This post discusses suicidal thoughts and an attempt. Please read with care. If you are struggling, you are not alone—help is out there.
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Ever since I gave birth, I was dealing with postpartum depression and anxiety. At first, it was mostly exhaustion, sadness, and fear that I wasn’t doing enough for my baby. But as almost a year went by, the thoughts shifted. I started having intrusive thoughts about overdosing on my medication. I wasn’t even sure if it was a cry for help or if I truly wanted to die.
I had been to a PHP (partial hospitalization program) before, but I decided to try a different one this time to see if it might be more helpful. Honestly, it wasn’t. It felt too academic, too structured, and not personal enough. After two weeks, I left. Instead, I doubled down on outpatient therapy—meeting with my regular therapist twice a week, plus working with a trauma psychologist on trauma-informed therapy.
For a while, it felt like things were improving. But then, out of nowhere, the intrusive thoughts came back. I thought I was better, but they showed up again. One afternoon, after a fight with my husband about our son, I spiraled. I felt like I was failing as a mother. When my husband left to go on a walk with our son, I impulsively overdosed on my psychiatric medication.
Almost immediately, I regretted it. I called an ambulance myself, and they rushed me to the hospital. My husband was with me, and we dropped our son off at my mom’s. The hospital experience was awful—I felt like a criminal. The blinds were always open unless I was changing, they forced me to drink charcoal (which I couldn’t stomach and threw up), and even when I went to the restroom, it felt like I was being watched so I wouldn’t run away.
A crisis intervention worker interviewed me and my husband separately, asking what happened. I explained honestly: I had postpartum depression and anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and made an impulsive decision. I said I was feeling better and didn’t want to die—I even had plans with my family for the coming week. But after speaking with the doctor, they decided I needed to be admitted inpatient for a few days. They recommended I sign in voluntarily, so I would have more rights and a say in when I could leave.
My heart broke. I had never been away from my son overnight before, and now I had to be apart from him for days. I was devastated.
The first day inpatient was rough. I was told to remove my head covering since it was considered unsafe. I called my rabbi, and he reassured me it was okay. Then came the intake process—being asked to undress piece by piece so they could check for self-harm. I felt stripped of my dignity. I took a shower right after and cried alone in my room later that day, missing my husband and son and regretting everything.
At first, I kept to myself, only talking during phone time when I could call family and friends. But slowly, I started to participate in groups. I joined music therapy, where we guessed songs played on guitar—I ended up knowing a bunch that no one else did, and it actually made me feel good. I even played basketball with some patients, and one of the women there cheered me on, later becoming a friend. By the end of the week, I was walking the hallways with other patients, laughing, playing Apples to Apples, and even enjoying myself at times.
It was such a different experience compared to the first time I had been inpatient five years ago. This time, I felt a little less alone. When I left after five days, it was bittersweet—I was eager to go home, but I had also built connections.
My story doesn’t end there. After the overdose and inpatient stay, I went back to a PHP I had been to a few times before. It felt familiar and more supportive. Recently, I stepped down from PHP into IOP (intensive outpatient), where I currently am now. Outside of programming, I’m also continuing outpatient therapy once a week. And soon, I’ll be starting EMDR therapy to address my traumas in a different way than I have before. I’m hopeful that this new approach will be helpful.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: even when life is busy, even when your family has plans, even when you feel like you have no time—your mental health has to come first. If you need to pull the red alarm, do it. Everything else can wait. You come first.
It’s okay to take time for yourself. It’s okay to step away and focus on healing. You are important. And with time, with support, and with the hard work of therapy, things really can get better.
Written by a young mother who resides in the Chicagoland area.
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