this is my story of dealing with postpartum depression, OCD, and psychosis. for the prologue go {here} for part I go {here} for part II go {here}.
i'm feeling more like a prisoner than a patient.
now that the part of the day that i have been dreading is over, i feel relief. but in addition, i am upset and worried and i would very much like to get out of this hospital gown.
i beg a tech to check on the dryer to see if my shirt is finished yet. glory hallelujah, putting on a t-shirt never felt so wonderful. it's time for lunch. the man who was caught making out last night offers to bring my tray to the table. i'm hoping he's not looking for a replacement psych ward girlfriend. i tell him it's fine, i'll get it, but he jumps up and carries it over. and yet another meal that tastes like cardboard. i put my tray back with a full plate of food again. i might lose those last few pounds of baby weight if i have to stay here much longer.
around eight of my fellow inmates are sitting around the table. several have been coloring. one deals himself a game of solitaire. they range in age from teens to middle aged. one woman sits still and stares blankly ahead with dead eyes. a young man with tattoos speaks nonstop in a loud voice. a bigger man with a graying mustache and bald spot watches everyone, but is quiet. i remember that his name is steve. i decide that he and i are going to be friends, because he reminds me of one of my old neighbors who i love, jim wilson. once when my parents were out of town, i got a flat tire on my way to a new job. it was early in the morning, but jim drove all the way out to where i was and changed the tire for me, telling me not to help because i would get grease on my nice clothes. i would have lost my job if i'd been late.
"so why are you here?" i ask him.
he looks startled. the rest of the group stops what they are doing and watch us.
"better than prison." he jokes.
"you don't want to say?" i ask. "that's all right." i try another person, the loud mouth young man.
"drugs and suicide."
then the silent woman.
"depression and anxiety."
then the new girl who was just admitted, who looks to be a teenager.
"depression, suicide." she had just told her family she was gay.
one girl says she is here to detox from heroine. i ask her how she got started doing heroine. her response takes my breath away. "we couldn't get any cocaine."
my new big friend won't say why he is here, only that he has been here for two weeks.
all the sudden, everyone is telling their story. asking about mine. it's nice to be with a group of people who know how sad a person can feel, even if we are all so different. it's nice to be distracted from my own problems and to be a shoulder for someone else. one woman talks about her experience with postpartum depression ten years ago. they all ask about remington and i launch into a description of what he's like.
then i'm being summoned. a social worker wants to talk to me alone. time for more counseling.
same old dialogue, what brought you here, what's going on.
i discover that the psychiatrist has written down that i have "homicidal thoughts" in my chart. the social worker wants to talk about that.
homicidal thoughts?
like homicide? like psychopath? how crazy am i?
my mind flashes back to every episode of Criminal Minds i've ever seen.
i'm filled with deep shame that i have been classified as having homicidal thoughts toward my baby.
i'm crying as i try to explain to the social worker that i would never hurt my baby. yes, i've had disturbing thoughts, but i'm not homicidal. she is a better listener than the psychiatrist.
"i don't think the doctor understood me." i tell her. "he said it was a good sign that i am so anxious about my baby's safety. like he was surprised that someone with postpartum depression would be worried about the welfare of their child."
does anyone in here know how to talk to someone with postpartum depression? someone who has been in a constant state of stress, fear, and sickness for eight months?
the social worker is kind. she encourages me to tell the psychiatrist that he is wrong about me being homicidal. we talk about therapy tools, and i'm feeling a little better when the hour is up.
until i'm then summoned to speak with a nutritionist. we talk in my room.
"you aren't eating very much." she says. i feel like i'm on trial.
"the food isn't very good."
"well, they monitor your tray and if you aren't eating, you won't be able to get out of here very quickly. they take it as a sign of depression. do you have a history of eating disorders?"
now i'm irritated. i'm sorry, but i prefer food that tastes delicious and is served to me piping hot, not congealed and lukewarm. she decides that we are going to make a list of foods i don't like, so that i won't be served these foods. she is a stranger and she does not know that the list of foods i don't like would take up a notebook. i'm laughing quite hysterically by now, which i'm sure isn't helping my case.
she exits my room just in time for two techs to enter.
"hi, we are going to need you to stand up from the bed." one says to me as they are checking drawers and in the closet. i stand up and they lift my mattress and skim the surface with their hands.
i know this drill, as i used to be staff at a lock down facility.
"if you're looking for my shank, i keep it over there." i say.
their heads whip over to where i stand, faces shocked, until they see me smiling.
good one.
after they leave, i lay on the bed and take stock of my feelings.
homicidal thoughts.
do i have an eating disorder.
i took a pill for depression today.
how much is all this going to cost?
how am i going to keep everyone from finding out that i was committed.
i instructed travis to only tell his parents, but he wants to tell all his siblings. i'm afraid of what people will think.
i am a crazy person.
these thoughts are too much. so i leave my room and join the group for rec. therapy, or as i prefer to say, arts and crafts.
the rest of the day passes in a blur. i paint a ceramic lion for remington's room, picturing him playing with it and asking me where it came from. i bow out of group therapy, as it's geared towards drug and alcohol abusers. instead, i take a nap, figuring i should enjoy the opportunity for sleep while i can.
dinner comes and as i expected, it is terrible. but i've wised up, and instead of leaving the food on the tray, i throw it in the trash.
i call my mom and tell her "the loony bin is fine."
travis comes for visiting hour and my almost roommate comments on how she can tell he loves me.
i join my fellow prisoners in their hallway pacing. we start doing cartwheels.
i talk to a man about his panic episode that lasted three full days.
i grow more and more annoyed with the staff for treating me like a seven year old and begin to feel mutinous.
i gather the gang and we play an epic game of jenga. my friend steve, who i call steven, is a jenga master. the game lasts for over an hour, with everyone gathered around in excitement, barely daring to breathe in case it knocks over our tower.
then the game ends, i take a sleeping pill and the walls spin. i stand up from the table and immediately fall down. two techs carry me to my room and tuck me into bed.
tomorrow i will talk to the psychiatrist. tomorrow i will go home and see remington again. i hope he remembers me.
tomorrow i rejoin the land of the free, the land of instant access to facebook, to keeping up appearances, to being a good mommy.
but at this moment, i am drugged and morale is low. homicidal. my room was checked for a shank today.
with the university of utah outside my window and an antidepressant taking up residence in my neural pathways, i fall asleep with a prayer on my lips, not even feeling sure anymore who is listening, that someday soon, everything is going to be okay.
xo.
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