A long, long time ago, my father invented the Internet. As in, he worked for network solutions and laid down cables that later became what we know today as the Internet. A few years later, that company was bought out and the higher-ups were given a fat check and let go. That’s the official story, anyway. It didn’t really go down like that, but I’m not allowed to tell that truth. I’m sketchy on the details myself, anyway.
So, my father started plans to begin his own business. While he waited to get things set up, he did day-trading of stocks online. One thing led to another, it took a while, and then his father died. Suddenly, the money he had saved was getting his mom (who later remarried) out of financial trouble. With his money for starting the business gone, he continued to do day trading and living off of his retirement fund.
As the years went by, and the stock market started to not do so well, my father became very depressed. He had many dreams of how to support himself, but nothing seemed to be panning out. One day while painting his home, he took a bad fall off of a ladder that was located at the top of some stairs. When he fell off the ladder, he went down the stairs, as well, and the ladder went with him. This fall left him in massive amounts of pain and feeling very depressed.
Not too long afterward, my mom received a copy of his will and his suicide letter in the mail.
That was a long day.
The police in North Carolina, where he lived, entered his home to find him alive, but very sick in his bed after taking an entire bottle of morphine. He proceeded to spend the next week in the psychiatric ward of his local hospital. Around this time, 9/11 happened.
That was a long week.
The doctors at the hospital pumped my father full of antidepressants and continued to see him on an out-patient basis. That medication was not good to him.
Here is where I will never know the full truth, and I’ll explain why later.
There is a small percentage of people who can’t take certain antidepressants. The medications do not metabolize well in them. My father is one of those people. It causes psychotic breakdowns and has led to some violent crimes (for other people – my father never got that bad), as well as memory problems and seizures. When my father went to talk to his doctors about what happened, they refused to discuss it and slapped a silence order on his therapist. My father stopped seeing them – all of them – as well as going off all medications. None of my doctors in the field have ever heard of problems like that with the antidepressant they had put my father on. So is it that rare? Or is my father that messed up mentally? More on that in a minute.
My father still has the memory problems and the seizures. He talks to people who aren’t there. Always has. He does this when he mumbles. He’ll never admit to it, but you can sometimes hear what he’s saying. He also has fanciful tails of the security clearance he used to have for the government, the people he advised, the projects he worked on. These stories are all the truth as he knows it.
Have you ever seen the movie A Beautiful Mind? My father reminds me of the home game.
Will I ever know the truth?
Only if my father receives a diagnosis that points us in one way or the other. And with my dad’s paranoia of the system – any system – we most likely never will see that diagnosis.
My opinion is that while at times I think my mom might have BPD, I’m pretty sure my father does. Everything fits well, and my acorn did not fall far from that tree. If my father is indeed having delusions, that would fit in well to Schizotypal, only in his case, I think it’s been his truth for so long, that he honestly believes it. Or who knows, maybe it really is the truth. As I said, I may never know.
Unlike many other stories here on The Band, my ex-husband didn’t beat me or abuse me, but I during my marriage, I started to lose my sense of self.
I went to a therapist a few years into our marriage for some issues that were mine, and in therapy, I came to realize that he had some issues, too. I had some issues with depression which I worked through with medication and my therapist.
My ex used to give me grief for going and working out – complaining that I “never spent any time with him,” although he spent hours a day glued to online computer games. He also had anxiety and some Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but never wanted to admit it.
When our son was born, I did more than 95% of the parenting. I was a single parent who happened to be married.
He installed the security system for our son’s daycare, and, three weeks later, it was broken into. So he was called in the middle of the night to go to the daycare and make a DVD copy of the security video for the cops. This event apparently triggered flashbacks of the trauma that occurred several years earlier, when he walked in on someone burglarizing our house.
A month after the daycare break-in, he had a huge breakdown. We’d gotten a baby sitter and gone out to have a few drinks – nothing really crazy. That night was spent with him curled in a ball on the bathroom floor as I tried to calm him down. Eventually, he agreed to allow me take him to the emergency room for help. He was agitated, irritated, and anxious. They sent us home, advising us it was a panic attack, and told him to see his regular doctor.
He promised he would see the regular doctor and he did…but he refused all types of treatment – no drugs or therapist for him. He told me he knew his triggers – he had it under control. But I began to notice his behaviors getting worse – he didn’t like being out at night. He didn’t sleep well. He didn’t like being home at night when I wasn’t there, if I had a work function to attend.
He complained that we didn’t have sex enough. I worked a full-time stressful job outside of the home and came home every night to perform the majority of childcare and the house.
He liked the money I made, but never let me vent about my job, like a partner is supposed to do. I spoke to my OB/GYN about medication to help to increase my sex drive. My OB told me that I also needed to have consistent time to myself every week to recharge – just an hour or two would do. So I told him that. He told me our schedules didn’t allow for that, even though for years he had gone to a foreign language class once a week and, at one time, also had two evenings each week to himself to play online games.
