POSTPARTUM 201 – Introduction to Postpartum Psychosis

Any pregnant mom-to-be automatically qualifies for this course. Preference usually given to those who have completed the postpartum depression 101 course, although from my experience, and a couple of other moms I’ve talked with, it is possible to qualify without this. Bright, happy moms are just as good candidates as any. A few of the many other qualifying factors might include (but not mandatory) having had a difficult pregnancy or delivery, past traumatic experience, prior mental illness or family history of mental illness.

Course Description
A glimpse into one of the most horrifying mental illnesses in the world in the sense that what is supposed to be the most special time of one’s life turns into something far beyond a worst nightmare. Onset is usually rapid, within days after giving birth, but may also develop as gradually increasing suspiciousness, appearing months after delivery. A look at some of the potential earth-shattering, soul-disrupting things a mom may experience in the throes of psychosis, what can be done better to help someone in this condition, and the impact this has on one’s life after recovery. Every course is completely different, although there are some common threads, such as feelings of shame. There is a whole gamut of different types of behavioral reactions, mine being mainly paranoia and schizophrenic-like delusions preceded by confusion and suspiciousness. Other courses may include mania, depression, obsessive-compulsive thought, panic attacks or anxiety. * Note: Under no circumstances may you select this course. If suitable, it chooses you.

Course Review (by a mom who miraculously lived through it)
If the mom is lucky enough to make it to the hospital voluntarily to be admitted to the psychiatric ward, unbeknownst to her, her baby will be confiscated. If this isn’t shocking and horrifying enough for a paranoid over-protective mom, (my condition, although many moms have dark thoughts about harming their baby) she will likely become even more frightened as she is subjected to scary things that other patients say in this part of the hospital. Examples of this could include another patient walking up and down the halls saying over and over “I’m going to kill you”, or if the teenage patient that the mom happens to be assigned to share a room with is saying over and over, “I miss my mom, I just want to see my mom” which only augments the worry of the new mom who has possibly never been away from her baby for more than an hour or so at a time and thinks that her baby is probably ‘saying’ the same thing. One thing that helps the mom feel a bit better during this condition, is close friends telling the mom nice things, such as what a great photographer the mom is. Repeated determined reminders that horrible thoughts aren’t at all true also helps, but don’t do anything to change the mom’s mind about what is real and what is not. (I was sure that friends pretended to be extra nice to me in order to torture me even more, and convinced that they really wanted me to die.)

Treatment may include medication and or ECT (shock therapy). If the mom is lucky enough to snap out of the psychosis, she is thoroughly shocked to find out that all the horrible fears she had weren’t at all real. She is overjoyed to be alive after a near death experience, but may feel anger or sadness over the loss of precious time with her baby. The concern that everyone will think she is crazy generates a new kind of paranoia. There is disbelief at what has happened to her. A mom usually decides it’s best to try to forget it ever happened and not talk about such a taboo subject that no one has even heard of.

A look at some of the horrible magic workings of postpartum psychosis

Can you imagine all of a sudden realizing that you had recovered from an illness that you had no idea that you were suffering from, or that it even existed in the medical books in the first place? It doesn’t make any sense in this day and age of information. Sounds like Snow White, wicked queen, poison apple fairy tale material. Or maybe the likes of Star Trek, far in the future, being beamed to sick bay, treated and beamed back to where you were without you even knowing.

Postpartum psychosis is the most cruel, twisted joke Mother Nature could ever play, and probably on the list of the world’s best-kept secrets from the general public. The miracle of birth – the time in one’s life that is supposed to be full of a special, never before experienced kind of joy. Instead, it can turn into something beyond one’s worst imaginable nightmare.

The psychiatrist’s diagnosis was postpartum depression. I did not feel at all depressed, and had no symptoms of depression. I was simply more terrified than I’d ever imagined possible. I was sure the diagnosis had been cleverly fabricated to keep me in the hospital so they could kill me. I smiled and joked with the doctor and nurses that my husband had been home for 3 months on the parental leave and that was probably what had driven me crazy. I told them that I felt fine.

That was the biggest lie I’ve ever told (I’m not well-practiced at this). I also pretended to agree to stop breastfeeding in order to get more sleep.

I sat in the waiting area of admitting at the hospital with my husband’s cousin Judy, a physiotherapist who insisted I go in that night to see someone with her, after we had established that our house was still intact and my parents hadn’t been murdered as I had feared was scheduled to happen that evening.

