My journal entry the first day of being hospitalized:
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. I am scared. I’m dumbfounded. This isn’t me.
I have postpartum depression. At four o’clock this morning I was admitted to the hospital. I can’t believe this is happening to me. I don’t belong here. I’m not like these other people. Only, I sort of am…
I’m here because I was having suicidal thoughts and thoughts of harming my baby. Oh, my dear precious baby, Emmalyn. Only 7 1/2 weeks old. I love her so much–my heart just can’t contain itself. I’m doing this for her. I want to get better for her.
This whole thing is just so surreal. I never, ever, in a million years thought this would happen to me.
I feel so alone. This place is worse than I imagined. It’s like how you see it in the movies. There are people in gowns and socks, roaming the hallways in the middle of the night because they can’t sleep. Some even look like zombies.
I met a girl named Kaite. It’s her real name, too, like me–and she’s also 24. She welcomed me this morning with a cheerful smile. She kept me company while I ate decent scrambled eggs and almost stale toast. She shared with me that she’s bipolar and has been here three times now. A former cheerleader, she was very talkative and comforting. It’s just hard to differentiate if she’s more like me, or “crazy.” I guess I shouldn’t be quick to assume either way. A part of me wants to open up to her, but for now I have my guard up.
This place is depressing. How ironic is that? All there is to do is watch TV, read, journal, sleep… I need movement and activity. Don’t even get me started on the rooms. Fortunately I have my own room at the moment, but I haven’t decided if it makes up for the fact that the matresses are about 6 inches thick and the pillows are paper thin.
After all of my paperwork was completed, I was finally able to go to sleep. I had been up for 23 hours.
I thought I’d fall right asleep, but I was scared. I was afraid someone was going to wander into my room in the middle of the night. I just prayed to God to give me the strength, then I cried myself to sleep.
I have mixed emotions about the latter. Sometimes when I re-read my journal entries I feel tense and sad–to put it simply. & other times I feel proud and accomplished. Looking back, it amazes me how I could ever have felt the way I did, as well as go through all that I did… but it also amazes me how far I have come in less than a year.