Post-Partum Depression

When my second son was born, I suffered from extreme post-partum depression. My depression went ignored and untreated for about one year before I finally sought out help. I was in such a thick “new mommy haze,” that I didn’t even realize how bad things had gotten, and no one else around me realized it either. Upon entering the local “mental health” system, I unwittingly signed my soul over to the devil.

At first, I was set up with a therapist. He was a pretty good therapist, well seasoned, and seemed to really help me, if only by getting me out of the house for one hour a week, to talk to someone about my problems. My biggest problem at that time was that I was at a very low level of functioning. I was also very lonely and isolated even though I had a husband and two children, whom I loved more than anything. My baby was very “high needs,” and I was the only person who knew how to console him, and I was the only person who could get an ounce of food into him. I was so very tired, and felt so alone. I soon realized that love was not enough to keep me afloat and I continued sinking into the dark abyss of depression.

Eventually, my therapist referred me to a psychiatrist to try out an anti-depressant. I didn’t have health insurance at the time, so we decided to start out with an older and cheaper medication. I knew nothing about psychiatric medications back then, and I trusted the psychiatrist, as he was “the expert”. My first medication was Elavil (amitriptyline), a tricyclic anti-depressant. The med made me feel horrible. I can’t remember the exact side-effects I had from this med, but weight gain, excessive sleepiness, irritibility, and anxiety come to mind. So, my psychiatrist switched me to Tofranil (Imipramine), another tricyclic med, with much the same side effects as the Elavil, with some added aggitation thrown in. Looking back now, I seriously have to wonder why the doc even tried Tofranil, because it is so similar to Elavil, common sense would say try something different. But common sense doesn’t come so easily to everyone.

 Over the next couple of years, I continued to fight my depression. I continued with my therapist, and I had switched psychiatrists a couple of times. They tried me on dozens of meds, in various combinations, at extremely high dosages. This is where my memory starts to get very fuzzy, for obvious reasons. I know at one point, I was on at least eight different psych meds, in high doses, at the same time. I could not even get out of bed, except to eat, go to the bathroom, and swallow handfuls of meds (which had to be written down for me to remember which ones to take, and when to take them.)

On top of all the medications I was taking, I was given eletroshock therapy. I was thoroughly zombified. I’m guessing somewhere along the line, I must have signed a consent form for all this “treatment,” but I can’t be sure about that. Most of the treatment I received over the years was “voluntary,” but is it really possible to volunteer for anything when you’re a non-functioning drugged up zombie?

I had been diagnosed, or misdiagnosed with several “mental illnesses” over a seven year period of time. Hopefully, I can get this right, as my memory ain’t what she used to be. I’ll try to do this in chronological order, if I can…

Clinical(?) Depression

Anxiety

Major Depression

Major Depression, recurrent

Major Depression, recurrent, with psychotic features

Borderline Personality Disorder

Bipolar Disorder NOS

Schizoaffective Disorder

Bipolar Disorder NOS (again)

Attention Deficit Disorder

Within that seven year period of time, I had over 30 (yes, thirty) psychiatric hospitalizations, and all that happened was I became “ill”. I tried to commit suicide about 7 times (again with the mushy memory I can’t remember exactly.) I started out looking for help for post-partum depression, and ended up severely mentally ill.

Well, that wasn’t exactly the “end” though, because I am finding, and fighting my way back to the living. I have taken back one very important thing that the psychiatric community robbed me of…Hope.

 

The Therapy Couch

One very important lesson I have learned during my course of therapy is that I am not crazy. I am not “disordered,” and there is no “chemical imbalance” in my brain. There are many reasons why I have acted “crazy” and felt hopeless, depressed, and suicidal. These reasons directly correlate with bad things that have happened to me throughout my life.

 My childhood was full of pain. The death of my mother when I was 6 years old, was the start of that pain. From that point on, my life just went downhill. I endured abuse of every kind. I was raised by a woman who hated me, and never failed to show it. I was molested when I was 9 years old by a family member. I was raped when I was 13 years old, by 2 strangers. After that, I searched high and low (sometimes really, really low) for someone to love me. I repeatedly put myself in extremely dangerous situations, involving such things as hitchhiking, running away from home and having sex with strangers, including grown men, some of whom were 50+ years old. I did drugs to try to numb myself, as this “search” for someone to love me didn’t quite pan out. When I was 17, I went into therapy, which I so desperately needed, but dropped out after a short time. It wasn’t that the therapy wasn’t helping, but at age 17, I thought I had more important and fun things to do. At 18, I had a baby boy, which was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. I finally found that “someone to love me.” Then 3 months later, I lost my best friend in a tragic car accident when she was only 17 years old. She had a baby the same age as mine. We were going to raise our kids together. We used to joke about our babies having an “arranged marriage” someday far on down the road. Her 4 month old baby daughter was in that car accident with my friend, and she survived, only to become severely mentally handicapped. There were many other loved ones who passed away. Death, and obsessive thoughts of death surrounded me for my entire childhood, and still haunt my thoughts to this very day.

I am not writing all of this because I want sympathy, but rather because I need to express that the reasons why I have been so “messed up” have nothing to do with chemical imbalances in my brain. There is nothing “pathologically” wrong with my brain.