I vividly remember when my oldest son was born hearing a horrific story of two teenage parents who had given birth to a little baby boy, killed him, and put him in a dumpster.  I was devastated.  I could not believe any parent could do that.  I didn’t understand it.  I struggled to understand it, and no matter how hard I tried it still hit me extremely hard.  I cried a lot.  I would hold my tiny precious little guy in my arms, stare at him, and weep for the little boy who’s parents decided he was not worthy of life.

Over the years, every story I would hear of a parent abusing their child, or parents murdering their children, it always forced me into a minor depression.  I would hold my little boy, give him an extra kiss, and be thankful for my own sanity.

As a single mother, it was not easy.  I had a period of severe depression and had to give him up for a few months.  I felt he was safest with someone else, I had to protect him from me.  I did try my best though to raise a well balanced boy.  I don’t think I did too bad, but I sure could have done better.

After I had my second child, hearing the stories of what mothers would do to their children became nearly unbearable.  I loved my children so much, and could never imagine even a day without them in my life.  I struggled to protect them and love them.

I did not know that I was struggling with my own mental illness as well, and could not have even imagined the thoughts that would one day consume my mind, and scare the heck out of the people that I love.  In fact, if someone would have told me at that point in my life that I would one day be hospitalized for suicidal and homicidal thoughts I would have laughed in their face.

Needless to say, one year ago this month, that happened.  I always had problems coping, as I’ve said in previous posts.  The degree that my depression would fall to still shocks me to this day.  I was completely and totally unaware of everything that was developing, slowly, and the dangers that were in front of me.  It happened over several months, but eventually, I lost all touch with reality.  The memories of those months rattle me straight to the deepest parts of my soul.

I began hearing sounds, voices, noises.  I would hear people in my house, I was terrified to be alone.  I was so paranoid I would lock myself in my bedroom with the two little ones afraid to open the door.

That was only the beginning.

Photo by misocrazy, available under a Creative Commons attribution license.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (May 18, 2011)

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Peter H Brown (May 19, 2011)

    Last reviewed: 20 May 2011