That was the last straw for me.
I began to sleep more. I stopped taking care of myself. So I called my OB and resumed my medication. I told my friends what I needed to do and they hashed through all the good, bad, and ugly issues with me, strengthening my purpose and resolve.
We tried marriage counseling, and the counselor affirmed my concerns regarding his anxiety issues. She helped give me the courage to walk away.
I did not want to be a statistic. I got married believing it was forever. I loathed the thought of letting go of that dream, breaking up my family. However, I knew that my son deserved to know his mom was happy and healthy.
And I am. I’m off my medications for anxiety or depression, though I wouldn’t hesitate to call someone if I needed it. I have a great support network of family and friends who all helped me through the rough transition.
My divorce was final on December 14. I walked down those steps outside the courthouse and wasn’t sure how to feel. It wasn’t exactly something to celebrate, and part of me mourns what I lost, but I know that I can move forward now.
I haven’t told many people about this. Very few know any details. My husband knows the gist of it, but not all of it.
I was around 15 years old and I’d already spent time battling my personal demon. It was named Self-Harm and it came armed with a blade and a lighter.
I swallowed a bottle of… something. I can’t remember what. They had me on so many different medications. They wanted to “fix” me. The mutilation scared my parents. Not, of course, enough to try anything beyond anonymous prayer requests to the church group and a random assortment of pills. That, along with attempts, pleading with me to just stop and shaming me for my behavior, was supposed to be my “miracle cure.”
I don’t remember what finally tripped the trigger and pushed me to that point. Was it an argument? A particularly bad day? I don’t know. I can’t remember.
I remember being rushed to the ER. I remember the staff being unable to get a tube down into my stomach. I remember vomiting, repeatedly, every time they tried. Eventually they stopped trying and handed me a big mug of some charcoal mixture and told me to drink it.
Afterward, I had to stay in the ICU for 24 hours. I should have been sent to the local Psych unit for 72 hours. But I wasn’t. The doctor came in and talked to me.
He made me promise not to do this again, patted me on my head, handed me another prescription, and sent me off.
And that was it.
I went home.
I saw a “Christian Counselor” (despite religion being one of the major things my parents and I fought about) a handful of times over the next six months. My medication was changed a few more times. I can’t even remember everything we tried.
And that was it.
I stopped taking the medication when it was “mutually decided” I should move out.
I struggled with depression and other issues off and on for the next three or four years. It wasn’t until after the birth of my son and my second bout of Paranoid Personality Disorder that I started taking medication regularly or seeing a counselor on a regular basis.
I wonder how things would have turned out if they’d been handled differently way back then?
Through our one-sided conversations where I talk while he writes, I realized that through my childhood and adolescent years I felt like I was never wanted. I was just ‘there.’ A nuisance. A pain. Not a being – but a thing that was part of life. How awful for a child to go through life feeling like this.
Then it hit me that the child I was sympathizing with was me. I was distancing myself from MY actual life by thinking of myself as a ‘thing’ instead of a being.
Self-loathing takes on so many forms … it mutates in your brain to become something from another world. A world of hate.
Why would I feel this way? I don’t want to ask “who made me feel this way,” but rather, why? Why did I – why DO I – not hold myself to a higher standard in my own mind? Why do I hate myself so much? When did it start? I have so many questions today that I wish could be answered.
First off, let me explain that I have four amazing daughters, and I’m out the other side of postpartum psychosis – I hope that my words will help others to feel less alone. The power of words can be magical.
While I was fine mentally after my first daughter was born, I was faring poorly after giving birth to my second; I’d had a traumatic birth experience coupled with the loss of my relationship with my partner. My ex and I separated, so I blamed the loss of my relationship for my mental health issues. After I went to the doctor, I was given antidepressants, which I thought would help, but they only made me feel seasick, nauseous, and I couldn’t focus on anything.
With side effects like that, I stopped taking the antidepressants; I didn’t detox or stop taking them correctly, but still I felt like a million dollars and I felt a huge relief once I moved away from ex. Now, I adored my girls but I had bonding issues with my second, which is always painfully hard.
Three years later and I met my current husband. I’d never felt so content and adored. I fell pregnant with my third daughter, having once vowed I would never have any more kids – but I didn’t feel right denying my husband the joys of children – I gave him the gift of parenthood! I’d had a perfect pregnancy and labour, and the most beautiful little bundle was born. Four months later, we got married and my baby started to get ill – like really ill – and ended up tube fed in hospital for a week.
I’d stopped breastfeeding her during that week, and guess what?! I’d fallen pregnant with a fourth daughter, and this time my pregnancy was, at best, surreal, and, at worst, heartbreaking to relive. I became psychotic, erratic, forgetful, resentful, and fell completely off the rails.
