When I found out I was pregnant on July 10, 2007, I was ecstatic. I was 36 years old, married to an amazing man, and ready to start our family. We then learned we would be having a little girl, and I was overjoyed. My pregnancy was great, aside from nausea the first trimester. My husband and I were in the process of remodeling our house, so I wasn't able to “nest,” but I got things prepared the best I could.

About 4-5 weeks before my due date, I started feeling very anxious. I would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. I'd never had anxiety issues before, so it was all very strange. The anxiety grew worse as the days passed. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, and I was terrified of having a baby. It wasn't the labor pains I was worried about, it was the reality of actually having a baby that scared me. I started to feel that maybe we'd made a mistake getting pregnant. Depression soon accompanied the anxiety, and I was a mess. I wasn't excited at all about the prospect of our daughter. I lost eight pounds in two weeks, and at the time I'd only gained 23 pounds during my pregnancy. At my last sonogram 10 days before my due date (ordered by my OB-GYN to make sure the baby wasn't affected by my weight loss), I remember secretly thinking that if something had happened to the baby, it would be OK, that our “problem” would be solved. (Thank God everything was fine with her.)

My OB-GYN decided to induce me 5 days early. I was so depressed and anxious that she felt it would be best to go ahead and deliver the baby. After about 10 hours of labor, I had to have a C-section. This was it – the moment I'd been dreaming about and praying about for over a year. Yet, lying there on that table in the operating room, I felt no excited anticipation. I just as soon stay pregnant the rest of my life than deliver my baby. Why was I feeling this way? I didn't understand. When I heard Shelby's first cries, I was supposed to be elated. Seeing my husband holding her for the first time should have brought tears of joy to my eyes. Instead, all I cried were tears of fear and hopelessness.

In the weeks to follow, things got worse. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep, and that's all I wanted to do to escape everything. I didn't want to talk to anyone or see anyone. The only person I felt somewhat comfortable being around was my husband. My family was so supportive, yet I didn't believe things would ever be OK again. I was certain my life was over and that I'd made the biggest mistake by having a baby. I wasn't afraid of taking care of her in the sense that I was a new mom and didn't know what to do – I was afraid of taking care of her because I didn't want to – I had no feelings toward her. I didn't know what “to do” with her because I couldn't baby-talk her or cuddle with her. The guilt I felt was overwhelming. Why can't I just love my baby? Why can't I talk to her and hold her and love her like my husband does? Like the rest of my family does?

I sat on the couch and stared into space for hours on end. I didn't want to talk. I couldn't bear for any music to be playing or for the TV to be on. Just silence...that's all I wanted. Silence, and to be left alone. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I couldn't stop crying. It was like I was just a shell of the person I used to be. Words people used to describe me – fireball, feisty, funny, outgoing – none of those applied to me now. I was quiet, soft-spoken, unsure of myself, indecisive. Who had I become? I was sure I'd never smile or laugh again. I was sure I'd never be able to sleep again. One of my best friends describes me as being almost catatonic during that time.

After two weeks like this, my sister called my OB-GYN, and they referred me to a psychiatrist, Dr. Lorenzo Triana. I sat in his waiting room and cried. This was not the “baby blues.” This was not the often-referred to “six weeks of depression following the birth of a baby.” This was severe postpartum depression and I was smack-dab in the middle of it with no escape in sight.

Dr. Triana prescribed Lexapro for me. It would have to be started at a low dose, and then we'd work up to the therapeutic level. I didn't trust him. He didn't know how I was feeling – things were NEVER going to change. This is how I would be for the rest of my life...miserable, hopeless, depressed, suicidal. No pill was going to change that.

I also had to go to therapy. I started seeing a counselor I'd seen off and on for the past 8 years. I trusted him immensely. He'd helped me deal with my mom's suicide from when I was 21 years old. He knew me, really knew me. When he saw me in his waiting room, he didn't even recognize me. He asked me who I was waiting to see. Not only did I not feel anything like “myself,” I didn't look like myself. There was no sparkle in my eyes, no smile on my face, no head held high. My dad was with me, and it was all I could do to get up out of the chair and go back to the therapist's office.

