It's the place I still fear through night terrors, a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. It is the place I think about every morning when I take my Lexapro, or when I see my daughter's smiling face. It is haunting, yet it is healing.
It is shameful to admit I was there, yet it is powerful to tell people I was there. And I'm better now. And I'm not a crazed lunatic, nor was I ever. I am a strong woman, and I was strong enough to face the stigma behind the psych ward and get the help I needed.To commemorate this anniversary, here is an excerpt from my book Supermom explaining what happened two years ago today:
I will never forget the day I went to the hospital. It was Emily's one-month birthday and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be the same again.
When they finally brought me back to the evaluation area, this was like no part of the hospital I had ever seen. It seemed like I was visiting a high-security prison.
Suddenly I felt like I had done something wrong. I felt like a criminal and was afraid the authorities were going to lock me away for trying to poison my son. I was paranoid of everyone and everything around me. But I wanted help--whatever it took.
so grateful for your openness in sharing these thoughts and this experience with your readers and linking it to #ppdchat. Glad to meet you.
ReplyDeleteHappy Anniversary. I just blogged too about the night I went to the ER. I totally understand you on the shame and feeling like you did something wrong, even though you did something very right.
ReplyDeleteWe are stronger than we know, all of us who share this reluctant sisterhood.