“Your test results are back.”
I stared at my GP. My heart pounded in my chest. I tasted metal. I was sure it was bad news. I would probably die. My dear, beautiful husband would raise my precious 19-month-old and 3-month-old daughters by himself. Maybe that would be easier for everyone.
“They’re all normal,” said my doctor. “You’re in really good physical health.”
I disintegrated into a crying mess. This was worse news.
“I know you are really disappointed,” she said.
“I was just kind of hoping I was really sick,” I sobbed.
“Well, you are. You have very severe post-natal depression. And we need to treat it robustly in order to get on top of it and get you well again. Now, let’s talk about your other symptoms so we can decide on a treatment plan.”
I was tired. My babies both slept through the night and also during the day. But I was deeply, desperately exhausted.
My memory was failing and I suddenly didn’t recognise people I knew, even if I was in the middle of a conversation with them. I was living in a world of strangers and I was in a constant panic. I was afraid that I’d lose my toddler at the park because I didn’t know her face.
I had developed crippling OCD, a very common symptom of PND.