Postpartum Psychosis – Can you Forgive?


Nikki Love posted an update on the POST Life Movie website on the blog section titled The Mirror. It talked a lot about forgiveness and all the variables. Forgiving the person who became ill. Forgiving the people you asked for help, forgiving yourself. I believe it’s much easier to forgive others than to forgive myself.
This takes me back to remembering even when my mother committed suicide and people would ask me if I were angry with her. I find it difficult to be angry with someone who thought their only option left to deal with their pain was to die.
Put that into context for a moment. I have been there. I have felt so utterly

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hopeless, worthless, unworthy and remained in that place for so long that death seemed like the Only option to make it stop. It didn’t appear like that every day. But it came in waves of darkness. The darkness got darker and lasted longer, with that came those thoughts of suicide.

When I picture the last time I saw my mother alive, I know now she was thinking about ending her life. I couldn’t have seen it at the time. Even being just 14 years old didn’t matter. I have seen it now and I can recognize it, Sometimes. But only sometimes and that’s if the person is using their words to communicate to me in some way how desperate they are feeling.
Above-Drafted December 17th, 2015

I started that before Christmas, in the middle of the Holidays. Halfway between our Thanksgiving and the New Year. I was on a roll and wanted to continue my effort of not only supporting the POST Life Movie, but All Moms who struggle with Postpartum Mood Disorders.

On Christmas Day, we had another loss within the Postpartum community. This was not a woman I knew personally. But I will say her name anyway because she deserves to be honored for her struggle; Sasha Hettich. I will link you to her story on Postpartum Progress and that of her husband, Cody Hettich, who spoke of her in an effort to battle the stigma surrounding Mental Health.

Last August, we lost another woman and her name was Naomi Knoles. She also committed suicide after getting released from prison, having spent 10 years there. She wanted to share her story and make a difference as well. Unfortunately, the struggle became overwhelming and she took her own life.

Both of those women suffered from a Postpartum Mood Disorder. In 2003, Naomi  became ill with Postpartum Psychosis and took the life of her daughter, Anna, after a failed attempt at her own life. She completed that effort last August.
Sasha Hettich was suffering from Postpartum Depression from all known accounts that I have read and it culminated on Christmas morning when she ended her life.

We need to come together as a Postpartum Community. I know I sing this song often. There is a divide within the community between the Depression and the Psychosis community where there should not be. At any time, the depression can turn to psychosis.

You are All Moms that this could happen to. This is not to scare you, it’s to make you aware. Neither or those two moms thought this would happen to them.

In between the death of those two women, there have been countless other women I do not know the names of who have lost their battle. I for one do not want it to be in vain.
If I know of your battle, I will Always say your name. You will be remembered here.

I challenge other Postpartum Mood Disorder Blogs to do the same. Do not let there be a divide. Do not be a part of the problem. You say you want to erase the Stigma. Well Actions Speak Louder Than Words. You cannot claim to want to banish the Stigma surrounding Maternal Mental Health and be part of the problem. You have to be part of the solution.
Be part of the Solution.



~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~

Staying Grounded in Grief (And Creating a Shitstorm)

My Heart is Aching


As I read through an article about countertransference and they’re taking about a therapy session in which the mom is grieving for her newborn son that was stillborn; I have such an intense ache inside my own heart, it feels like someone is actually squeezing it tightly.

I am paying attention as I read the article. I have not gotten all the way through the story yet. It’s an article written by Karen Kleinman in Psychology Today. I had been trying to find some articles on anyone who had studied mothers who had lost children in the throes of Postpartum

Psychosis and what the grieving process is like for them. I’ve have been unsuccessful so far. So, in my own attempt to explain what this hell is

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like for those women, I will walk you through my experience reading this article:

It’s titled “Countertransference: When is yours, mine?” and it is about a couple named Monica and Bobby who lost a little boy nine months gestation. He was two weeks post term when delivered and pretty much uneventful.
My own son, Hunter was also born close to two weeks post term. This pregnancy for me was physically difficult. Nothing serious, just a lot of ongoing physical issues.
The mother in the therapy session has asked to share a photo of her son with Karen. I am only a few paragraphs in and I have already gotten a stomach ache and my feet have started doing a toe crunch. I start touching my thigh lightly, tapping.
As they are sharing the photo my eyes are filling with tears and I don’t want to cry and I remind myself it’s okay. I remind myself I am the only one here. My legs tighten and I cross my feet, I am biting my top lip. I take a minute for myself. Deep breaths. 
I go back to read a bit more.
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I got through to where Karen starts discussing Freud and how she starting comparing their stories. I realized I am clenching my jaw and I am rubbing one of my wrists. As I type this I cannot rub my wrist. I am still
clenching my jaw but have moved to positioning my feet in the prone position not moving. 

