What happened to her?

A brief summary of why I'm here

If you’re stopping by for the first time, I’m so glad you’re here. For context, I wrote the post below just weeks after experiencing one of two psychosis episodes (which you’ll read more about below) and transferred it from my personal blog to Substack.

I’ve come a long way since I’ve written this post. Back in March, my handwriting looked like chicken scratch. I couldn’t sit still without trembling. I woke at 3 AM in a panic from flashbacks.

I never imagined this being my introduction to motherhood and these past six months have been a whirlwind. But in the Lord’s faithfulness, I’m learning that this experience doesn’t define me.

It’s only a chapter in my story. I’m simply writing through it.

//

My mother-in-law prepares me a rainbow salad as my husband scarfs down Raisin Bran cereal for lunch.

"Am I eating too loud?" he asks as milk escapes from the corners of his mouth. I smile and keep scribbling in my therapy journal on a Thursday afternoon.

//

I'm convinced my husband, 4-month-old, and I, have gone Amish.

On the outside, I look like a capable young Christian mom who can take on the responsibilities of mothering an infant. Bottle feeding, diaper changes, pediatrician appointments, weekly PT visits. Instead, we're currently living with my in-laws because I'm recovering from postpartum psychosis: a mental illness episode I can only explain as a series of traumatic, physiological, and mental breakdowns.

Wait, wait, wait. Postpartum ... psychosis? You've probably heard of postpartum depression. Psychosis, on the other hand? Probably not.

//

It honestly feels like my ability to function broke overnight. Doctors say it's chemical brain imbalances (whatever that means). However, my evening Latuda // Vistaril // Prozac cocktail, plus thousands of dollars of behavioral center medical bills prove as much as I couldn't articulate it before, something is and always has been broken—my soul. 

I had no idea something like this could happen to someone like me.

A woman strong in her faith.

A woman with a beautiful daughter and a supportive husband.

A woman who typically has it all together. 

In hindsight, though, I should've seen this coming.

//

Like an addict in need of a fix, I craved any chance life gave me to prove I was enough.

It started when I entered a speech contest in 5th grade. I won third place out of the entire class, yet still, I cried in disappointment. The obsession continued in high school through clubs and AP classes. I didn't reach valedictorian status and home issues were to blame. Again, I was crushed. The Summa Cum Laude designation in college quickly made up for it, though. From there, I wasted no time and dove straight into marriage, church leadership, and an internship turned writing career, before I could swig a drink of water. By the way, while all this took place, I'd been leading church worship since a ripe 12-years-old.

One glance at these highlights and you'd assume I loved to social climb. When really, I just wanted a hug. I wanted to be seen. For the love of God, I was desperate for both.

Yet rather than believing in God's promises, I'd cave to Satan's vile whisper, every time: Pathetic. Always on stage yet always invisible. You'll never amount to anything. You'll never be enough.

Fact: women who experience psychosis are in the 1000th percentile. Even with my mental health issues, I take sick pride, in hopes someone will notice.

//

Silly me thought I could do it all.

I thought having a daughter would be like passing an exam if I prepared hard enough. Like I'd gracefully ease into motherhood, Proverbs 31 style, with baby at the breast, a husband by my side, and a writing career set on cruise control. After all, my business made a steady 100K pre-pregnancy. What difference could a baby make?

Well, it makes plenty of difference.

The business I just talked about? Gone. It's getting dismantled as my husband and I pick up the pieces to figure out what our next year will look like while balancing psychiatric sessions, obscure prescriptions, weekly therapy, and taking our daughter to the pediatrician on time. Don't even get me started on her physical therapy which usually falls on the same day. We’re supposed to honor both appointments? How?! 

//

Imagine blurting out everything you’re thinking. You're in a dreamlike state with dense brain fog. You're socially irresponsible with the urge to shout in waiting rooms, climb over office desks, and ask strangers to touch their hair. You forget who you are and where and when you are, constantly. You keep hearing "voices" in the guise of human gestures, television + radio dialogue, and background conversations, thinking they're all addressing your subconscious.

How do they know what I'm thinking?  What do they want from me?  Who is "they"?

^This is a small glimpse of psychosis—a small glimpse of how I acted (I did much worse).

Everyone's experience is different. It planted itself in my brain as I drove on the road with my baby in the backseat.

//

Panic sets in.

The pressure of trying to be a good mom to my baby, a good wife to my husband, and a good career woman to my business, all at the same time, the week before my self-funded maternity leave wrung dry, hit me like a bucket of ice water.