She said I couldn’t wait ‘til morning to see someone. I really didn’t want to go then, because it was well after midnight and I was tired. I felt I was complying just to humour her and earlier in the evening she had made me promise that I would go with her. Since I’m almost always an agreeable person, I agreed to go.

My husband had watched me calmly pack up some valuables and some clothing, starting in the afternoon, and continuing into the evening, as if we would never return to our house again. I even left a message with our insurance company telling them that I wasn’t sure if the house would exist much longer as I had felt threatened via the internet that our house was to be blown up and that if they were to receive a call from me on Monday wanting to make a claim, they at least wouldn’t be so surprised. I also wanted to call the police and warn the neighbours, but I was discouraged from doing this.

Ultimate fear began in the hospital. It was about 2am, New Year’s morning 2001.

A very tall young man with one eye off kilter, who (according to Judy) had had a frontal head injury at some point in his life, approached in the admitting waiting area. He saw my baby and began talking about Barney. What kind of music did we like? Wasp, Rat, Creed were his preference. Was he insinuating that I was two of these things? He mentioned the sum $5000. This was the amount that I thought I was supposed to send away on the internet to a website run by a senior executive of a securities company that I had done some admin/research work from home for (and whom I was convinced was a cyber-stalker), to prevent our house from being blown up. The talkative man went on to try to discuss several shocking things. Uninhibited speech, Judy explained, was a result of his head injury.

This man must have been one of their spies, sent to intimidate me, I wasn’t completely sure yet who they were. I thought maybe my former employer had powerful connections and was the mastermind behind an organized crime ring trying to extort money from me. I had become extremely suspicious of him and had made ridiculous accusations toward him. He informed me to never contact him again. I told people of my suspicions of him and although others thought that I was over-reacting, it hadn’t sounded off any alarm bells as a symptom of postpartum psychosis. It hadn’t helped matters that I had showed a friend an excessively nit-picking letter the executive ‘boss’ had composed, complete with chart, for me to fax to his housekeeping company. My friend assured me that his personality seemed similar to that of the American Psycho.

I explained to the emergency room doctor (whom I was convinced wasn’t a doctor at all because he looked like Joey from the show Friends) that I was fine. I had thought that I was being threatened via the internet and that what I had feared hadn’t happened, so there was nothing to worry about. I figured I could just go home then.

My answers to his questions convinced him that I must stay for 48 hours. I had made reference to Dr. Suzanne Killinger-Johnson, mentioning something about how one never knows what one will do if one is upset. Little did I know that I was suffering from the same disorder.

My 5 month-old baby wasn’t allowed to stay with me. If I had known this, I would never have stepped foot in the building. I was nursing (although I had noticed a drastic reduction in feedings after starting her on cereal - was this enough to have triggered the events to come?) and she had never been away from me before. The insensitive nurse (I have the utmost respect and admiration for nurses – my mom being a retired one - just telling it as it seemed in this case) said the baby was old enough to stop breastfeeding anyway. She had also told Judy that I couldn’t be suffering from a postpartum disorder because my baby was already too old. She didn’t know that it could occur anytime during the first year postpartum.

I recall the feeling of horror. I had been tricked into voluntarily walking in.

Two security men appeared with a wheelchair at the doorway of the tiny examination room. I would have screamed here, as I felt like I was in some kind of horror movie, but somehow I kept my cool. I wanted to make a break for it, but was obviously outnumbered, so I insisted that I could walk and was escorted to ‘level 10’, which was also the level of fear I felt.

All my clothes and belongings were locked away in a locker in a giant paper bag (which I insisted on taking home with me because I thought it was evidence that I had actually been there). I thought they would try to erase all evidence of me ever having been there after they killed me. I was convinced that Judy (one of the sweetest people in the world) had taken my baby somewhere to be used in child pornography.

I declined the offer of medication to supposedly help ‘clear my thoughts’. I had to keep all my wits about me if I was going to survive this place and the medication would likely confuse me or kill me. My mind was hyper-alert, and when combined with my exceptional attention to detail, made for a trip of duration that no doubt would have cost a fortune in narcotics to duplicate.

The pillow was black. Those uncomfortable plastic hospital pillows. They had been white plastic underneath the pillowcases both times before that I had been in the hospital to deliver my two children. The sign on the door of the room said “BED A” and directly under that, “BED B”. I quickly rearranged the letters in my head to spell out “BE DEAD”, with a couple of letters left over that didn’t matter.