After typing those two statements I stopped doing both of those things, at least momentarily.

I took a three week break from writing that. That’s how difficult it can be.
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As I found the article again, I started immediately rubbing my left thumb and ring finger together. I haven’t quite found my place yet, I am about to do just that.
Before I hit the tab I am tapping my fingers together on my left hand.

I’m not quite to the place, but my eyes skim over the part where Monica has asked to show Karen a photo of her son. It brings me back to the time I was still at AMHI in a women’s forensic group (there were four of us) and I had brought one of the only photos I had of my son to share. It took me most of the group to finally say I wanted to show them my photo. The group was run by two female psychologists and one of them, just before I was about to hand my photo over to one of the other females, stopped me to ask “what I was hoping to get from sharing?”. I immediately took my photo back and felt as though I had been kicked square in the guts. (I am constantly rubbing my fingers togethers and crunching my toes around the rung of the stool I am sitting on)
The safe moment that had been created during the group in which I felt as though I could share, was shattered when she stopped my hand from passing along the photo. It did and still does feel like a priceless token of time that I have captured. So small and yet worth so much. It’s all I have.

I am going to go back to the article, but typing that small piece has sent me to tears that I am trying not to let get out of control.

I have gotten to the part where Karen says “The death of a child must be the most difficult to mourn.” I thought when my mother died it was terrible. Missing a child and mixing it with the knowing guilt of your own hand creates something I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

Every day I think about dying. When I hear the name ‘Hunter’ I turn my head. When I see a reference to Robin Williams (my son was named after Robin Williams character in the movie Patch Adams) I think of him.

I feel as though most of you don’t deserve to talk about Postpartum Psychosis and the 5% possibilities unless you are willing to stand in front of me. You are not allowed to say how sorry you are for the mother who just tried to drive into an ocean, or who got shot in front of the White House. You are not allowed to share their stories until you face me. You are not allowed to speak to the grieving families and the widows, the orphaned children or the lost souls until you are willing to stand in front of me.

You don’t have that right. Your rights are revoked. Until you backup your words with actions. Because I am a Postpartum Psychosis Survivor and Loser.
I make myself do things I don’t want to do all the time. I face my fears. I am afraid. I am alone. I make choices that I hope will make things not just better for the here and now, but better for the future. (I still make mistakes, that goes without saying)
But, this is not an easy life, my mind carries the burden and my heart carries grief.

I finished this tonight November 14th, 2015. I started this almost a month ago. I couldn’t do it at the time. It felt crushing when I tried.

But it needs to be said. Just getting through that article took a month and I finished it tonight because of a tweet that ticked me off. Unintended, but yet isn’t that how all shitstorms start?

I do wonder at times if I wasn’t here to say “Whoa, now!” “Hey” and start jumping up and down and waving my arms around like a mad woman, how many things would just get swept away unnoticed. I mean, I guess who else will do it right?


~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~

Am I Worthy?

“Am I Worthy”

 Originally written while I was remanded – Nov 25, 2001 (I had just spent my first Thanksgiving alone)

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Life continues elsewhere, but behind these huge stone walls, time seems to stop and sometimes you forget who you really are. 
You’ve looked for the light at the end of the tunnel, but hopes and dreams seem to get further and further away until you believe you can’t see them anymore. 
You want that with every mistake you make it will be your last, and at last you will learn from your mistakes. 
Do you think I’m worthy?  Do I think I’m worthy? 
There have been many times I have forgotten God and all he has given me. For I am too busy enjoying myself. 
I often feel unworthy and believe he will not want my broken body and soul, for I did not turn to him when I was standing tall. 
I wonder of my uncertainty of God.  Is there truth behind my prayers? 
I can say out loud to anyone who would listen; yes, of course God loves me. 
Whenever I stumble, he waits for me to ask for his help again.  For like all parents, they love their children always, and I am one of his children. 
But in my heart, while I lie in bed at night, my fear is that I am undeserving of God’s love and forgiveness. 
I waiver in my faith, and wonder if God is really there. 
I try to recall in my desperate moments, the times I have been filled by his presence and overwhelming feelings of love.  
And I have, for it is not God who forgets me and gets too busy to say hello.  It is I who forgets to give thanks to him. 
Yet he always helps me back to my feet when I fall, caresses my tears and fills me with hope I so desperately need. 
So I pray again the same unforgotten words that I try to believe will be heard. 
“Please forgive me, I am sorry and I want to do right by you.  Help me God, for you are my strength when I have none.” 
So in my weakest moments, when I feel like I have been dropped from a tall building like a rock to the ground, he will wrap his celestial arms around me and embrace my fall, for he knows I will turn to him.

