Postpartum Depression and Psychosis: My Story, My Truth

It happened to me. It is real. And it is more frightening than most people can imagine. 

Something recently in the news got me thinking that it was time to share my own story about postpartum depression and psychosis. 

We've been hearing more about postpartum depression lately, and when psychosis is mentioned, it can sound frightening, unbelievable, and difficult to understand. But it happens. It is real. And it can be terrifying. 

This is my story. 

In March 2004, our family of four was complete with the birth of our son. We already had a three-year-old daughter who was the perfect big sister. She was absolutely thrilled to have a little brother. 

But just one week after bringing our son home, we learned that my husband needed a kidney transplant. And so began an adventure I never imagined we would take. 

We were in our late 30s, and all I could think about was, "What would I do if we couldn't find a kidney for him?" (And that's a whole other story about the kidney adventures in our house!) 

I had also experienced a difficult pregnancy and had spent much of it on bed rest. Motherhood was certainly not looking anything like it did in the parenting magazines. 

Instead of enjoying those precious newborn days, I was overwhelmed with worry about my husband's health and the future of our family. The joy of having a new baby was overshadowed by fear and uncertainty. 

Then, in May, everything changed. 

My husband was away at a business dinner, and I was home alone with our two children. Around 7 p.m., we would usually begin winding down and getting ready for bed. But that evening, my daughter wanted my attention, and the baby wasn't ready to settle down. 

It was stressful. And I mean STRESSFUL, with a capital S. 

Bedtime was usually a peaceful time for us, but that night, with a crying baby and a three-year-old demanding my attention, I reached a breaking point. 

At about 8:30 p.m., I literally snapped.

I suddenly began hearing a voice. They were as clear as if someone were standing right there in the room with me. 

The voice told me to get a knife and stab my children. It told me to kill myself, that no one would miss me, and that my children would be better off without me. 

Imagine hearing something like that in your own home, when you are alone with the two people you love most in the world. 

The thoughts kept repeating. They were convincing, and I was terrified. I went into the kitchen and reached for a knife. 

Then the phone rang. 

It was 9 p.m. My friends and family knew better than to call at that hour because it was bedtime in our house. I remember being annoyed and initially wanting to ignore the phone. 

But I finally answered. 

It was a friend calling out of the blue. She simply said hello, asked how I was doing, and told me she had been thinking about me. She even apologized for calling so late. 

She had absolutely no idea what was happening in my house or how important that phone call would be. 

That simple conversation interrupted the frightening thoughts that had taken over my mind. We talked for about 15 minutes. When I hung up, I broke down and wept. 

I believe that phone call saved our lives. 

I immediately called my husband and told him he needed to come home as soon as possible. I told him I had tried to hurt the children and myself. 

By the time he got home, I was sitting on our bed, holding both children, hugging them and loving them with all my heart. 

The next day, I called my OB-GYN and told him I needed help. I was having thoughts of killing myself and my children. 

I will forever be grateful that I had the BEST OB-GYN. He didn't dismiss me or tell me I was just experiencing the baby blues. He brought me into his office and helped me find a therapist. 

I felt like a complete failure. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I could have such horrible thoughts. How could a mother think these things about her own children?

Mental health was never something my family talked about. Back in 2004, postpartum depression was often brushed off as the baby blues. Women were expected to get over it and move on. 

If only it were that simple. 

My journey to recovery was long and difficult. I attended therapy twice a week and met with a psychiatrist once a week. For about a year, I was not allowed to be alone with my children. 

That was incredibly hard, especially because my husband worked in sales and was away much of the week. 

He was trying to manage his own serious health issues while also supporting a wife who was struggling with a severe mental illness and couldn't be left alone with the children. It was a lot for one family to handle. 

But we had wonderful friends and family who stood by us. They may not have understood how I could have such terrible thoughts, but they loved us and supported us through it all. 

And remember, we were still trying to figure out my husband's kidney situation. We certainly had our hands full. 

For a long time, my world was gray. I couldn't see the colors in life, and I couldn't experience the joy I thought I should feel as a mother. I tried different medications to help with the depression and the voices. 

There was no overnight cure. Recovery took time, patience, treatment, and support. It was about 12 months before I could truly enjoy my son.

Fast-forward 22 years, and my children are grown. The joy has returned to our home. I still take medication for depression and anxiety, and I recognize that managing my mental health is an ongoing part of my life. 

But I am here. My family is here. And we made it through. 

When the Lindsay Clancy story appeared in the news, I found myself thinking about my own experience. There was so much discussion about how a mother could do such a thing, whether she did it intentionally, and what kind of mother could possibly have those thoughts. 

I understand the questions. I understand the shock. But I also know firsthand that severe postpartum mental illness is real, and it can be devastating.

I want people to understand that postpartum psychosis is not simply a mother having a bad day or feeling overwhelmed. It is a serious mental illness. It is not something a woman chooses, and it is not a reflection of how much she loves her children. 

And before anyone wonders whether I was isolated or didn't have support, I want to make something clear. We went to church. I participated in a Bible study with other young mothers. I had friends and family around me. 

This wasn't about a lack of faith, love, or support. My brain simply wasn't functioning as it should. 

I wish I had never experienced it. I wish I could have enjoyed those first precious months with my son. I wish I hadn't missed out on so much of the joy of being a new mother. 

But I also know that I received help, that people stood by me, and that recovery was possible. 

I am sharing my story because I want other women to know they are not alone. I want families to understand that postpartum depression and psychosis are serious illnesses that deserve compassion and treatment, not judgment. 

Sometimes the mother who looks like she has it all together is fighting a battle no one can see. 

And sometimes, a simple phone call, a caring doctor, a therapist, and a supportive family can make all the difference. 

This happened to me. It was real. It was frightening. And I survived.

With compassion,

Ellen

“If you or someone you know is hearing voices or may hurt themselves or someone else, seek immediate help: call 911 or go to the nearest emergency department. In the U.S., you can also call or text 988 for crisis support.”