I doubted that any of the doctors were real doctors, and the nurses didn’t seem like real nurses. In fact, even the patients seemed as if they were reading lines from scripts, saying things that were intended to shock me or work on my mind to make it snap.

There were no phones in the rooms and the payphone didn’t give me change from my dollar coin for the single call I made. Another intimidation tactic no doubt. I kept the few quarters I had in my sock, convinced that once they were used up, I would be cut off from the outside world forever.

Surely they were going to poison my food. I tried to consume only things in closed containers such as yogurt and milk or juice.

Some noise coming from the ceiling sounded like creaking bedsprings, repeated over and over. I was sure it was a recording to make me snap.

The fifteen year-old roommate of mine told me the drugs they gave her made the floor move, and that when she had been talking on the payphone, three security guys just came up and grabbed her and took her rings and then they put her in restraints. Probably I would be beaten, raped or robbed too.

She was up in the middle of the night. I was sure the crinkling sound that I heard coming from her side of the room was her opening a syringe package and preparing to stab me with the needle. I had always been afraid of needles.

From somewhere near the bathroom area came an extremely bright flash of light, like that of a welder’s torch. I never did figure out what it was. I perceived it as a message meaning that my house could still be blown up because they had extended the deadline to receive the money from me. Next thing I knew she was standing at the foot of my bed. I could see dark circles under her eyes, which gave her a death-warmed over appearance. I knew that if I were the character in a movie, it would be my cue to scream. Somehow I didn’t, but instead managed to nonchalantly ask her if she was okay and if she too had seen the bright light. Her knowing look seemed to say that all occupants of the bed with the black pillow had died, and I was next in line. She shuffled off to her side of the room, although she looked like she had already shuffled off the mortal coil.

Somehow I managed to sleep a little. At some point, two nurses barged in with flashlights sweeping the room. I pretended I was asleep. It seemed like the SS doing a search. No doubt they were going to haul me out of the room and take me somewhere to torture me. I was sure the glow-in-the-dark ticks on my watch formed a swastika pattern. I looked twice to be sure. I must have been seeing things, although the next day, my roommate made a point of erasing the last part of her name up on the board in the hall. She was annoyed that they kept putting the full Jessica when she wanted only JeSS.

Many little things made me convinced that there was a large Nazi conspiracy at work, and I was on their list to be eliminated.

I was allowed to check out of ‘Hotel California’ alive on the morning of Jan. 3, after spending 2 nights. Happy New Year. Someone came to take a blood sample from me. I was sure the needle was infected with AIDS or something because they had failed to poison my food, or make me snap. I couldn't believe I was alive and going to be set free.

A nurse who came to take my blood pressure said "You couldn't be any more normal if you tried". I smiled. I was sure she was one of THEM and she knew that I was absolutely terrified but hiding it well. My survival instincts had been fully activated, but little did I know, actually working against me. I should undoubtedly have been kept in there and put on medication immediately, but my mind allowed me to convince everyone that I was perfectly fine, and since my house hadn’t blown up, I could indeed go home.

Over the next six months, my mind created many worst-case scenarios and then methodically one by one, took me through them, presenting me with evidence to convince me that each delusion was completely real.

It was as if terrorists had high-jacked my mind and then months later, one day out of the blue decided to set it free again because it had held fast and not given in to their demands.

The September 11th terrorist attacks have incredibly and sadly given me a way to more easily explain what the following months were like for me. Waking up every morning, and for a fraction of a second it was business as usual. Then it would hit me that my world had changed forever. The fear and uncertainty about what would happen next was ever present. Something atrocious was happening to the world, the magnitude of which paralleled what unfolded in reality with the terrorist attacks and aftermath, enough to make me wonder if my whole experience was some sort of psychic premonition.

Ironically, I never wanted another mother to ever have to experience what I did, and it’s as if the entire world has now had a taste of the horror of postpartum psychosis.

In my mind, I was dodging Nazis, police, and death every day. I was under 24-hour surveillance with the latest in satellite technology that meant my every action and every word was monitored, whether at home or out in public. THEY could see through all walls of our house. I was a prisoner. It was the start of WW3, a modern-day holocaust in which I had the misfortune of being on the list to be eliminated. I reasoned that people had lived through past world wars in daily fear of their homes being bombed, etc., so I could survive the fear in this new type of 21st century war. I was convinced that with the latest technology, anything was possible. I was a part of history in the making and there was not a thing I could do about it. I was horrified, yet fascinated at the same time.

