Funny thing about those little whispers that one should listen to instead of ignore. The whispers get louder. The intrusive thoughts never went away that weekend. I thought it was a fluke. "Maybe," I thought, "It would take a few days for the drug to stabilize in my system." After a week of intense intrusive thoughts I knew I should not be ignoring this growing problem any longer. Every time I picked up David I had a thought about dropping him. Every time I sat down to nurse I had a thought about crushing his head. Over and over again I fought against these awful thoughts. I also had terrible thoughts about hurting myself. Driving in the car was the worst. Over and over I would get thoughts of slashing my legs with large knife. I hated the thoughts and wanted them to go away so I kept myself busy. When David napped I would clean up the kitchen, do the laundry, any chore that needed to be done really. I just didn't want the thoughts to invade my brain. Fighting against those thoughts all day long is exhausting. By the end of the day I was snippy and short with everyone in my family. I wanted nothing more than to vegetate on the couch. Finally I reached my limit and called OB's office. They were the ones who had prescribed the Zoloft in the first place. Little did I know at the time that my OB was the worst place to call.
OBGYN's are trained surgeons and trained at getting a healthy baby into the world. Two of my OBGYN's helped to save my life the day David was born. The one piece of knowledge OB's don't have extensive training on is post partum depression and/or drugs to treat said ailment. That is why there are psychiatrists in the world. They have extensive schooling and training. At the time I didn't know a psychiatrist to call let alone the knowledge that I should call one. So on a gloomy day in mid-December I called my OB's office and talked with the nurse, not even one of the doctors! I explained what was happening to the nurse and she said to double the dose of Zoloft I was taking and to call in two weeks if things were not better. Well you do the math. It was mid-December and she wanted me to call in two weeks; Christmas time.
Things didn't get better. I didn't call. I wanted to believe that things would get better but they didn't. I have a very vivid memory of the Christmas program at Caleb's daycare. I was especially depressed all that day and was having a hard time even thinking of going to this Christmas program. I got all the kids ready in their matching outfits and I was just going to go in whatever I had put on that day. I didn't care. At the last minute I think I threw on something nice, put on a little make-up and ran the flat iron through my hair. I may have looked nice that evening but I didn't feel nice. The suicidal thoughts had started and by this point were pretty constant. It was awful to go to this program, watch all these sweet little children sing Away in the Manger and be thinking such dark thoughts. I smiled, we got some good pictures and then I went home to put on my pajamas and escaped from the world.
After Christmas everyone went back to work and school and I was left home with a three month old baby. I was due to return to work in one month and I was scared. Innately I knew that something was not right but at the time I just didn't know what. I was never away from David. In fact he refused the bottle completely; a bad thing since he was going to daycare in a month. Being away from David made me anxious. I didn't feel like anyone could take care of him like I could. I was short with the ones I loved the most, especially my husband. I yelled really easy and driving especially on the highway was really hard. I was afraid of every car around me coming into my lane and hitting me. Driving on the highway was riddled with anxiety and lots of sweat. I would get to my destination and be thankful that I could once again breathe. I didn't know what do think of these funny things that were happening to me. At the time I didn't have a name, I just knew they made me feel miserable.
Since the middle of November I had been attending a post pardum depression support group. It helped but that little whisper of "something is not right" was still there. After one of the support groups I stayed to talk to the therapist that ran the group. "Things just are not right," I told her. "I am still really depressed and I am going back to work in two weeks." The thought sent shivers up and down my spine. The therapist gave me the name of a therapist she trusted, Shay. I got in touch with Shay right away. I wanted to have something in place before I went back to work. That first hour and half session with Shay consisted of her getting to know me and me telling my story; what happened the day that Nate was born and how the last 4 months had been going. There are two things that Shay told me later about our first encounter. She thought, "This woman is so well put together why is she here seeking counseling? and She just told that entire scary, frightening, down right overwhelming story of her son's birth without so much as one tear!" Shay thought it was imperative that I see a psychiatrist right away. "How do you feel about seeing a psychiatrist?" At that point I really didn't mind. This was on a Thursday. Shay called Dr. P and I saw her two days later on a Saturday morning. Two days after that I went back to work teaching first grade full time.
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