There were a lot of differences in my life after Isaac was born. Differences of opinion; differences in how medical care should be administered, differences in my marriage, differences between Isaac and I. But most importantly, differences between God and me.
I was in a spiraling marriage with my husband and my Creator, and I was not speaking to either of them. It seemed like neither of them was speaking to me either.
I was in a difference of opinion with my immediate family. They weren’t so sure that I had Postpartum Depression/Psychosis. They had never seen anything like that before but they had seen me break down many times over the years. I had serious problems before Isaac. They knew that. They had seen me display what looked like immaturity and selfishness as I grew into an adult. It was maybe easy to think that I was just having a selfish meltdown and impossible for them to picture a broken brain and spirit. They had never seen anything like it so how were they supposed to know? And I didn’t let them see. I didn’t let them see or tell them how I saw Isaac floating face down, dead, every time I passed the bathroom.
One day I had a crazy aspiration. I was gonna plant a garden dammit, and see if I could succeed at…ANYTHING. It was a crazy manic thought and if you knew me growing up you’d be like… “What?”Q
I lived on the conference center property but did I ask before I put that shovel in the ground? …Of course not. I wasn’t thinking straight. But I’ll tell you what I did do. I paused my difficult digging, (There are a lot of rocks in New Hampshire.) and I broke my long silence with God. I felt like the ultimate disappointment as a wife, daughter, friend, employee and most of all mother.
“Jesus, PLEASE help this garden to flourish. Help me to succeed at something…anything.”
I worked on it every day; digging…digging and suddenly I stopped short as I saw myself jump on my husbands back and stab him repeatedly with a butcher knife.
I’d kind of gotten accustomed to the suicidal ideation and horrific intrusive thoughts regarding losing Isaac, but this was a whole different thing. I stood stock still as the vision played in my head again and again and I knew then that after two years of misdiagnosis and misunderstandings…my feet were finally starting to leave solid ground.
When someone becomes psychotic a good psychiatrist will ask three questions:
1. Is what you are experiencing bothering you?
2. Are you feeling like you might hurt yourself?
3. Do you feel like you are a danger to others?
Um yes on all three… But see…because I’m apparently such a good actress… I didn’t have a Psychiatrist…and I’ll warn you now, they aren’t always easy to find or get to.
Friends, please hear me when I say that IF POSSIBLE, you SHOULD NOT be treated for severe postpartum psychosis by your regular doctor if there is a psychiatrist in your state. Thats right- your STATE. You may have to drive five hours to get there but GO. Most of us can’t just take an antidepressant and get better. Some of the time it will actually make you worse. Severe postpartum illness requires PSYCHOTROPIC meds; meds family doctors and Nurse Practitioners may have knowledge of, but to paraphrase a dear friend who is a medical professional:
Family nurse practitioners and doctors are often the primary caregivers for individuals with mental illness as there is unfortunately a HUGE lack of mental health practitioners available.
But a person with heart failure should see a cardiologist, and someone with diabetes should see an endocrinologist.
I believe someone with severe mental illness should see a psychiatrist.
I knew this was it. I had reached the point of no return. It was as if most of my head was telling me, “Yes. Do that,” and the trace of remaining sanity I had left was saying, “No Chelsea, you love him. This isn’t real.”
So I got back to digging out my garden.
How can I be bitter towards those I love when I was putting on a full costume and mask every day and playing a role?
…Just focusing on my garden.
David Malouf, An Imaginary Life
My father suggested that I spend more time outside in prayer; Spend more time with God in his creation. That’s dad to a T. I love that about him, and maybe that helps him with a bout of depression or sorrow. Under normal circumstances it probably would help me. Nature is magic. It wasnt bad advice, but while there were definite spiritual and emotional battles going on, the physical battle; the chemical battle and severe hormonal imbalance was present and real and metastatic. We had a difference of opinion and I started to get mad. The people I did “let in” told me to read my Bible and pray, over and over again. But I knew: reading God’s word wasnt going to heal me. Prayer wasnt going to heal my fractured mind.
Spiritual issues and mental illness can sometimes be intertwined, but I knew what was causing mine. I had known from day one –because I’m a proud nerd and I like to research stuff- There comes a point where the light in your eyes has gone out and you cant see anything or anyone anymore. You can’t see it even from scripture.
Paul prayed fervently THREE TIMES that God would deliver him fom an agonizing torment that he felt he couldnt bear.
Then he STOPPED. God had given his answer and I too realized mine.
“Don’t you believe God can heal you?” So many people asked me the same question.
I ABSOLUTELY DID, BUT…I suddenly realized two years in, my cold prayers had been answered. God wasn’t going to heal me. Not yet anyways. Instead He had given me a gift far more valuable than healing. He’d given me my purpose.
The two most important days of your life are the day that you’re born and the day you figure out why.”
Mark Twain
We will adapt. 