I was able to see that my thoughts were far-fetched, but nothing anyone said would convince me that it was not real, so I stopped talking about it. End of subject? Not a chance.

I considered contacting the RCMP or other international intelligence organizations, but knew that the spies would see what I was attempting to do and intercept me, or strategically place their own people to handle my report.

I was often certain that my husband and his entire family were part of the Nazi plot because of their Austrian background (as was Hitler). I was completely dependent on myself for survival, and to save the world, I thought. A tall order for a stay at home mom to fill. I was sure that I would die no matter what, and I accepted this, although I still hoped that by some miracle I would be allowed to live. I was determined to survive as long as possible to look after my children and I was magically able to take my son to preschool, attend birthday parties, shovel snow, make dinner, do laundry etc. as if nothing were really all that wrong. The usual daily multi-tasking, but with an added psychotic twist.

I did many extremely bizarre things. I talked to my imaginary spy people, asked them questions about what was going to happen to me and who exactly they were. They apparently gave me answers via license plates and media sources.

I called out to them to just come and get me and get it over with. I vowed they could not stop me from singing along with the radio, and joked that maybe my singing would scare them away. I told them that no matter what they did to me, they could not make me hate them or anyone because I was not at all racist.

I secretly spent $300 US on my credit card at a gambling website reasoning that a deposit might convince them that I would eventually pay the full amount of money they wanted, now at $10,000, as sort of mafia-type protection money to prevent me from being killed by the Nazis. I assumed that the amount would keep going up and up. Somehow the deadlines were extended many times.

Everyone agreed that I should disconnect the internet, so I finally complied.

I couldn’t figure out why my husband wouldn’t just agree to me sending the money so they would stop torturing me and let me live in peace. He worried that I would eventually liquidate all our assets. He couldn’t bear to see me hospitalized and it was a good thing, because if I had had any inkling that it was a definite part of the plan of action, I may have bolted out the door to who knows where. I felt that even an hour in the psychiatric ward was enough to drown out anyone’s will to live.

The delusions grew in complexity and evolved until it became clear to me that it wasn’t evil Nazis that were after me, I was the bad one who was being fined and persecuted by the world. At some point, the amount I owed reached a million dollars and I gave up on trying to figure out how to pay. A special United Nations council was after me (and probably others I figured). My world had turned into some super spy-thriller nightmare, with many months more worth of details that could possibly be turned into an interesting book.

The entire world had held a vote and decided that I should die. One of the reasons was that I had spelled God with a small ’g’ in an email to someone and they had told the whole world. I perceived that I was no longer allowed to shop in the 416 area code, this being the ‘Garden of Eden’. Each time I went to the grocery store, I thought it would be my last trip, so I always stocked up on extra items so my husband would have less to worry about after I was dead. I stopped writing down my grocery lists because I was sure the spies would see what I wanted to buy and call ahead to the store and make sure the things I wanted were removed from the shelves.

The spies were always there, always polite, always subtle, but never harmful. A typical example was a sweet elderly gentleman who approached in the grocery store aisle and informed me that if his wife were there, she would want to steal such a cute baby. I always managed to smile.

I was convinced that the police could show up at my door at any moment to take me away, after presenting me with phony evidence found on the internet of my children being involved in child pornography. I also imagined many different scenarios in which I would be framed to appear guilty of something.

I had been rather over-protective since my first child, never away from either of my children for more than a few hours at a time, never even making any attempt to find a babysitter, and even apprehensive about leaving them with their own father, knowing that he is not as attentive as I. Although I did have the ‘luxury’ of being a stay-at-home mom, I did not have the luxury of having nimble grandparents available at the drop of a hat.

I drove my car to places where I thought I was supposed to meet someone who would kill me, even though I didn’t want to die. The scary thing being that each time I took my baby with me, thinking that somehow THEY couldn’t kill a mom with a baby, like not hitting a guy wearing glasses. I was very lucky not to have had any accidents as I tried to read every license plate within sight every time that I went out, convinced that they provided me with clues to my fate, via a complex cryptic code of numbers and letters that I had translated for myself over the months.

