Mental Health Evaluation? Like, at the Hospital?!?! The Event That Built This Blog

Postpartum Depression and what it tends to evolve into in subsequent pregnancies is nothing to be trifled with. The characteristics that predispose you to PPD are pretty common IE: life. But some need special consideration; those of us who have experienced depression and anxiety pre-babies are obviously more likely to experience this because, let's face it, our nuts have already been cracked. Doesn't take much to deepen that crack. Also depends on what kind of nut you have. I'm more of a pecan, definitely not a walnut, thankfully not a pistachio though sometimes I feel a bit peanutty.

One thing I was told over and over after Monkey#2 was, "Beware the next pregnancy". I've been taking celexa, wellbutrin, klonopin and xanax since Monkey #2. I was actually able to quit with the xanax because, quite frankly, it did nothing for me. These are not medications that you just stop taking. I weaned off of the xanax and was beginning to let up on the klonopin to see how I'd do with just the anti-depressants. I had been on them for two years and was beginning to feel some semblance of self coming back and in a heartbeat, I'm pregnant with Monkey #3. I weaned myself off of klonopin in a pretty short period to avoid the very remote possibility that my baby would be born with a cleft-pallet. And then I stayed off of it. Also, I began forgetting to take my other meds. If you forget to take celexa for four or five days, your body lets you know it. Not fun. Not that it made my memory any better. I blame the brain-cell thieving baby in my belly. Forgetting to take your meds while pregnant, after experiencing severe, and I mean severe postpartum depression is really stupid. Monumentally stupid. All of a sudden I found myself falling. It's like being at the top of a tornado and spiralling down thinking, "What the hell's gonna happen when I hit the bottom? I CANNOT hit the bottom." It's terrifying and you can't get back to the top without a rope, there aren't many ropes in a tornado. I found myself in this place for the second time in my life three Fridays ago. Absolute despair. My husband was freaking out and asked me if he needed to stay home. I cannot imagine that my small children were not unnerved by Mommy's behavior. So I called the nut lady my psychiatrist has been wanting me to see for over a year, and left her a message. I eventually asked my husband to come home early if he could and steeled myself for the rest of the day. That massive panic attack eventually came and I took two klonopin. I then emailed my OB to let her know I was experiencing a sudden onset of severe depression/anxiety and let them know of the two appointments the following week with both the pill giving nut lady and the regular nut lady. They emailed back immediately and also left a message for me to call them first thing Saturday morning. So, as soon as their office was open the next morning I called. I am NOT suicidal. I value my life too much and my children and husband need me. I would never do that to my parents, my brother, my sister, my nieces or any other family or friend in my life. My girls are my entire life and I would die for them in an instant if I had to. It is my job, my responsibility to make sure they are happy, healthy and well cared for. But you can still have dark thoughts without the intention of anything ever happening to yourself. I'm not talking suicide, I'm talking about the need to just feel because you're so numb and lost, you just don't know if you can feel anything. So what's a small nick on the arm to allow yourself to feel? It's a warning sign. A sign you need more help than you think you do. It was a sign that I needed to go to the hospital for a mental health evaluation. I never thought it would ever come to that. The nurse said they knew I was coming and to call her later to let her know how I was doing.

My husband pulls up to the oldest Catholic hospital I've ever seen and I tell him to just drop me off and take the kids to do something fun and I'll keep him posted. The rest of my day was utterly surreal. I was placed in a room with absolutely nothing but a bed and a chair. There was a closet with medical supplies, a sink and all other things ERish which they kept locked. About two hours later, after having been told it would probably be awhile, I realized why the room was so barren. They thought I was suicidal. Thank God I had brought my Kindle. They wouldn't shut my door so I could hear everything going on in this understaffed, underfunded Emergency Room. The guy caddy-corner was so drunk he was seizing every time he tried to stand which was often and with a flourish of extremely colorful language. The lady next door was experiencing an allergic reaction to medication they had given her and was laughing because her tongue was so swollen. A young family had been in a car accident and the drunk guy kept yelling, "I gotta go pee goddammit. Let me up.". So entertaining on such a depressive level. Then they have to wheel me up to Labor and Delivery just to make sure the baby was fine and I hadn't done anything idiotic. That was calming, three young women in labor at the desk and yelling nurses. All three of the women were Hispanic and only one of them spoke English, on the flip side, of the three nurses only one of them spoke Spanish. As a Mexican-American, I wanted to help but was in no shape to. They checked babies heartbeat... beautiful, and wheeled me back down to the white unpadded room. Sigh. I kept texting my husband to make sure they were okay and letting him know about my entertainment and being of the lowest priority since they figured, finally, she's not suicidal. Go ahead and hook her up to a heart rate monitor with wires (just the one that goes on the finger, no biggie). FINALLY, the hospital nut lady comes to talk to me and we discuss for about forty-five minutes what's been going on in my head. After which she began to wonder why I was there. I had mentioned I had an unnatural fear of getting hurt: what if I pass out in the tub, what if that kitchen knife slips, what if I fall down the stairs, what if I fall and nail my head on the hearth. Then there was the whole numbness and the idea of wanting to feel something, usually translated as 'cutting' though I'm more of a scratch with a fingernail kind of gal, which is still considered a form of self injury even though I've only actually done it once. I texted Matt to call my psychiatrist to let her know what was going on and then I waited for the hospital nut lady to confer with the hospital psychiatrist. She came back to discuss intensive outpatient treatment, inpatient treatment and just sticking to whatever my personal doctors wanted to do. As I scream in my head, "LET ME OUT!!!!!". So I tell her I'll think about outpatient treatment if I think I need it and that I'd really like to go home and love on my girls. I am discharged and sit outside in the beautiful breezy midwestern sunshine eating a pop-tart and waiting for my husband. Monkey #3 is awakened by the pop-tart and I let her know that everything is going to be okay. I've had my wake up call thank you very much. So I now have three alarms on my phone to make sure I take my meds everyday, a standing appointment with the psychologist and more frequent appointments with my psychiatrist. I also have my OB and her staff up in arms and they are treating me with kid gloves and my baby with mittens. I will be having three more ultrasounds to check on baby before I deliver and I am beginning to feel the ground firm up beneath my feet. Last week, I was in the ocean holding driftwood paddling to the boat. Thank God I've made to shore. Still have a long journey ahead though. More of my history tomorrow. As far as today was concerned: had a good workout, battled the 'don't brush my hair it'll kill me-itis', have one monkey in bed and the other is determined to wait for her Papi, who had a massive inventory in his warehouse today, to get home. She has a remarkable I-Will-NOT-sleep skill set. Until tomorrow...