Drowning In Uncertainty

It was the middle of the night, my husband was at work and there were another nine hours until he would come home.

My two year old had been sleeping soundly in his room for a few hours, but I couldn't sleep. I hadn't been sleeping well, because for the last few months, I'd been worried about losing my mind and killing my son. 

We've all heard horror stories about mothers killing their own children but I couldn't get it out of my head. What was the difference between me and them? How could I know that I wouldn't somehow become a headline myself? The thoughts started as images flashing through my mind. Me holding my son’s head underwater in the bathtub. Me waking in the middle of the night to strangle him while he slept. Me going into a fit of rage and beating him senseless. 

The end result of these mini movies was always me stunned by my own actions, wondering how I got there and filled with overwhelming feelings of remorse, regret, and above all else, shame.

That night I lay awake and the thoughts wouldn't leave me alone. Why was I thinking these things? What kind of mother was I to imagine these horrific scenes? 

The thoughts made me sick, filled me with dread. I would have done anything to get the images out of my mind. I was guilt ridden and confused. There had to be a reason I was thinking such awful things, and maybe the reason was that somewhere deep down I wanted to do those things. (Disclaimer: I did not want to do those things. OCD is a liar.)

After months of reasoning with myself and trying to convince myself that I was not a secret psychopath, I remained unconvinced. I was unable to relax and my extreme anxiety made me feel like I was out of control. I started to wonder if this was how it felt before one lost his mind. If I was in fact losing my mind, who would stop me from doing the unthinkable and killing my own son? My husband was gone and nobody was there to notice my mental decline.

As time passed, my thoughts turned into phrases. “Kill him. You must want to since you think about it.” If you haven’t had an intrusive thought come into your head as a phrase or a command, lucky you. 

I became confused as to whether or not the command was coming from me, and if it was, did that mean I actually wanted to, or was I testing myself? Then I began to wonder if the intrusive command was actually a hallucination, since there was no way I would have a thought like that if I were in my right mind. 

In the space of a few minutes, I became so entrenched in confusion and uncertainty about how and why my brain was formulating these thoughts that I doubted my reality. I doubted my ability to decipher between an outside voice, an internal random thought, or an urge to act. It’s very important to note that during this period of low insight, I still knew that the thoughts were bizarre. Every fiber of my being was against the thought of harming my son. Every piece of my body was repulsed by the idea of violence against him. Every spider sense I had was telling me that I needed to keep him safe and that these thoughts were dangerous and a no-go. 

I did the only thing I could do. With shaky hands and tears streaming down my face, I called my dad in the middle of the night. He answered the phone and my first words, through choked sobs were, “I don’t want anything to happen. I don’t want to kill Lucas.”

As you can imagine, these are terrifying words to hear. They are equally, if not more, terrifying to say. After a flurry of questions and intelligible answers, my dad quickly gave the phone to my stepmom, a psychologist. Knowing the right questions to ask in a crisis, she was able to screen me over the phone. “Is everyone ok?” Yes. Just scared. “Are you hearing voices?” Maybe? I don’t think so. It’s just my voice but in my head. “Did something happen?” No. “Where is Lucas?” He’s in bed sleeping.

I’m sure she asked many more questions but I can’t remember them now. The point is, she was able to determine that I was in a state of panic, but I had not lost touch with reality and I was not a danger.

My parents took turns on the phone, helping me calm down and feel safe. They assured me everything would be fine. Shortly after, I was diagnosed with Postpartum OCD. My parents were right, everything ended up fine.

But despite my diagnosis and the relief that I was not a baby killer, it would be awhile before it all felt fine. It would be years before I could think about that night without reliving the pain, fear and what-ifs. It would be even longer to let go of the shame I held for being a mother who had experienced those thoughts at all. I was so caught up in all the unknowns of the future that I was unable to be present. I was lost in fear and uncertainty and all the possibilities of what could happen were drowning me. I was not alone in my experience. You are not alone in your experience. It does get better.