My mind shut down and my body immediately went on autopilot. I frantically called my sister-in-law. “Hey, I think I have postpartum depression,” I thought I told her, clear and level-headed.

This is where the brain chemicals start playing tricks on me. 

What I actually shrieked on the phone was, “I’m having a panic attack, Amanda, I need to pull over. RIGHT now.” We swerve over to the nearest parking lot. I turn off the car. She steps into the passenger seat.

A stream of consciousness spews from my head to my lips, everything from facts I'd been researching on baby development, to my brittle belief in God—along with genuine doubts—to my fears of family trauma and death, and I can’t stop. “Is this what postpartum depression feels like?” 

I plead for her to take the urges away. Tears well up in her eyes, knowing she can’t. 

My sister-in-law switches to the driver’s seat to take me home. The rest of my family is already there and ready to help calm me down.

Their efforts proved no use because my mind went on like this for hours. Even my husband Shane, the person I feel most safe with, is at a loss.

“Is my daughter okay? Where is she, where IS she? Am I going to kill myself? Oh my GOD, I’m dying. No, I’m not dying, I don’t want to die, I love my life. I need to poop. Wait, no I don’t, I’m an adult, not a baby. SHANE WHERE ARE YOU? Has it been an hour and thirty minutes? Is it over yet? Please tell me this is over.”

Eventually, a hard decision was made: I’m Baker Acted.

My husband, as tenderly as he could, corrals me into the car, the destination unbeknownst to me. This is where my memory (and reality) start to get fuzzy. All I remember is being strapped down to an ambulance and suddenly showing up at a cryptic place with strange people. Once I was stable, I soon discovered I’d spent 5 days at the University Behavioral Center. 

The behavioral center took care of me. It doesn’t change the fact that it triggered the most frightening, out-of-body nightmares I had ever experienced. 

After seven days, I was discharged and taken back home, cleared to return to normal life. 

Six weeks later, I relapsed and ended up right back.

Except for the second time, I knew how the facility worked and how to prove you're "stable" enough to leave. So I did what any introverted, quiet, and broken-spirited Christian would do in a setting of schizophrenics, nightmare-driven insomniacs, and hopeless women deep in psychosis:

Share the gospel with the little I knew, and the little hope I had.

Those stories, along with what I'm experiencing now, I hope to write in a book someday. As for this day, I need to focus on the days ahead.

//

Aduliting's now a little more inconvenient because there's a lot I can't do.

I can't drive for more than 30 minutes, care for my daughter alone, drink caffeine, stay up past 9 o'clock. Even writing this post takes brain power that has to be relearned all over again. It's been painful fighting to access this medium because writing has always been an effortless, safe place to express myself, especially when I couldn't put verbal words to my emotions.

And let's not forget, I’m working on this post when baby girl goes down for 1.5-hour naps. Bless.

I'm seeing a therapist for the next year who specializes in postpartum. I'm also seeking out second opinions from psychiatrists to confirm any underlying mood disorders. Turns out, diagnoses say I probably have obsessive-compulsive disorder. The world of women's mental health is astonishing to me.

I'm only getting started and it's a long road ahead.

//

Often I'll reminisce on my past episodes, and it's like walking through the valley of the shadow of death all over again. I've had no choice but to saturate myself in the word to keep from obsessive paranoia.

Thanks to the brain fog, I've only managed to pray in the form of anthem-like worship hymns, hurling my burdens onto Jesus' shoulders. That and praying Psalms back to Him. How long, O Lord? How long will you hide your face from me? [Psalm 13:1-2].

However, I can confidently say this: I've never felt closer to my sisters in Christ and to my Savior.

I've spoken to women who graciously confided in me about their experiences with depression, mental health, and being slayed by the Lord in dark seasons, but choosing to to trust Him anyway [Job:13:15]. I've spoken to women I never would've guessed who were on medication or found the courage to start. I've talked to women I never would've understood at a soul level unless I had joined alongside them in the pit of despair.

Yes, I'm seeking professional support. I've also found that taking joy in life's simple pleasures—reading books, exploring watercolor, journaling, doodling, asking for, and accepting help—has been just as healing to me. 

I'm not alone. We are not alone.

For the first time in my life, there's no plan. Like, at all. Perhaps the Lord didn't intend for husbands to have lunch-cereal on Thursday afternoons, but He does intend to strip us of every comfort we know so we can know him even more. Hold me to it, dear reader, I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living [Psalm 27:13].