Journeying through PPD, Part VI: I'm finally shutting up!

This is the sixth - and final - post in my series about PPD. The first five parts can be found here, here, here, here, and here.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Saturday morning, I spilled my guts to my counselor. After she picked her jaw up off her desk, she told me she thought this was a reaction to the Cymbalta. She said the fact that I was looking for a clean knife gave it away. Immediately after reassuring me that I was only medicine-crazy, not crazy-crazy, she told me I needed to be hospitalized. That was my greatest fear. I did NOT want to end up in the psych ward. I was hard enough on myself for having psychiatric problems that needed medicine; needing some time in the hospital was unthinkable. But I went. If I hadn’t, I’m pretty sure I would have given into my compulsions; I needed that time to get the Cymbalta out of my system and stay safe until it was gone.

I spent four days at the hospital being closely watched, meeting with a psychiatrist, and getting on a new medication regimen. Being in the psych ward was not fun, and there is obviously more to my time there, but I'm not ready to get into it.

The difference in my mental state is night and day. I feel so much better now that it’s hard to believe that I was very seriously contemplating suicide just a couple of weeks ago. My mom said that I have joy in my voice again, which she hasn't seen in a long time. I’m nowhere near done fighting this battle – I still have good days and bad – but I feel like I’m finally on the right path.

So there’s my whole story, finally laid bare for all to see. You’ll notice that a theme running through all of this was that I never let anyone know just how badly I felt. They all knew I had some depression, but no one knew I had DEPRESSION. I put on a good front. So good, in fact, that a day or so before I went into the hospital, I was able to convince several concerned friends that I was fine, and the morning I was sent to the psych ward, my counselor commented on how good I looked and how well I seemed to be doing (this was obviously before I spilled my story). This is why I really stress the importance of talking to someone, ANYONE, about how you’re feeling. There’s no reason you should have to navigate PPD alone. There IS a shore on the other side of this stormy sea and you can reach it. Drowning is not the only way out. You owe it to yourself, your children, your family, and your friends to grab on to any lifeline you can. It might take you awhile to realize it, but remember: you are strong, you are beautiful, and you can do this.

Thanks for joining me on my journey.