I began to stop for every vehicle that was broken down at the side of the road to offer my assistance or at least the use of my cell phone because I thought that if I did this, THEY would let me live a little longer. Then I became convinced that THEY were getting me comfortable with this so this scenario could be used to lure me to my death.

I believed that if I didn’t kill myself, my execution date would be the same as Timothy Mc Veigh’s. I was sad that the whole world wanted me to die, but never became depressed as far as I could tell. I had a strange peace of mind that I had done my best and had as much right to live as the next person, and hoped that those persecuting me would change their minds because I really didn’t want to die, or have to kill myself, but did want to get the ‘trial’ over with. I was completely trapped, unable to help myself or to allow anyone to help me. I needed the help of the world’s best escape artist, but I had none listed in my rolodex.

By this point in time, almost everything in my daily life meant something other than just what it was. Certain colours and models of vehicles passing by on our street meant different things. Someone wearing a blue shirt translated to a vote that I should be killed. Anyone wearing orange apparently thought that I should kill myself. Things became very complicated and confusing.

I had been trying to thwart all efforts to get me on medication. I was determined not to give up breastfeeding to go on the medication for fear it would kill me. The one prescribed was called ‘Zyprexa’ and when I rearranged the letters, it spelled rape xyz. I assumed it was a scary phony name for a drug that didn’t really exist, fabricated especially to kill me.

I finally gave in to the medication in May after friends contacted the mobile crisis people who diplomatically convinced me that medication was better than the hospital. I had to agree with them on that one. I had become careless, letting slip a few too many details of what was on my mind.

I rarely even took aspirin, and the thought that I would be on an ‘anti-psychotic’ seemed ridiculous. I was aware of a reality that lurked beneath the surface of appearances and it was everyone else that failed to see it. I was not sick.

I made sure my husband was witness as I took each low dose 5 mg pill. He was convinced that I would only pretend to take them. The medication seemed to dull the license plates a bit, and I did sleep much more deeply, although it was harder to get up in the morning. I abruptly decided on my own to stop taking it after 33 days, with 7 pills left. I was still paranoid that the last pill would be the one to deliver the last lethal bit of whatever it was that I was being slowly poisoned with. A week and a half passed.

I had not been brought up with religion. One evening in June, I decided to talk to God, and I told Him that I was sorry that I hadn’t talked to Him sooner. I told Him that since I felt that I was under constant surveillance and had no privacy, I had not felt comfortable with talking to Him, and that I only wanted to talk to Him in private. I didn’t ask Him for help.

The next day, as if a magic spell were broken, the sudden realization that months of fears were not at all real came as quite the shock. A bizarre coincidence that the date I snapped out of it was the date that Andrea Yates drowned her children.

Had God helped me? I like to think so. I hope He will help her too.

I couldn’t believe the thoughts that had come from inside my mind; it was if my mind had been cleansed. I was elated to be alive and free and understood somewhat how David Milgard must have felt upon release after 23 years of being wrongfully imprisoned. I realized how lucky I was not to have done anything to have guaranteed landing myself in jail. I have an incredible appreciation for the efforts of Amnesty International after feeling that I have seen into many minds and experienced all kinds of sufferings that go on around the world. Reality took some getting used to again.

I went back on the internet and did some research on postpartum depression. To my surprise, I stumbled upon postpartum psychosis. My case was not the mildest, nor was it the worst. No one had even tried to tell me because they were convinced I wouldn’t believe it. I also went back to the gambling website and found that I had left it with a winning of $548 US. Better investing than I’ve ever been capable of while of sound mind.

I was extremely lucky to be alive, as my brother had committed suicide over 10 years ago at age 21. According to statistics that I had read once, this makes a sibling 50% more likely to do the same. Ironically, his suicide may have saved my own, because I reasoned that it would be unfair and horrific for my parents to lose both their children the same way.

It had crossed my mind as an option, but only for fleeting moments.

I remember how clearly it had been imprinted in my mind during prenatal class that there were some very remote chances, possibly 1/zillion that one could become paralyzed or suffer some other severe side effect from having an epidural. This information along with my life-long fear of needles made the decision not to have one a no-brainer for me.

I remember the entire prenatal class made one big list of all our fears, such as something being wrong with the baby, difficult delivery, etc. I put up my hand and said I had a fear of dying during childbirth. This rarely happens in this day and age, and though it was still a real fear of mine, it had not stopped me from becoming pregnant. I never would have guessed that it was the aftermath of childbirth that was more likely to kill me.

