When I refer to my time in the behavioral hospital, I jokingly call it the “looney bin” to my friends. I spent three exhausting days there due to postpartum depression. I often turn my experiences into humor, even though what I went through was anything but funny. It’s just my way of coping. Many people shy away from discussing such topics, but I strive to be open about my journey, hoping to encourage others to feel comfortable sharing their struggles with me.
Outwardly, my life appeared perfect. I have a lovely son, a wonderful partner named Mark who is a successful engineer, and it seems like I have everything going for me. However, I don’t want anyone to think I’m flawless. While it’s nice to be perceived that way, it can lead to harmful comparisons and unrealistic expectations. I want people to know that I’m human and that I experience failures too—like failing exams in college, gaining weight since my pregnancy, and battling postpartum depression.
Being admitted to the behavioral unit was one of the most authentic experiences of my life. It was raw, vulnerable, and frightening. For the first time, I admitted to myself that I wasn’t okay.
My son had spent over a week in the NICU due to fetal maternal hemorrhage, a condition that prevented his blood from returning to the placenta. I didn’t even get to hold him until the day after he was born. My emotions were all over the place—I remember crying in my hospital room because I couldn’t feel my legs, and there were complications with my delivery that should have been minor worries compared to the fact that my son needed five blood transfusions to survive.
Eventually, his condition improved, and I began to recover from my C-section. I took a postpartum depression screening before leaving the hospital, and I thought I had passed. I was excited to go home and have my son join us soon. The labor and delivery nurse warned me of the risks of postpartum depression and psychosis, but I felt happy and joking, convinced I wouldn’t experience any of that.
However, things took a turn once my son returned home. Days blurred into nights. When do I sleep? When do I eat? The advice to sleep when the baby sleeps became impossible as I found myself overwhelmed with responsibilities. My routine devolved into just feeding and changing my baby. I stopped eating and found it hard to sleep, paralyzed by anxiety. I even feared that if I fell asleep, my baby might die. Meanwhile, Mark seemed to sleep effortlessly, which only heightened my envy.
After a long stretch of sleepless nights, I reached my breaking point. I spent a whole day crying without knowing why. In my desperation, I daydreamed about disappearing. Dangerous thoughts surfaced as I looked at the bottle of antidepressants I had just been prescribed. Thankfully, I recognized these thoughts as harmful, just as my doctor had warned me. I called my mom, who understood mental health and didn’t judge me, providing the comfort I needed.
I decided to seek help and told Mark that I needed to go. I drove to the emergency room with my sister, feeling terrified yet hopeful. To my surprise, the staff was incredibly compassionate. They ran tests and offered me a bite to eat, but I still couldn’t stomach anything.
Eventually, my mother arrived, and we waited for updates. The doctors assessed my condition and, after several hours, decided I needed to be admitted to the Bayview Behavioral Hospital. I had naively imagined it would be like the maternity ward—comfortable and welcoming—but it was starkly different.
I was transported by ambulance, feeling a mix of fear and relief. Upon arrival, I was met with a cold, sterile waiting room. I was offered a tuna sandwich, but the thought of eating made me nauseous. I watched a movie playing in the background, feeling envious of the carefree characters and wondering if I would ever reclaim that kind of joy.
As I filled out paperwork for my admission, I had to write down important phone numbers, knowing I wouldn’t have access to my phone during my stay. I cried at the thought of being cut off from my loved ones, but my mother assured me it would be okay. After a tearful goodbye, I was led through the facility to my new room.
The experience was surreal. I was placed in a room with another patient, which made me wonder about her story. I was scared; if she was there due to dangerous thoughts, what was I capable of? As I lay in bed, my mind raced with worries about Mark and my son, Maxon.
But I was determined to find my way back to a healthier state of mind. If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination, you can check out this informative article on home insemination kits. For those wanting to dive deeper into pregnancy and reproductive health, WebMD offers excellent resources. If you’re considering options for family planning, Make A Mom provides great information on at-home insemination kits.
In summary, my hospitalization for postpartum depression was a profound and humbling experience. It reminded me of the importance of seeking help and being vulnerable. I hope sharing my story encourages others to reach out when they’re struggling.
Keyphrase: postpartum depression hospitalization
Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]