For he is my strength when I have none.  And we are all worthy.
I had written this when I was spending my first Thanksgiving in AMHI. I remember I had never been away from family during the Holidays before. When I got up Thanksgiving morning, I cried into my cornflakes. I would no longer be preparing a Turkey.
I’ve been struggling a lot. Away from everyone down here in Myrtle Beach. Thanksgiving is fast approaching and my experience is telling anyone up close and personal about my past is not only not fun, it sends people running.
People always, always think they want to know. They just cannot comprehend. So, you go through the painful, twisting of your soul to tell them and they run away. Because they cannot fathom when you try to explain to them beforehand when you say it’s too difficult to talk about or understand.
So you die just a little bit more inside each time you believe one more person who tells you to trust them. That they will be the one to understand.
I stepped out of dating for years now. My last serious relationship ended in 2011. I wanted to focus on my daughter and all that was happening.
I had only begun dating again since being down in Myrtle Beach. No one knows me here. But, no connections. Nothing worth mentioning until very recently I met someone, I had that feeling you can’t quite put words to. It’s that feeling you wait for. I mean it only took four years right?
But, you know how this ends:
I go ahead and start mentally preparing myself for the big reveal. I had to buy some alcohol (and any of you that know me, know I don’t drink) to start talking. I’m having an anxiety attack the entire time and trying to give this abbreviated version by only saying I was responsible for another life at this point. My guts feel like they’re being ripped out of me.
He’s being very kind. As we are talking, I tell him I could hug him and never let go, and he gives me a warning about not doing that. I am crushed.
We end up on my balcony and he ends up going in first and I stay outside trying to figure out what to do. I then hear his truck start up. I go back inside and he is gone, along with his things. I proceed to send him a series of irrational texts (at this point I am fairly intoxicated) and I got Lasagna in my bed too (I have no idea about that either, found it there this morning. Like I said, I never drink and I drank an entire bottle of wine myself)
This is the most difficult conversation in my world to have with someone. People do not understand what they are asking. This is why I gave up dating. I feel like a fool for believing. I really thought for a moment I had paid penance for everything. I thought someone good, kind and genuine was being sent into my life. Someone who seemed to value the same things I did and was loyal to a fault.
I’m tired. I want to keep believing, I do. It’s just hard.
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~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~

Lumpy Potato Paste & Friendship

My Best Friend


We met freshman year of highschool. Your name was Adam. We were kindred spirits and I can’t remember a time when we weren’t fighting or when we weren’t best friends.

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Adam and I 2007

We eventually had to be separated in class because we would talk and laugh the entire time. We would try to make it through, but inevitably we would draw photos on paper from across the room (sort of the retro version of texting) and get kicked out.

Right from the beginning, you would get mad at me for not eating pepperoni when you wanted to and I would get mad at you for not doing something I wanted.
When I moved to Virginia when I was 15 and came back to Maine at Christmas, you were the only friend I came to visit. You wouldn’t get me tissues out of the bathroom and I had been crying, so I had this huge snotball I had to cover with my hands. I was so mad at you.
When your parents took me in the year I turned 16, I used to come into your room at night to watch Johnny Carson. I would enter with a jacket and blanket already on. You had the AC cranked and it was winter. In Maine. But that’s how cold you always liked it.
Months could go by and we would have moved or not been talking and would see each other. The conversation would pick right back up as though I had seen you yesterday.
There were times were had serious fights. So serious we didn’t talk or see each other for more than a year. I couldn’t even recall all the times we told each other to Fuck off Asshole. But we told each other I love you even more.
You’re still my friend, and I miss you. I miss knowing that no matter what there is someone that has my back. I miss that kind of loyalty in a person.
I miss having someone around that I know even if we disagree, even if we don’t see eye to eye, it doesn’t mean you aren’t there anymore.
I miss knowing my daughter has someone that would always take her call and when she texts you about her ultra sound, you ask her if she’s having an alien baby. She thought that was so funny. I loved you for that.
I miss that you always knew when it came right down to it; certain things just trumped other things. Arguments could be put on hold. Humor could always be used to get over stuff. Grudges could just be done away with.
I loved that we could openly disagree with each other and our feelings wouldn’t get hurt. Or if they did it was short lived.
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Friendship – Getting things ready the night before he was married

I remember the sheets I had gotten for you to sleep on. You said they felt like butter. I say that sometimes now.