One day, we were driving to collect my eldest daughters from their dad – 100 miles away – and I tried to stop our car in the middle of the motorway. My husband first thought I was joking but I wasn’t. I’d literally lost the plot. I was screaming and trying to change the gears on the car. I was trying to get out of the car while it was moving. Within a minute, my husband was crying, begging me to calm down.
In the UK it’s illegal to pull over on a motorway, but we got stuck in traffic and our eight-month old baby was screaming from the back of the car. I was 3 1/2 months pregnant and screaming that I was going to jump off a bridge. I was so desperate to get out the car. We couldn’t go anywhere, we were stuck in traffic with me inconsolable. My husband managed to pacify me.
At that point I should have sought help, I know that now, but I continued on with my life because I didn’t want to be prescribed additional shitty antidepressants. I soldiered on, all the while making everyone else around me miserable, scared, and resentful of me and my outbursts. I was vile, but I couldn’t see it or understand why I felt this way.
One morning, my husband went to get his hair cut at the barber and got caught in traffic – no big deal. When he came home, I started launching potatoes at his head – hot jacket potatoes straight from the oven, because I’d thought that if he didn’t have the manners to eat his dinner with his family, he could wear it! I was launching potatoes at his head while he was ducking, trying to reassure and cuddle me. Suddenly, I was convinced he was seeing someone else.
I used to go out at 2:00 AM when I couldn’t sleep and drive to the supermarket to do my weekly shop, just so I could drive past the cliff edge and dream of driving off of it. I was volatile and suicidal.
I adored my daughters and husband, but I genuinely believed everyone would be better off without my potato-throwing, car-stopping self in their lives. And quite frankly – at that time – they probably would have been. In the end, my husband rang my family, crying on the phone, begging them to intervene as he was at breaking point himself.
My mum drove me to A and E at 4:00 AM to see the emergency mental health team. It took five hours of me sitting, heavily pregnant, in a waiting room with heroin addicts fighting each other, waiting for their psych consultations before I was seen. I totally broke down. I was exhausted and scared and so, so confused. The mental health treatment team wanted to give me a c-section and sedate me, but it made me more irrational. I promised to stay with my family if I didn’t have to take any antidepressants, as all I could think was whatever I take, the baby takes.
They agreed with my plan, as long as I had a crisis meeting with my whole family and had someone with me at all times. By then, I had eight weeks to go. I was still an emotional train wreck but somehow I got through it. I gave birth to the most stunning little baby girl whom I bonded with immediately, thankfully. The mental health team believed that my symptoms were all related to hormones, as there was such a small age gap between babies and from the moment she was born I was fine. Since then, I have been mentally better.
Now, I have a completely different outlook on life.
At my most significant appointment, when I really was on the brink, the most wonderful psych doc told me this: “Suicide transfers your pain and torment to the ones you leave behind.” I truly believe those words are the reason I didn’t drive off of the cliff. I couldn’t leave my girls and husband.
I now live a normal life with my husband and four girls, and it feels like a lifetime ago. I talk about it a lot with friends and with strangers (and anyone who will listen) because I’m not ashamed of having had postpartum psychosis.
I’m simply proud to be out the other side and when people say they envy my beautiful family and relationship with my husband, I tell them the reality, and how much it took to get to where we are.
Then I tell them I have the best potato throw they will ever see!
I looked around at their smiling faces as I nervously fiddled with my unkempt hair.
When was the last time I took a shower? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate, either. I wasn’t hungry.
“Oh, Carri!” My grandma was holding him, his tiny hand wrapped around her finger. “He’s beautiful – such a healthy boy!”
I studied him from across the room as he was shuffled from person to person. His perfectly round head. His teeny toes. Those skinny chicken legs.
My son, Blake: The newest member of our family.
They were excited to meet him. To hold him. To stroke his soft skin and take in his new scent.
I wanted them to leave.
My parents. My brother. My aunt and uncle. My grandma. They had to leave.
The walls were closing in.
My thoughts. The thoughts were racing. He was going to be hungry soon. He would need a diaper change. He would spit up and need another change of clothes.
The house was dirty.
I had to do laundry.
I needed sleep.
But I couldn’t sleep. The thoughts wouldn’t stop long enough.
The walls were closing in.
They were squeezing the life out of me like a vice. Making me sweat. Making me second guess myself.
Making me crazy.
And as my family relished my tiny miracle, I was crumbling inside. Panicking. Becoming more and more restless.
Until finally, I left the room to release the anxiety.
“Where is she going?” they asked.
I had to be alone.
Because the walls were closing in.
And postpartum depression continued its debilitating hold until I’d finally had enough.
I wanted to enjoy my newborn. I wanted to take in his smell, stroke his hair, and kiss his soft skin.
