Dedication
To my mother, Marge, and my daughter, Maggie, who together
taught me everything I needed to know about being a mother
Warning to Women with Postpartum Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Women with postpartum OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder)—having intrusive and disturbing thoughts, sometimes about harming their child—are advised NOT to read the first-person stories until after they have recovered. Women with OCD often “borrow” from others’ intrusive thoughts—that is they read or hear of someone else’s intrusive thoughts and then they start having those thoughts as well. If you suspect you have OCD, speak to your medical professional about this and, if necessary, receive treatment before reading any of the stories in this book!
Understanding Postpartum Psychosis: A Temporary Madness, Teresa M. Twomey, JD
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Warning to Women with Postpartum Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Prologue
Part I
Chapter One
Daphne’s Journal, June 11, 20—
Chapter Two
Daphne’s Journal, June 18, 20—
Chapter Three
Daphne’s Journal, June 25, 20—
Chapter Four
Daphne’s Journal, July 7, 20—
Chapter Five
Daphne’s Journal, July 8, 20—
Chapter Six
Daphne’s Journal, July 10, 20—
Chapter Seven
Daphne’s Journal, July 23, 20—
Chapter Eight
Daphne’s Journal, August 1, 20—
Chapter Nine
Daphne’s Journal, August 7, 20—
Chapter Ten
Daphne’s Journal, August 8, 20—
Chapter Eleven
Part II
Laurel’s Journal, June 11, 20—
Chapter Twelve
Laurel’s Journal, June 18, 20—
Chapter Thirteen
Laurel’s Journal, June 25, 20—
Chapter Fourteen
Laurel’s Journal, July 8, 20—
Chapter Fifteen
Laurel’s Journal, July 9, 20—
Chapter Sixteen
Laurel’s Journal, July 10, 20—
Chapter Seventeen
Laurel’s Journal, July 23, 20—
Chapter Eighteen
Laurel’s Journal, August 1, 20—
Chapter Nineteen
Laurel’s Journal, August 2, 20—
August 8, 20—
Chapter Twenty
Part III
Edith’s Journal, September 6, 1971
Chapter Twenty-One
Edith’s Journal, September 29, 1971
Chapter Twenty-Two
Edith’s Journal, October 3, 1971
Chapter Twenty-Three
Edith’s Journal, November 2, 1971
Chapter Twenty-Four
Edith’s Journal, November 7, 1971
Chapter Twenty-Five
Edith’s Journal, December 9, 1971
December 10
Chapter Twenty-Six
Edith’s Journal, December 10, 1971 (cont.)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Edith’s Journal, December 10, 1971 (cont.)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Edith’s Journal, December 12, 1971
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Read On
Praise
Also by Carol Goodman
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
“Can you tell me when you first thought about hurting your child?”
“It was a few days after we’d come home from the hospital. I was carrying her down the stairs . . . there’s a steep drop from the landing and when I looked over it I suddenly had this . . . picture in my head of myself lifting her over the banister and dropping her.”
“And did you ever do anything like that? Deliberately drop her . . . or hurt her in any other way?”
“No! It was just a thought. I’d never hurt my baby . . . in fact, I did everything I could to make sure I didn’t hurt her . . . to keep her safe.”
“What exactly did you do to keep yourself from hurting her?”
. . .
“Ms. XX?”
. . .
“Ms. XX, what did you do to keep your child safe?”
Part I
Chapter One
She’s crying again.
I don’t know why I say again. Sometimes it seems as if she’s done nothing but cry since she was born. As if she’d come into this world with a grudge.
“We’re almost there, sweetie,” I call to her in the backseat, but she only cries louder, as if she can recognize my reassurance for the lie it is. The truth is I don’t know where we are or how far we are from our destination. The last time I looked at the map app on the new (cheap, pay-as-you-go) phone, it showed our location as a blue dot in a sea of endless green. As if we’d fallen off the map of the known world. When we crossed the river there was a sign that said WELCOME TO THE LAND OF RIP VAN WINKLE. I feel as if I’ve fallen asleep and woken to an unrecognizable world—only who sleeps with a crying six-month-old?
“Do you want your ba-ba?” I offer, even though she just finished a bottle half an hour ago. I root around in the diaper bag on the passenger seat but find only an empty bottle. Hadn’t I made up two at the last gas station? Or had I been distracted by the woman in pressed corduroy trousers and Burberry jacket who’d eyed me microwaving a bottle with that Why-aren’t-you-breastfeeding-don’t-you-know-bottles-will-rot-your-baby’s-teeth-and-lower-her-IQ look. She was holding the hand of a toddler who had an iPhone in his other hand, his eyes glued to the screen.
At least it won’t rot her brain, I had it in mind to say but instead out popped, “Isn’t it hard traveling with kids? We’ve been driving for hours! My husband’s away on business and I’m relocating for a new job.”
Burberry Jacket eyed me up and down as if she didn’t think I looked very employable. In my ratty old sweatshirt, grimy jeans, greasy hair pulled back in a sloppy bun I suppose I didn’t. I should have left it at that but I had to add, “—as an archivist at a private library.”
Her eyes widened, either because she was impressed or thought I was crazy. The latter, most likely, from the way she clutched her electronics-besotted son closer to her. Archivist. How stupid could I get? She’d remember me. When she saw my picture in the paper—
It won’t be in the paper, I told myself for the hundred and seventh time (I’d been counting) since we’d left. I’d made sure of that.
I drove away from the gas station repeating all the reasons I didn’t have to worry: I’d ditched my old phone and bought a new one with cash. I didn’t tell anyone except Laurel about the job and Laurel won’t tell. I haven’t passed a car in the last fifty miles. I’m in the middle of nowhere, just me and a crying baby—
She’s stopped screaming. I’m not sure how long it’s been since she stopped. Since Chloe was born I sometimes lose little bits of time like that. Mommy brain, Esta, the leader of the mothers’ support group, called it. It’s a hormonal thing. I angle the rearview mirror to see Chloe’s face but the car is so dark I can’t see her at all. I don’t know how to find the dome light and there are no streetlights on this country road to illuminate the interior. It’s so dark and quiet in the car it’s almost as if she isn’t there.
Of course she’s there, don’t
