To say that things changed quickly is an understatement…

Over the couple of months following my therapy sessions, I started to feel better and more optimistic. I thought that everything was going back to normal. I was sure that the worst was over without remembering that there’s always the calm before a storm.

One night my husband and I found ourselves tucked in bed, deep in conversation about how real depression is. Shortly before falling asleep he made a harmless comment about PTSD that made an array of feelings that I didn’t recognize flood my entire body. I had flashbacks of not being able to see my baby when she was born, and all the many times she cried and I wasn’t able to feel the urge or the connection to her in the way that I wanted to. PTSD sounded correct, as if my brain was trying to tell me “YES! THAT’S IT! HELP ME!”

I had an anxiety/panic attack that night. The emotional pain felt so real!

The following day while at work, I had a moment of clarity. I was able to recognize that I was not feeling good and it was not safe for me to go home to my baby by myself. For my safety and hers. I knocked on my manager’s door and, with heavy tears, told her that I was having suicidal thoughts and needed help. It was hard to communicate my feelings, but thankfully she was able to pick up what I was trying to convey.

I walked to the emergency room with her and checked in. That’s where healing began. In the most unexpected place, at the most random time. I was terrified.

The next couple of hours were spent waiting for a mental health evaluation to decide if I needed the help that I claimed I was asking for. I imagine there are plenty of people that take advantage of these services for mundane alternate purposes. I was not that person. I felt crazy, unlike myself, foreign, disconnected, empty, hopeless. During the interview I was tempted to play off my actual raw feelings, but I didn’t. I am glad that I chose to spill out my entire heart.

The mental health counselor recommended me to a voluntary psychiatric unit to seek treatment. I was told I had been “sleepless for far too long and that it was causing my brain to develop alternate mental diseases that sprouted from my physical and emotional post-partum trauma. A mouthful, I know.

With a heavy heart, I volunteered to be admitted. I knew I was doing the right thing but I also knew I wasn’t going to be able to see my family or my daughter for however long the psychiatrist deemed necessary. I was heartbroken and scared, but most of all I was just a little hopeful.

… and so it began, the most wonderful four days of my life.