No one told me that becoming pregnant automatically put me in the running to qualify for the 1/500 to 1/1000 chances of completely losing my mind as a result of haywire hormones, in effect, potentially crippling the mind as severely as the body is crippled in a spinal cord injury.

I can see that the ideal time for an unsuspecting mom to find out about this might not be prenatal class, but instead long before one becomes pregnant. Does the world think that by informing everyone of this well-kept secret that it will scare off enough potential moms that there will be a sudden drop in population on the planet?

If postpartum psychosis were not such a ‘shhhh, don’t scare the pregnant woman’ issue, and out in the open for all to be aware of, every 1/1000 mothers would have a better chance of receiving proper treatment right away, rather than the scenario where no one knows what on earth is happening to the mom because no one has ever heard of postpartum psychosis or any of the symptoms, and her mind has gone to a place where no one can reach her.

In the UK (where it is called puerperal psychosis, puerperal meaning during the six weeks after giving birth) there is much greater awareness. They have a postnatal screening test for all new moms with adequately detailed questions about a mother’s feelings and moods. There are special facilities where the baby may stay with the mom while she receives treatment. I do wonder if such a thing were an option for Dr. Killinger-Johnson might her story have had a different ending.

My second child, my new baby girl was only 11 days old when Dr. Suzanne Killinger-Johnson’s postpartum disorder led her to an escape route. I was just as shocked as everyone else. Not anymore. I also wonder if she worried that her child might have had to someday suffer some sort of mental illness, as I now worry about my children.

I completely understand how the mind can control someone to do such a thing, as it comes from a far deeper place in the mind than most ever venture, and where I was captive for half a year. Once the mind becomes riveted on particular ideas while in this condition, the ideas become as sound as the Gospels and there is absolutely nothing anyone can do to convince the sufferer otherwise. I know. The depths of the mind that I have delved into, and the power of the mind that I have seen firsthand and am now able to look back upon and analyze as an observer, fascinate me. It was as if my subconscious mind attacked my conscious mind with things my conscious mind would never have been able to imagine on its own.

And so I’ve offered up a tiny bit from my store of wacky delusions, some details of my trip to hell and back, at risk of now being branded as ‘crazy’. If I had not experienced 6 months of insanity, I would never have been able to learn even a fraction of what I have learned. My current favourite way to describe my mental illness is as if I’ve walked thousands of miles in thousands of other people’s shoes. I have empathy for everyone in every situation. I have understanding of things I never dreamed I’d understand. I see all sides of every argument. Unpleasant as it was at the time, the further away from it I get, the more confident I am in saying that it was truly one of the best things that has ever happened to me.

So I will now make sure I put my newly-improved mind to good use for the cause of postpartum disorders. I’m often one of those people who gets stuck doing things no one else wants to do. There aren’t a lot of people who want to broadcast to the world that they were mentally ill and just how insane they actually were. I volunteer my story wholeheartedly for Dr. Suzanne Killinger-Johnson, her baby Cuyler, Andrea Yates, their families and friends and all mothers who have suffered even the mildest of postpartum disorders (and moms who are too busy with little ones to get their story down on paper), with the hope that people will get talking about postpartum illnesses.

Although talking about it is the most economical form of prevention, I also have great hope that because of recent increased awareness of postpartum disorders and the magnitude of damage they are capable of, even upon recovery, that research will make important discoveries in leaps and bounds, aiming toward a disappearing act for this unimaginably horrible disorder. Maybe Houdini could help us with this one. The incidence rates of postpartum psychosis have remained relatively unchanged since the 1850’s. Seems the awareness hasn’t changed in 150 years either, making it indeed a very well-kept secret. That must be magic.

Over the past decade I have noticed an exponential increase in great new ideas and discoveries for baby gadgets and equipment aimed at maximizing baby’s comfort, safety and development potential.

Have we forgotten that a mother has the most important job in the world? Let’s hope the most precious entity in a baby’s early life, the mom, will now receive much more attention and support to bring awareness and knowledge in the postpartum area up to par with the advancement of everything else in our world around us. It would also do us a world of good (and especially help those who have suffered it) to accept that mental illness is simply another technical difficulty that the body experiences like any other physical illness.

But who am I to say, I’m just another crazy mom!

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