Weeks went by, and I felt no better. I still couldn't sleep, despite the Ambien I'd been prescribed. I was sure I'd become addicted to Ambien, even though I didn't feel it was working since I wasn't getting much sleep at all. I would lie in bed and wait for my husband to wake each morning. I didn't want to get out of bed and start another day of this misery. Each day seemed worse than the one before. One of my best friends, Malanka Murphy, came to live with us and help with Shelby and me. I simply couldn't function. Malanka had to MAKE me do things. Dr. Triana insisted I go to the gym everyday to do cardio for at least 20 minutes and get my endorphins going. This was impossible. I could barely leave the house, much less go to the gym where I knew people and would surely be approached for conversation... “How's the baby?” “Aren't you just so happy?” “Isn't it just amazing?” “Don't you just love her more than you ever thought possible?” I was terrified of those questions, because I wasn't happy, it wasn't amazing, and I didn't feel like I loved her.

Malanka stayed with us during the week, going home to regroup only on weekends. She stayed with Shelby every night and got up with her in the middle of the night. The anxiety and depression prevented me from breastfeeding, so Malanka was able to give Shelby her bottles during the weeknights. On weekends, my husband Toby got up with Shelby in the night, and pretty much did everything with her during the day, too. I kept thinking, “That's supposed to be me getting up with Shelby,” but I just couldn't, nor did I really want to. I simply wanted to die – to be gone. I thought of ways I could kill myself. My husband had hidden all the guns while I was still in the hospital. There were knifes, though. Right there in the kitchen. And there was always the bathtub. I once envisioned drowning myself with Shelby. These vivid thoughts were immensely frightening, and thank God not as pervasive as the thoughts I had of simply just wanting to be dead.

Weeks turned into months. Nothing changed. I didn't believe anyone - my trusted therapist, my doctors, my husband - when they said things would get better. The Lexapro dose went up. Other drugs were introduced. My family and Malanka wouldn't let me see the medical pamphlets attached to the prescriptions describing the drugs and what classification they were. "I don't need to be taking all these pills," I thought. I just wanted it to all be over. I would say over and over and over, “I just don't think I can do this anymore.” My husband would plead, “You just have to hold on. Can you do that for me? Just hold on baby.”

My first Mother's Day was awful. I had been dreading it for weeks. I didn't want to celebrate - I didn't deserve to be honored or recognized. I was a terrible mother who didn't have feelings for her baby. The whole day I sat on the couch and cried, despite my husband's best efforts to make it a special day.

In the midst of all of this, my therapist had a heart attack and died. I was devastated. I grieved not only for the loss of him as a person, friend, and trusted adviser, but also for the loss I would suffer in my progress. I was sure I'd never find another therapist I trusted who could help me. I was referred to a woman within two weeks, and I left her office feeling worse than when I'd gone in. She didn't understand how I felt - she gave me handouts to read and suggested certain foods to eat! I had no attention span or interest in reading, and I still wasn't eating much. To top it off, one of the handouts suggested that I "find something to laugh about every day!" I couldn't believe it - I wasn't smiling, much less laughing. There was nothing, absolutely NOTHING, to laugh about.

The following week a friend referred me to Elaine Sullivan, a therapist with whom I clicked immediately. I felt so relieved - she was so reassuring, loving and supportive. She knew what I was feeling - she'd worked with women suffering from postpartum depression and had done studies about women having identity crises after having babies and forfeiting their career to be stay-at-home moms.

Finally, I started to have glimpses of the “old me.” They would come and go very sporadically. I'd feel the desire to organize a closet or clean the floors. These “lucid” moments (lasting at first for about an hour or two at a time, once or twice a week) were so cruel. I'd think I was getting back to normal, that I was having feelings for Shelby, that I actually DID love her. Then those feelings would disappear and down in the pit I'd fall again. I'd go to bed every night praying that God would just please let me wake up in the morning and feel OK. When I'd feel worse the next morning, I questioned why God wouldn't help me. Now my faith was being tested.

When I started to feel less depressed, yet not happy, Wellbutrin was prescribed. Again, I would have to work my way up to a therapeutic level. Every week I'd ask Dr. Triana, “How long until I'm back to normal?” The million dollar question with no answer. "It just takes time," I was told. I didn't know how much more time I could give this. I was told the medicine would only take me so far, that I'd have to help myself with cognitive therapy. But it's just so hard to tell yourself things will get better when every fiber in your body says that they won't and that you'll never be “normal” again. By this time I really liked Dr. Triana, but I just couldn't believe it when anyone, even a well-respected professional, told me things would get better.

