Disclaimer: The following narrative of postpartum depression and psychosis could trigger anxiety for some.
How did I walk into their trap? Why were they taking so long in the house? The police must be in league with my husband. Everyone was against me. Why wouldn’t anyone listen to me before? What if they murdered my sweet babies and tried to pin it on me? How could I leave them defenseless?
This was not the first time I’d had insane, obtrusive thoughts, but it was the first time I was sitting in a police car. I watched the sun rise, helpless with worry about my children. Feeling strangely aloof, I watched my poor husband sitting on the driveway with his head in his hands after talking with the police.
What had started as mild depression during my fourth pregnancy had snowballed into something much worse. After five months of struggling with severe panic attacks, anxiety and depression, I had finally snapped. I thought the only people you could trust were children and the mentally ill. I thought the world might be ending. At least my world was. I wished I was dead.
After refusing to answer questions with the screener at the police station, I found myself in a holding cell. I thought about how I should be at church right now. Somehow, it seemed more important to be here.
They put me back in a police car and drove me to the state hospital.
All the while, I wondered where they were taking me. I hoped the car would crash on the way there.
Should I have run when I had the chance? I almost had. Maybe they were bringing me to the hills to kill me. What would happen to my children?
My body was on high alert. “Danger, danger,” it seemed to say.
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