I got up at 1am to feed Charlotte. While I was nursing her I checked Facebook, and my feed was filled with local news stations reporting that a killer had escaped from prison. The prison is about two hours from our house. My heart was racing and I was convinced that he was on our back deck. I made my husband check every door and window to make sure they were locked while I sat on the couch and cried. Images flashed through my mind. I knew he was going to break into our home and kill us. My husband couldn’t calm me down, and I sat there trembling and awake until the news reported he’d been caught.

I already had an emergency appointment scheduled with my psychiatrist, but this was the first time I could say to myself, “okay, THIS isn’t normal. It isn’t just hormones. You need help.”

I had our daughter on a Tuesday morning and felt wonderful. I knew to expect a hormone crash. I had one with Chloe, but my crash was tears of joy. I cried because I was happy. I couldn’t believe how happy I was! We were a family of three and my life was absolutely perfect. This time, by day 3, I was sobbing uncontrollably and I didn’t know why. I was happy that we have a healthy daughter. Two daughters! I was glad to be home with my husband and girls. But I couldn’t figure out why I was crying so much or why I constantly felt on edge.

I have a history of anxiety and depression, so I went into both pregnancies knowing that I was at a higher risk for PPD and PPA. I’ve been on medication before and routinely see a psychiatrist. I was weaned off meds when we decided to TTC both kids. My psychiatrist met with my husband and I, and discussed what could happen if I wasn’t on meds. He said I could be ‘protected’ during pregnancy, but I kept regular appointments with him so we could regularly evaluate my anxiety. He said he wouldn’t hesitate to put me back on a pregnancy-safe med if I needed it. My husband was coached on what signs to look for — my biggest trigger is lack of sleep — and I signed a form stating my husband could talk to my doctor without me present. If he was going to be in the lookout for problems, I needed him to be able to call my doctor on my behalf.

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I felt great during my pregnancy with Chloe. I was med-free for months before we got pregnant and didn’t feel like I needed to go back on them until she was more than six months old. My anxiety was then well controlled by deep breathing exercises, medication and talk therapy. I felt pretty good during my pregnancy with Charlotte, too, until the tail end of my third trimester. I started unnecessary worrying again and had a few panic attacks. My doctor said that I was so close to delivery that I could wait this out. There wasn’t anything safe to take at this point, anyway. And I was having the baby in a week. Feeling anxious in pregnancy, though, put me at an even higher risk of PPA.

When I say my anxiety is paralyzing, I mean I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I completely shut down and start to shake and cry. I’m not a stranger to panic attacks. It feels like I’m having a heart attack. The only positive to having frequent panic attacks is that I now know I’m not actually dying. It just feels like it.

I was 4 days post-partum with Charlotte and was completely paralyzed with fear. I found myself staying up all night and googling ridiculous things, like is my baby blind? Is she deaf? Do I have a c-section infection? Could this be MRSA? Is she getting enough milk? Am I eating right?

I would look at pictures from the day she was born, and it felt like an out of body experience. I forgot to pack diaper cream in our diaper bag, and my chest tightened when I realized we needed it but didn’t have it. I’m not a neat freak by any means, but my eyes would well up with tears and my chest would tighten when I looked at the mess throughout our house. The rational side in me knew we just had a baby and I was still on restrictions. But all I could see was laundry piling up, dishes on the counter and toys strewn all through the house. I started cleaning, only to aggravate my recovery and upset my husband. He didn’t want me to get hurt and had to remind me that I *just* had a baby and needed to cool it. I was terrified something would happen to us or the kids. I was obsessive about having him check my c-section incision to make sure it wasn’t infected or opening. I was constantly worrying about my diet because I wasn’t hungry, yet I was starving, and it didn’t make any sense to me.

I felt an overwhelming sense of something not being right. If anyone asked how we were doing, I would say, “this feels too good to be true. She sleeps well, eats well, and almost never cries! I’m waiting for something bad to happen.” My husband is home for three weeks before going back to work, and my mind started racing with ‘what ifs’ about his return to work. How would I handle two kids on my own? Was he nuts, leaving *me* with two kids? Why did we have another baby? We are crazy! What were we thinking?! Oh my god, he can’t go back to work. I can’t do this. I’m a failure.

On Sunday night, when I was 5 days postpartum, my husband called my psychiatrist. I don’t know what he said. My doctor called him back, agreed that this wasn’t normal behavior and had us set up an emergency appointment.

The day of my appointment was stressful. There was a tiny section of my incision that we didn’t like the looks of. I was convinced I had an infection and would die. I don’t and I didn’t. My OB squeezed me in, also for an emergency appointment, but the only time they had available was at the same time as my appointment with my psychiatrist. Chloe had preschool and the house was a wreck. I was exhausted. My husband talked me down and helped me navigate the situation. He got Chloe off to school while I napped an extra half hour. We called my psychiatrist who agreed to do a phone consult considering the circumstances. And we talked for less than five minutes before he said that this is classic postpartum anxiety and prescribed me Klonopin. I’ve taken it before and it’s a miracle worker for me. I’ll be back to myself in a few days.

I haven’t taken the meds yet. I haven’t even gone to pick up the prescription. It’s unsafe to breastfeed while taking Klonopin and I have a great breastfeeding relationship with Charlotte. It’s something that I wanted to do with her and something I’ve found that I enjoy. I’m not quite ready to give it up, but I know deep down that I have to.

I had a friend once ask me the meaning of life. It was an essay question for one of her college classes. I told her I thought the meaning of life was to be the best you as possible so you can enjoy and get the most out of your time on earth. I’ve always been on a mission to be the best me as I possibly can, and sometimes that means I have to do things, like take medication, that I’d rather not have to. I have two little girls and a husband counting on me, and I don’t want to let them or myself down.