Over time, the “lucid” moments I was having turned into days, then weeks. Was I actually feeling better? I was able to make plans to see friends instead of having them show up to my house unannounced or phone me over and over without returning their calls. I wasn't back to “me” yet, but I also wasn't just sitting in a quiet house all day. Malanka was able to move out after about 10 weeks. I was so scared for her to go – what would I do with this infant all day? I was used to working – I was a prosecutor who handled felony cases, yet I couldn't manage to handle a baby. Slowly I got a routine down. That made things much more manageable.

The depression started lifting slowly, but then I started to experience an identity crisis that brought on its own form of depression. I'd been a prosecutor for almost ten years. Due to the severe postpartum depression, however, I was unable to return to work. As a prosecutor, I was used to a very busy work week. Now I was at home with an infant who couldn't talk to me. What had my life become? I started questioning my purpose in life. For so long, I identified myself as a prosecutor - that's what I was proud to say I was. When that was gone, I felt like I didn't know what to do with myself and my time. My life could not just be about staying at home with a baby and meeting friends for lunch. What kind of an existence is that? I couldn't see beyond where I was - that I could work again in the future, that Shelby wouldn't always be a baby who doesn't interact. I just felt stuck in this timeless situation and very isolated.

After discussing it with Elaine and Dr. Triana for about two months, I decided to work part-time as a court-appointed criminal attorney. Going back to work, even just one or two days a week, helped me reconnect to the "old me." Before long, I started to smile and laugh again. I found joy in things and looked forward to things. I was actually happy, and I was so in love with my baby! I could finally say I AM SO HAPPY, that having a baby IS AMAZING, and that I love her SO MUCH MORE than I ever thought possible! Also, I was finally able to go to sleep without medication and get a full, restful night's sleep. I was even able to enjoy a nap now and then!

Mother's Day 2009, I picked out a beautiful butterfly necklace that Shelby and my husband bought me. I didn't even think about it until Elaine noted how symbolic it is of the journey I've been through. Much like the caterpillar, I was in a very dark place and thought the world was over. With time, however, I found my wings.

MY SECOND CHILD:

When Shelby was about 18 months old, I got the "baby bug" and discussed trying to get pregnant with my husband. We had always talked about having two children, but we first wanted to meet with both my OB/GYN and my psychiatrist about the medications I was on. Both doctors were in agreement that it would be perfectly fine for me to be pregnant and breastfeed while remaining on the Lexapro and Wellbutrin. I was so relieved. Though I felt I was back to "me," I was still worried about trying to taper off the medications at this time.

Our second daughter, Harper, was conceived in February 2010. When I found out I was pregnant, I was elated! Throughout the pregnancy, I kept telling myself, "I am NOT going to have postpartum depression." I was so confident about it that one of my friends was actually worried that I wouldn't be prepared if it did happen again. The only feeling of panic I got during this pregnancy was one night when I was around 14 weeks. I had a flashback of the overwhelming feelings I'd experienced during my PPD and for a moment thought, "what the hell have I done?" I was able to quickly push the thought away, however, thanks to the voice of Dr. Triana ringing in my ears telling me not to worry! And so I didn't. I had my "team" lined up in case I did have PPD again. That was all I could do.

At my 37-week doctor visit, Harper's heart rate was off the charts. I was hooked to the fetal heart rate monitor for half an hour then told I needed to get down to L&D; to have an emergency C-section. Even with this unexpected news, I did not freak out. I was ready to have the birth experience I'd felt robbed of with Shelby. After numerous phone calls (my OB/GYN even had to get on my phone and tell my dad I was NOT pranking him and to get in the car for the 5 hour drive!), I walked down to L&D.; As the nurses were prepping me for surgery, I was so excited. I remember crying tears of JOY this time as opposed to the tears of fear and sorrow I'd cried the last time. I was so thankful I'd had a wonderful pregnancy and birth experience this time around. I was able to hold my baby in my arms and talk to her, telling her how much I love her. I breastfed Harper for 5 1/2 months and was grateful for that opportunity. As of April 2015, Harper is 4 1/2 years old and perfect! There are no signs whatsoever of any problems due to my being on medication during pregnancy and breastfeeding. Shelby is 7 and perfect as well! I am so blessed to have 2 sweet, healthy girls. I'm still on a low dose of both medications. Dr. Triana says I could try to taper off, but right now I feel like "if it ain't broke - don't fix it." I've come to realize that if I have to take 2 pills every day to help my brain chemistry, I'm OK with that.

-Shelley

Read Toby's Story - Shelley's husband