The moment my husband and I decided we wanted to have a baby, we prepared for the possibility of postpartum depression. I knew it could happen to me: The condition affects around 1 in 7 women, and due to a prior depressive disorder diagnosis, I had an elevated risk. I sought out a psychiatrist and discussed with her how I could manage my mental health (including my medications) if I got pregnant. In 2020, after finding out I was expecting, I put these plans into action. My husband read up on the postpartum blues. My obstetrician gave me pamphlets. I scheduled another appointment with my psychiatrist a few weeks before my due date. I felt equipped.
In August of that year, my daughter was born via emergency C-section. After we brought her home, I waited for telltale PPD symptoms to set in—but instead, I was deliriously joyful. A few days of extreme happiness later, however, my mood started to fluctuate…wildly. I felt irritated when my husband said he was exhausted. I snapped at people who asked how I was doing. I stayed up for hours on end with the baby, assuring everyone—including my parents, who'd come to help—that no, actually, I didn't need to sleep.
A week after giving birth, I woke up in the middle of the night with a startling revelation: I couldn't trust my husband. I bolted out of bed and sprinted to my daughter, certain that she was in danger. I paced the house as I held her, fearing she would simply die if I handed her to anyone else. "It's just going to be me and you from here on out," I remember telling her. It was at this point that I began to hear detailed messages from God. He told me I was his chosen prophet and my daughter was the second coming of Jesus.
My husband and parents didn't know what to do, and I don't blame them. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment