Late Onset Postpartum Depression Part 2
Now come the hallucinations....
by Lorrie Miller
The following day I
discovered that I was in deeper trouble that I had
previously realized. Psychosis was evident. I felt
elated that he was home after a two-day hiatus, but
when I entered the basement realm where he typically
dwelt, my I became confused; my mood swung from
motherly concern and relief, to fury.
I didn’t turn the light on; I thought that my interruption was enough of an assault on his senses. But I could clearly see, or so I thought, at the foot of his bed sat a four foot glossy bong—the type that you might find a genie in if you rubbed it just the right way.
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked as calmly as I could muster.
‘He pulled his head out from under his pillow, what are you talking about?’
‘That, Bong.’ I pointed at it. It was right there almost as tall as me.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
I knew I was in trouble, but then I flipped on the lights.
He bolted up right and there she was. Naked. In my son’s bed. Her tousled hair covered her eyes, but I could see her smirk in her half-awake way. The seductress, the nymph, the trollup, how dare she, I thought.
‘Who is that?’ I pointed at the fleshy lipped woman. She waved her painted fingers at me, and gloated her manicure.
‘Fuck, mom, you’re crazy. There is no one here but me. You should just go upstairs and forget everything. Make yourself another latte.’ He switched off the light with his long arm, and buried his head back under his pillow.
I snapped. I pulled off my Birkenstocks and threw one after another at them both, or rather at him, as she was apparently just a figment of my demented mind. I walked barefoot upstairs and proceed to make myself a latte. It was a job I could do in my sleep, had done in my sleep. I needed help.
As there are few options, I have found an easy do-it-yourself diagnosis and treatment.
If you find yourself being punished by your mind, as I have been by mine, please consider my helpful suggestions to ease your way back to the sane.
Begin with a latte; if you can’t make one, immediately go buy one at your nearest cafe. Talk therapy may be your next step in self help. Phone someone, preferably the mother of one of your child’s friends, console each other, compare notes, vent outrageously if necessary. Note: never call your own mother. If she is at all like mine, she will snicker and say that it's simply karma baby, karma, and then snicker some more. Finally medicine, you can go to your own doctor, of course.
But if you prefer the self-medication route, there is the imaginary bong, but if that doesn’t materialize, then I highly recommend starting with something heavy like a single-malt. Spend what you have to obtain a quality vintage. You are worth it. Once you have worked your way through that over a few weeks of therapy, you may be ready to wean down to a nice pinot noir, or a heavier bodied cabernet. If you happen to be going through the worse of your crisis in the summer, there is nothing wrong with a nice cool G and T to chill the nerves. It chilled mine. Good luck, and remember, you are not alone. Not yet. There are still two more years until adulthood.
http://lorriemiller.worpress.com
I didn’t turn the light on; I thought that my interruption was enough of an assault on his senses. But I could clearly see, or so I thought, at the foot of his bed sat a four foot glossy bong—the type that you might find a genie in if you rubbed it just the right way.
‘What the hell is that?’ I asked as calmly as I could muster.
‘He pulled his head out from under his pillow, what are you talking about?’
‘That, Bong.’ I pointed at it. It was right there almost as tall as me.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
I knew I was in trouble, but then I flipped on the lights.
He bolted up right and there she was. Naked. In my son’s bed. Her tousled hair covered her eyes, but I could see her smirk in her half-awake way. The seductress, the nymph, the trollup, how dare she, I thought.
‘Who is that?’ I pointed at the fleshy lipped woman. She waved her painted fingers at me, and gloated her manicure.
‘Fuck, mom, you’re crazy. There is no one here but me. You should just go upstairs and forget everything. Make yourself another latte.’ He switched off the light with his long arm, and buried his head back under his pillow.
I snapped. I pulled off my Birkenstocks and threw one after another at them both, or rather at him, as she was apparently just a figment of my demented mind. I walked barefoot upstairs and proceed to make myself a latte. It was a job I could do in my sleep, had done in my sleep. I needed help.
As there are few options, I have found an easy do-it-yourself diagnosis and treatment.
If you find yourself being punished by your mind, as I have been by mine, please consider my helpful suggestions to ease your way back to the sane.
Begin with a latte; if you can’t make one, immediately go buy one at your nearest cafe. Talk therapy may be your next step in self help. Phone someone, preferably the mother of one of your child’s friends, console each other, compare notes, vent outrageously if necessary. Note: never call your own mother. If she is at all like mine, she will snicker and say that it's simply karma baby, karma, and then snicker some more. Finally medicine, you can go to your own doctor, of course.
But if you prefer the self-medication route, there is the imaginary bong, but if that doesn’t materialize, then I highly recommend starting with something heavy like a single-malt. Spend what you have to obtain a quality vintage. You are worth it. Once you have worked your way through that over a few weeks of therapy, you may be ready to wean down to a nice pinot noir, or a heavier bodied cabernet. If you happen to be going through the worse of your crisis in the summer, there is nothing wrong with a nice cool G and T to chill the nerves. It chilled mine. Good luck, and remember, you are not alone. Not yet. There are still two more years until adulthood.
http://lorriemiller.worpress.com