I’m still scared, but not out-of-my-mind terrified anymore.
James took me to the mental health crisis center last night after a few days of him trying to convince me to call a therapist to set up an appointment (which I refused to do). He called around a number of places, and eventually called the Birthing Center, where I had Julie. The nurse there was the first person who was completely responsive, worried, and helpful. She gave me a test to check for the severity of depression over the phone, and recommended we seek help immediately. On the test, if one scores an 8 or higher, postpartum depression is a definite concern. My score? 24.5.
The night before, I saw a crescent of flashing light. I thought I was hallucinating. I started shaking, and I panicked. I told James I thought I needed to go to the hospital- I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. By the time my sister and her boyfriend got here to watch the kids, it started to go away.
Turns out it was a migraine starting. I spent the night drugged up on migraine pills and slept restlessly through it.
So onto last night.
We got to the crisis center, and I felt so sick I didn’t think I could get myself to go in. James held my hand the whole way. No one else was in the waiting room while I filled out the mound of paperwork. I warily eyed a custodian, who was emptying the lobby trash cans, and I wondered if he was trying to figure out what the hell my problem is. Finally, a very nice, tall, middle-aged nurse called my name and gave me an encouraging smile. Motherly.
I immediately felt a little better. They must have learned the hard way to know that they need to send the warmest-looking lady out to a half-crazy. If it was, like, a bitter-looking bitch or a man with very small, round glasses caring a pocket watch coming out that door, I would have bolted in the other direction.
After taking my vitals, a very nice counselor took over and we played 101 Questions.
There was a Safezone sticker on the wall. “Nice People, You Can Talk To Us”. I wondered if my nice counselor, an attractive lesbian, ever ran into people who were mean to her while she was trying to help them. I was actually relieved she was exactly who she was, because I could really tell she wasn’t judging me.
So I didn’t sugar coat anything. James filled in the embarrassing gaps that I, uh, tried to skim over. I had to ask him to please not go into details when he started bringing up physical issues that are contributing to this depression. My counselor seemed pretty interested in my reluctance to talk about certain things, and asked if I had a counselor that I knew better, would I be willing to talk about these issues? I said maybe. I was thinking no. (I’m sure James wouldn’t have any qualms about opening up about those problems for me, though.)
At the end, she left us for about 10 minutes to go talk to her supervisor. My cuticles became suddenly fascinating and felt very good to be chewed off. Not too much blood.
I was certain she was asking her supervisor if I needed to be straight-jacketed and stuck in the ass with a sharp needle containing some kind of anti-crazy.
By the time she came back, I was trying not to hyperventilate, but she actually had good news. No hospitalization. The muscles twitching in the back of my neck, which I didn’t even realize had been tensed, relaxed.
She handed me a couple of papers with my diagnosis, and her recommendations. Postpartum Depression and Anxiety. The urgency for necessary treatment was labeled “ASAP”. The goals of my treatment being “to lessen symptoms” and “to obtain stability”.
A postpartum depression support group (groan), 1-on-1 counseling (double groan… they’re going to make me tell them embarrassing things), and psychiatric evaluation for medication to help with the said diagnosis.
*sigh*. I’m done fighting this. I cannot seem to do it without medication.