How we went looking for wet battered whole fried clams, and drove an entire day looking, until we were both so hungry we stopped at this small roadside place, and you fell in love with the whole fried clams there. We left and never found the place again.
How many times did we go to a party the winter I stayed with you and your parents, you would always say, go directly upstairs and not to visit with your mom because we’d had a couple wine coolers? (ugh remember those) I’d stand there like a deer in headlights.
It was your dad, that not only showed, but taught me that mashed potatoes could be wonderfully creamy, fluffy and not taste like cold paste with hard lumps. I fell in love with mashed potatoes at your house and stopped having to shove cold, lumpy, potato paste into my sweater pockets to flush down the toilet after that winter.
We used to tease your mom and say that eventually we were going to walk in and the entire house would be knitted. There were knitted toilet paper covers, dolls, dollhouses, vacuum cleaner covers, doilies, socks, clothes, miniature furniture, etc…
It’s been almost four years since the day Wendy called and said you didn’t wake up. Sleep Apnea with an enlarged heart.
There’s always a moment where everything freezes. Things tighten, everything feels very slow and very fast all at once. You question, asking what, why?
I am never prepared. The day of your funeral my daughter totaled a car.
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I miss you. I miss the world being made out of people like you. Obnoxious, loud, brazen, loyal, kind, and true.

Are people just not made of that kind of stuff anymore? It’s a rare day I

would ever “unfriend” someone (as though that’s actually possibly) in this digital age.

I have people I have to block for obvious reasons. But it takes a lot and I do mean a lot for me to actually cut someone completely out of my life. We all need time and space. There are times we have to walk away for a bit to get some perspective.
Sometimes we need to grow apart a little, so we can grow together a lot.

I forgive easily. But I am okay with that. I would rather be that person. It takes a lot of energy to hate and hold a grudge.

I miss my friend that I just knew that no matter what at the end of the day, I could count on. It’s hard to find people like that anymore.

You were my friend for 23 years and it just wasn’t long enough.

~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~


Upon My Death, Do Not Let Me Die

When I am gone


I don’t want my story to stop being shared. When I am gone, be it by accident, disease, tragedy or triumph; I want it to be known. Say it out loud. I give my permission now to share my story. Share all my stories and if you have more stories of me, share them too. 

Upon my death, do not let me die.

I have lived an extraordinary life so far. I was reminded yet again very recently that we don’t always know if we will wake up tomorrow. When we are young and/or naive, we seem to think we are invincible. That will not happen to us or those we love. We can walk away angry. With words left unsaid and that we will always have another day to say those

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things we wanted to say.

I am living and have been living in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I have been here for almost six months and the last two weeks we have seen some amazing flooding take place. I have seen some things I hadn’t seen before. Some, as simple as a cotton field.

Near the end of this summer we lost a woman who wanted to share her own experience of Postpartum Psychosis. Her name is Naomi Knoles; and she wrote We All Have A Story To Tell. Her husband is continuing that journey and wrote a short piece I will share here. I know personally how difficult that road is. I myself, along with many others within the Mental Health community took a hard hit when she died. I think it also provided a wake-up call.

Even one year; 3 years, 5, 10, 20 years after you have been in “recovery” and everyone thinks you have gotten past the worst of it; you can still have bad days and not make it out. The hole you have found yourself in, that dark, black hole that many of us have described. Well, that hole is deep, it’s dark and even when you think you have walked out and beyond it’s reach; it still has the ever so slightest grasp sitting lovingly upon your chest. It caresses your cheek and whispers in your ear. It says familiar things to lure you back and before you can blink away the tears, you are seeing black again.

Court for my grandchildren and things happening with my daughter take a lot out of me. Along with advocating.

