Until Proven Innocent

CHAPTER NINE

BEFORE
Cordelia Waters
January 1, 2016

It's twenty-sixteen. The last year has flown by in a whirlwind. Except the past month, that is. It's been seeming to drag on for centuries. The constant heaviness in my chest and the weight on my shoulders makes it impossible to participate in everyday activities, let alone smile.

Doctor Wyatt came to see me today. She enjoys these visits with Emerald and me. I assume it's because she's checking on her and making sure I haven't killed myself. She told me that fifteen to twenty percent of women experience postpartum depression, which equates to approximately 600,000 women annually. Strangely, that statistic makes me feel a little bit better. Knowing that there are other women out there going through the same thing that I'm experiencing. Others who can relate to me and understand my irrational thoughts and mood swings. I'm not alone.

I take my medications every morning: Chlorpromazine and Lithium. The first is to treat the mania and psychosis, and the latter is a mood stabilizer. I'm not allowed to breast feed while taking the meds, but to be honest, I don't think I'd want to breast feed regardless. Some of the side effects of the meds consist of drowsiness, weight gain, and high blood pressure. I haven't experienced too much weight gain, but I have noticed the flabbiness that has accumulated around my stomach, even though it's only been just over a month. The one good thing about the meds is that they leave me feeling numb and emotionless. To most that would be a bad thing, feeling nothing. But when you're experiencing severe depression, anxiety, insomnia, confusion, and erratic thoughts every second of the day, simply feeling nothing is a privilege.

When I was a student at Northwestern, a girl killed herself after giving birth. I remember my friend, Margo, telling me about it one afternoon in English class. The professor was speaking loudly, going over a Shakespeare play, when Margo slipped into the seat next to me and began chirping my ear off about all the latest drama on campus. And then she stopped, I remember this very clearly, almost as if she'd seen a ghost. And then she turned to me, her face ashen. Cordy, she said, promise me you won't repeat what I am about to tell you. Promise me you won't tell anyone! I promised, of course. So she told me the story.

There was a girl on campus, whose name I can't recall because it was that long ago. Only a select few people knew she was pregnant due to how tiny she was. Skinny and small-boned. She had the baby, I guess it must have been the beginning of February, and within two weeks, she had killed herself. Overdosed on a bunch of pills. Her own mother found her lying in her bed. Just horrific.

The reason Margo even knew about this was because a friend of hers was good friends with the girl's sister, and apparently there was some speculation in the beginning that it was homicide. But the M.E ruled that out once they did a complete autopsy. It was concluded that she overdosed. They even found the suicide note a few days later, hidden under her baby's crib. I guess she couldn't handle motherhood.

Looking back now, I always thought it was so crazy that this girl killed herself because of a baby. The ignorance I once possessed. The capacity to understand something that an individual like me could never truly understand.

But it wasn't until last night, when I was lying in bed, tossing and turning as usual, that I remembered that girl and her story. And then I finally realized why she did it. I could relate to her. I know how hard it is and I know that it's even more difficult for other people to understand. They think you're just a bit upset at first. Perhaps overreacting a bit. They don't comprehend that this thing is killing you inside.

I sympathize with that poor girl who had to experience that all on her own, at such a young age. I finally understand now why she did it. And I consider that, at best, some kind of closure for her.

____

It's been a few hours since Doctor Wyatt left and Weston is asleep on the chair in the nursery after reading Emerald a story. I walk into the home office, which is just down the hall from the nursery, and slide into the computer desk. I turn on the monitor, pull up the internet browser, and begin typing 'postpartum psychosis'.

Doctor Wyatt was right about one thing: the symptoms really can range to just about anything, including delusions, hallucinations, paranoia, manic and radical behaviour. But then I scroll to the bottom of the page and see the statistic. Postpartum psychosis is very different from the regular Baby Blues or postpartum depression. It is a very severe illness, including a variety of ways in which it can begin. It occurs in about 1 in every 1000 women, which equates to 0.1% of those who have a baby.

She lied. Doctor Wyatt lied. The statistic she relayed to me was for postpartum depression, not psychosis. The familiar comfort I felt earlier in the large quantity of women who can relate to me has vanished. I feel sick and alone.

I feel even more insane than I did before.