recognizing my struggles and seeking the support I desperately needed. Sharing my story, I hope to inspire others to reach out for help and remind them that they are not alone.