Job discrimination is huge. I had a job, that I enjoyed very much and was doing well at. The minute, and I do mean the minute, they found out about my past; that was it. I had to leave. It did not matter that I had been doing this job for approximately a month already. I am not going to say where this was, just that I had taken a position where people that were educated (one was a doctor) were in the employment position and I was the employee.
When people ask me why I don’t just go right out and find a job I just look at them. I have a resume. An excellent resume. I have skills, many skills. I am intelligent and sociable, I do an excellent job. I can even pass a standard background check and be bonded. (I used to sell insurance) But if one person googles my name, I am done for.

These are the kinds of things that 10, 15 and 20+ year out of recovery or at any time in a person’s life can become too much.

Pink Moped, Postpartum Psychosis, Natachia Barlow Ramsey, Maternal Mental Health, Myrtle Beach South Carolina, When I dieI was out driving around on my Pink Moped during this Thousand Year Storm in South Carolina. I was listening to my mp3 player and I wasn’t trying to get hurt but it occurred to me I wasn’t practicing being my safest.
I started thinking about how I made the decision to “Walk the Line” and “Life for Death Sentence“. I started thinking that while I may not commit Suicide more purposefully the way Naomi did; maybe I am hoping fate will just take over.
It’s not suicide if I am out riding my Pink Moped listening to tunes during the worst Flood the Carolinas have ever seen right?
What about if I walk alone at night on the beach? Driving without a Helmet on highways? Meeting people off from Craigslist? Moving in with people I meet off from Craigslist?
I won’t list some things for the sake of the fet community of people I am involved with.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps I just wanted to be scared.
Another friend (Walker Karraa) who is taking an offline break was speaking of a conversation she’d had with Naomi who had said “Walker, I was in prison. Nothing scares me.” I remember thinking when she shared that, that I too had those thoughts and feelings. I still get scared for others. Just not for myself.

I want to sit on the beach every day and smell the salt in the air. I want to forget all the sadness around me. I want to be able to take a ride on my moped to the store and back while listening to music and enjoy the warm breeze.

But, then I read another story about another mom and another family who says; “we didn’t know, we had never heard of Postpartum Psychosis”. All I can think is how can you have not in this day and age. But then I remember they are cutting funding in even some of the most forward thinking states as far as Mental Health Programs go. North Carolina just cut $110 million from it’s regional mental health and another $152 million is set to be cut this Spring unless something is done.

University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill created the first Women’s Mood Disorder Clinic. Now that same state that set a standard is about to cut close to $300 million in Mental Health from its budget in less than a year’s total time.

And that, is why. That is exactly why women and their families are not hearing more about Maternal Mental Health. Because Mental Health is usually one of the first to be slated for cuts.

I also, get emails, or friend requests on any of my numerous social media platforms. Someone wants to strike up a conversation with me about their experience, their child, wife. Sometimes I can’t get to them all right away. But I do the best I can. I realize that by sharing My Story; I have made a difference. That for every person that stumbles upon my blog and reads it. Every person that reads My Story and reaches out or passes it along, I am getting through to people in tenfold.

Why, why am I talking about this now. It actually started after our friend passed away and there was a big discussion about whether or not Naomi’s Story should be shared. When and how it should be shared and by who. None of us within the community felt quite comfortable. It almost felt disrespectable. But, on the other hand I truly believe she would want for Her and her Anna’s story to continue on. Her story hasn’t died. It feels like an injustice to stop talking. Like the disease won.
Postpartum Psychosis can’t win! If we stop talking about ALL the people involved and how it has affected each of them it wins.

So, I will say it again. Postpartum Psychosis cannot win. Keep talking. Keep telling stories. Keep sharing.

I don’t want my story to stop being shared. When I am gone, be it by accident, disease, tragedy or triumph; I want it to be known. Say it out loud. I give my permission now to share my story. Share all my stories and if you have more stories of me, share them too. 

Upon my death, do not let me die.


~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~
Originally Drafted 09-14-15

When I Try to Be Brave

I Have Debilitating PTSD

*Originally blogged Aug. 18th, 2015- One of the sitting in drafts*

Almost no one knows I suffer from severe PTSD. It doesn’t stem from one specific thing; it stems from a multitude of things. I know there are certain people that see me as dysfunctional; perhaps it’s easier for them to see me that way. But I push myself often to do many things I am scared of. Things that give me a lot of anxiety, and that is when I am trying to be my bravest. 

