I spent most of my life imagining motherhood. I couldn't imagine anything else - not a career, not travel, not study - just motherhood.

What I didn't imagine, however, was a breakdown that sent me to a psychiatric hospital only days after my son's birth.

I’d never felt so scared or alone in my life. I’d never felt so ashamed.

But to my surprise, I was far more scared to be discharged than I was to be admitted - something I did not think possible when I sobbed through the hospital doors with my one week old baby in my arms.

Join me as I share part two of my story where I talk about how my postpartum unfolded - in all the many ways I could never have imagined.

In spite of all the health anxiety I felt after my c-section, I still bonded with my son, breastfed easily, read his cues, and it felt like being his mum was coming naturally. So for less than 48 hours, I actually thought that maybe we’d be ok.

What I didn’t expect though was this ‘pull-back’ and by that I mean this feeling of my mind and body being dragged back to the state of fear and panic I felt during my c-section and getting trapped there, in that constant state of fight-or-flight, life-or-death, for weeks.

Home is normally my safe place - it’s where I run to when I’m anxious - but home didn’t feel safe anymore. Now nothing and nowhere felt safe - not me, not my body, not my mind, not the world.

It was like my brain was telling me that I was in a war zone, which was in stark contrast to where I actually was - on my couch huddled under many blankets.

I couldn’t stop trembling.

I couldn’t eat or chew, I barely got a couple bites of food every day.

I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror, my pupils were so dilated - it’s such a cliché but I looked as crazy as I felt.

I really couldn’t leave the couch at all. I had constant panic attacks when I had to move from my spot, even to have a shower.

I was still experiencing all the birth trauma symptoms too, the constant reel of nightmares, insomnia, hyperarousal, hypervigilance, intrusive thoughts, anxiety about all these symptoms, and constant rumination trying to problem-solve them.

None of this was meant to happen.

There was definitely no newborn bubble for me.

And the best way to explain my state of mind was distressed, incredibly distressed, because at this point I thought there was no hope.

I just kept having these repetitive thoughts of using scissors or knives to hurt myself or my son, and I was absolutely petrified.

On the rare occasions I left the couch, if I saw the scissors on the kitchen counter I’d quickly hide them because I thought if I saw them I wouldn’t be able to trust myself, I also had to stand with my back away from the kitchen knives pretending they didn’t exist for the same reason.

I would make my husband hold me for hours and hours on the couch, sobbing, while my mum looked after our son, because I was just so scared that if I wasn’t restrained then I could act on these intrusive thoughts.

These were all protective behaviours, compulsions, part of OCD, but I didn’t know this. I was just convinced I was going crazy and the person I was scared of most was myself.

After a week of this distress and compulsive behaviour, my husband - usually someone who avoids doctors and has the stereotypical “she’ll be right” attitude - said “I think it’s time I take you to emergency, Bec”. It hit hard but it was my wakeup call, because I knew he was right and I knew I couldn’t keep going on like this.

So I sat up from the couch, still trembling, and sobbing, 10 days postpartum, and I immediately phoned my social worker, because there was just ONE last thing I had to try, one last ditch effort for help, before being isolated in the emergency psych unit. And this is when I told her I needed to go to the mother-and-baby psychiatric hospital (MBU).

That moment would change my life, I just didn’t know it yet.

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