Trigger warning: The following narrative of postpartum depression and psychosis may trigger anxiety for some.
If you are new, Part 1 can be found here (me) and here (Mike).
Now, let’s see. Where were we? Oh, yeah…
Five Months Prior
It was the week of Thanksgiving, November 2014, and things were getting weird.
Over the past few days, I had several instances where I was convinced that my family or I was in grave danger. I can’t recall exactly in which order all the following instances occurred, but collectively they shook me.
Worry and Darkness
I remember worrying about my four-year-old. She seemed sick and kind of quiet one day and I didn’t know if she just wasn’t feeling well or if something had happened to traumatize her somehow. My mind started jumping to scary conclusions and I felt confused.
Another time, a dark feeling descended on me after nursing my eleven-month-old down for an afternoon nap. I started reading my scriptures when dread overcame me. Squelching my reluctance to wake a sleeping baby, I grabbed him from the crib and jumped in the minivan. I felt almost afraid to leave the house, but an urgent need to retreat from harm’s way overpowered me.
Before we were even out of the neighborhood, I was wondering what was wrong with me. I pulled over and turned around, then called my husband who was with the girls at the car dealership for a repair. I frantically asked him where the kids were and instructed him to keep them nearby. Bewildered, he tried to reassure me.
My Confusion Mounts
Similar feelings had come several other times, usually when something was off with someone I loved or just before something bad happened. I called both my mom and my mother-in-law over the next couple days, looking for comfort and help as I tried to figure out if my worry was with or without reason.
Things escalated throughout the week. When I went to pick up race tags on Wednesday for a 5K turkey trot, my stomach dropped in the store and I felt like the world was zooming out. It was hard to concentrate for a moment, but a few seconds later I was filling out race entrance forms for me and my family.
Later, as we were preparing for my siblings’ arrival, my physical reaction to another wave of worry made me dry heave, my body tingling all over.
“What is wrong with me?” I asked my husband.
Could this be some sort of premonition?
I called my sisters, brother, and brother-in-law who were coming out for Thanksgiving to check if they had any ominous feelings regarding the trip. Shortly after I talked to them, they were in a minor accident that swiped their driver-side mirror and did little to calm my fragile state of mind.
When they got there, I was still worked up. It was good to see everyone, but I was still unsettled. That night, I made my kids all sleep on the floor in my room, to ease my mind. Despite this, I was still up dry-heaving again and nervous, according to my sister Catherine.
Thanksgiving Day
On Thanksgiving Day, my siblings and I went on our run as planned. We had a good time, though I still felt a little anxious.
Later, we drove to my brother-in-law’s for our Thanksgiving feast. I tried to enjoy the company and take pictures of everyone and interact as usual, but I couldn’t finish my dinner–very atypical for me–and felt undeniably agitated. I looked at everyone around me and felt that there was so much hidden pain in the world. I wanted to help them. I was having all kinds of deep thoughts, some nice, some not. I was not my usual talkative, energetic self.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I was terrified that one of the kids was in danger and I couldn’t let it drop. I read talks and scriptures to try to find peace. I emailed the stake presidency (leaders in our church) and talked to Mike endlessly. Finally, Mike got frustrated and tried to go to bed. I felt alone and scared. At some point I tried to go get him again. I started theorizing about how traumatic experiences affect people. It’s a little fuzzy from here.
Losing My Mind
Mike didn’t like that I was getting more and more upset. He took my arm and told me everything would be okay. Before my eyes, he transformed. He looked like a demon (or at least what I would imagine one to look like).
I screamed.
My sister Catherine and her husband came upstairs. I was telling Mike maybe he needed to leave.
“I can’t trust him,” I told my sister.
My sister started to say, “Mike? You love Mike. I think you’ve been in your head a little too much lately.”
She started to look dark to me. Everyone started to look funny and the room swam.
Almost in a trance, I picked up the phone and dialed 911.
What am I doing? I questioned myself.
But I felt like I had to do it.
“I don’t feel safe. No one’s listening to me. I’m worried for my children,” I heard myself telling the operator.
The operator offered to send someone over.
When the officer arrived, I repeated my concerns and he asked me if I wanted to come to the station.
“Yes,” I said.
I made everyone come with me.
Once there, they ushered me into an office. Later, I learned I was talking to a mental health screener.
What am I doing? I kept thinking. Is this real? This is so unlike me.
“Has your husband ever hurt you? Why are you worried about your children? Who are you feeling scared of? Do you have anyone you trust?”
As the screener rattled off questions, I felt very confused about what to say.
Was I really just here because of a feeling?
I am normally logical.
“I don’t know. My husband is always really nice to me. I don’t know why I feel this way.”
I felt like the only people I could trust were people I often viewed as more emotional, even irrational at times, and I gave some of their names to the lady.
I left the office and sat against the floor-length window on at the front of the police station. My sister Becca sat with me, her arm around me. I stared at Mike. He was crying and holding one of the kids. I felt nothing.
They sent us out with a recommendation to see a counselor in a few days. We went to urgent care on the way home as I was continuing to have bouts of panic and nausea. I clung to my sister as I waited in the doctor’s office glancing suspiciously at Mike and around at the others in the waiting room now and again.
I had another strong panic attack as I went in to see the doctor.
“It feels like I’m in labor. I don’t think I could be pregnant. Could it still be a miscarriage?” I asked the doctor, embarrassed.
She was kind and calm. “Breathe,” she told me.
She prescribed Lorazepam, an anti-anxiety drug, which we picked up on the way home.
The last thing I clearly remember for the next couple days was asking, “Is this safe for nursing?” as Mike handed me pills.
I Recover?
I’m told I mostly slept the next couple days and nursed baby X. We went to the park one evening. My siblings watched my kids. Mike held me on the couch as I incoherently told him things like I forgave him and I’d always be there for him.
I vaguely remember trying to sing a hymn at church and talking to some people that wanted to help me.
I can recall bits of the follow-up appointment, though I was still rather out of it.
I told the counselor the bare bones of what had happened and explained a few extended family issues weighing on me. He said something about women’s intuition being a possibility.
And the next couple days, life was back to normal(ish).
Becca stayed an extra couple days to make sure I was okay, then left to go back to Utah and school. I went back to taking care of the house and kids, preparing the Christmas musical program for church and planning my daughter’s upcoming birthday. Mike went back to work.
The professionals we met with were kind, but none of them really gave us any answers. So my family and I were left to wonder and surmise.
My mom first suggested postpartum depression as an explanation, when Mike called her to explain what was happening and how we all ended up at the police station. Catherine, a family sciences major, kept telling me it seemed like an episode of schizophrenia from what she had learned in her psychology classes.
Deep down, I felt like it was a mental health issue, but it was confusing because I was still the same person. Had I always suffered a mental disorder?
Mike and I did a lot of googling about postpartum mood disorders and thought I had been suffering from one, perhaps postpartum panic or psychosis. But I didn’t fit all the indicators and it was rather late since having the baby. I wasn’t suicidal or having trouble getting out of bed. Really, we didn’t know what to think.
Perplexed, but thankful that I seemed to be back to myself, we tried to move on.
Little did we know, this was far from over.
Continue the story here.
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