I have had nightmares since I was a child. Where I would wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing and unable to move. As an adult, they have just gotten worse. I now take a medication that is supposed to help with nightmares. It was approved originally for veterans with PTSD. It doesn’t

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Kinkade meets Pollock

really work that well, if at all (for me).

My daughter and I were sharing a one bedroom apt down in the Carolinas the last few months and on several different occasions she would tell me I was talking and crying in my sleep. I also take anxiety medication just before bedtime, which I believe helps as well. But, nothing makes it all go away.

I have different ways I cope when I have a panic attack. I listen to music. I rock back and forth. I breathe deeply. I go for a drive. I try to reach out and talk to someone, even if I don’t tell them I am actually having a panic attack.
I imagine when they are sitting and speaking with me I may look to them anywhere from calm, to a little fidgety. Inside? Well, inside I probably look more like a Jackson Pollock painting than a Thomas Kinkade.

I had PTSD even before I became ill with Postpartum Psychosis. All the events that came after, just exacerbated the condition. It also made me realize I can be brave even when I am scared. It taught me to push through even when I am frightened and don’t know what is on the other side.
That’s what I would say is courage. Having courage doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid. It doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather be doing something else. It means you are doing it anyway.

When you stand beside someone, when you take their hand. When you become their voice, help them find their own. When you are afraid you might be the only one but you do it anyway. When you take that chance knowing just one other person might be reached. When you are scared, afraid, worried, panicked and you do it anyway? You are courageous. You are the brave. You are the Moms, you are the Warriors, you are the Women who make a difference.

Every, single, one of you who takes time. Be it a few moments, minutes, hours or days to stand up, share your stories and be courageous when you are feeling so afraid; you are also the Warrior Moms who Make a Difference. You are All Needed.



~Be Loud, Be Purposeful, Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be Creative, Be Something~

For Miriam

My Dearest Miriam,

Miriam Carey, Postpartum Psychosis, Postpartum Psychosis stories, PPMD, Walker Karraa, Postpartum. amhi Depression, Natachia Barlow Ramsey,

 I want to tell you that I am sorry. I have thought about you frequently since I heard your story on the news. I wish I could have shielded you from those bullets. I am so incredibly sorry that like so many other times change will inevitably come because a tragedy has occurred.

I have had a pit in my stomach all day thinking about you. I keep saying a thousand things over and over again to you in my head but they’re not reaching my fingertips. I just keep coming back to
I am Sorry; I can feel your pain and it makes me feel physically ill…

Natachia Barlow Ramsey – Postpartum Psychosis Survivor and Loser

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Who is at Stake? Andrea Yates, CNN and the Call for Revolution

Walker Karraa wrote this amazing article and it was published on Postpartum Progress.

I am terribly frustrated that I cannot seem to locate the blog to blog share button so I am manually adding the link in here. It’s a wonderful read and takes a look at what we should all be aware of. How people like Andrea, myself and so many, many women out there who have suffered an ill fated hand are schlepped in with people who are in their right mind and are placed under the code of “criminal”.
Why? Because sensation sells; and I thought they outlawed taking advantage of the people who had a mental disability by putting them on display at the circus. Yet, here we are with our “Media Circus” and we pat ourselves on the back because we just watch from afar now instead of standing in line with everyone else.
Kudos Walker…

Who is at Stake? Andrea Yates, CNN and the Call for Revolution

Little Boy Lost

A Tribute


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Altered Immune Cells Seem to Play a Role in Postpartum Psychosis

Jennifer Moyer posted this the other day and I am usually getting updates and constantly trying to stay up-to-date with the latest findings on Postpartum Mental Health issues.

I have seen some of this research making headway before and I have found it very interesting. I myself developed Bacterial Pneumonia within 36 hours of giving birth to my son and if you were to look at my case from 1999 it’s a classic case of Postpartum Psychosis. In some ways it’s almost textbook, although it wasn’t as researched or as well known at the time.
I just touched base with the attorney with whom tried my case and saw me through numerous other court proceedings for my daughter over the course of a decade. We formed a friendship and keep in touch. I also stay in touch with my Psychologist of many years but who has now taken a job with State Forensics Services. I like to run things by the both of them and pick their brains on my case in 1999 versus the improved data.

I am amazed at what a difference 14 years makes and I can only hope that in 14 more years we will have a place in the DSM along with preventive measures for every new mother. Perhaps we’ll even go back to the “village” style way of raising a child that seemed so outdated but was so much more successful.

Altered Immune Cells Seem to Play a Role in Postpartum Psychosis