Misery
Post-partum depression nearly killed me. Then I had a second baby.
by Adrienne Martini
October 22, 2007
Two weeks after the birth of my first baby, I found myself in my local ER, crying so hard that I couldn't explain to the nurse behind the desk why I was there. I was also soaking wet, since it had been raining all day, and my sneakers made sad little squishy noises when I was led into a private interview room. The decision to go into that room was the last decision I'd get to make for the next week.
My baby, thank every deity who may be out there, was just fine. I, however, was not.
By that point, I couldn't stop crying — but that was slowly becoming the least of my concerns. I'd slept maybe four hours out of the last forty-eight and eaten one peanut butter sandwich. Thoughts of suicide were my boon companion. That morning in the shower, I couldn't stop thinking about the expensive chef's knife in my kitchen, which I used to break-down chickens and julienne carrots back when I still cared about food. I started to plan what I would do with the baby, which responsible adults I'd call right before I sliced myself up so that Psych wards are for crazy people, not professionals who have a couple of college degrees. But mental illness doesn't give two craps about any of that.my infant wouldn't be alone for too long.
When I got out of the shower, my husband convinced me to call my OB. When I asked him later why he brought it up then, his only response was that I looked "vacant."
Twenty-four hours after presenting myself to the ER, I was in a locked psych ward, which is where I'd spend the next five days, wandering around in a haze of pharmaceuticals and exhaustion.
A psych floor is everything movies have conditioned you to expect. The patients immediately strike you as insane. Some babble on; some sit in stony silence and flick at imaginary bugs. You wait for a visit from Nurse Ratchett. About the time that you start to feel like you never want to leave, they send you home.
It was the last place I expected to be during my six-week maternity leave. Psych wards are for crazy people, not professionals who have a couple of college degrees, who've been married for a decade and have no criminal record or substance abuse problems. But mental illness doesn't give two craps about any of that.
©2007 Adrienne Martini and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Adrienne Martini has written for the Austin Chronicle and Cooking Light. A former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's Metro Pulse, her first book is Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood. She chronicles her adventures at www.martinimade.com. |
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