Chapter 1: My Journey Through Darkness

Tears streamed down my face as I gazed at a deep wound on my arm while typing. What I was crafting would evolve into a blog post detailing my battles with postpartum psychosis and suicidal thoughts. Despite the overwhelming anguish, I held onto a glimmer of hope that my words might resonate with someone else in despair. Research indicates that around one in seven new parents experience postpartum depression, with nearly 80% encountering some form of depressive episode soon after childbirth. Yet, the narrative persists that new parenthood is a universally joyous occasion. For me, it was a harrowing ordeal that nearly cost me my life. Just as I began to see a flicker of hope, Child Protective Services (CPS) unexpectedly appeared at my door.

In a tragic twist of fate, the individual who read my blog years ago and instigated the CPS intervention is now publicly discussing her husband's suicide. She asserts that it is ultimately the responsibility of those who are suicidal to save themselves and emphasizes the importance of "personal accountability" in suicide prevention. Ironically, she is a mental health professional and also my sister-in-law. The harm she inflicted on my family is compounded by her current messages, which imply that her husband's death could have been avoided had he only made more effort. This perspective not only victim-blames but also perpetuates a harmful viewpoint known as "suicidism," a term coined by Alexandre Baril to describe the unique discrimination faced by suicidal individuals.

Chapter 2: A Personal Reflection

In my case, I indeed sought help. I shared my blog with a trusted circle of family and friends, consciously preparing for the support I anticipated needing during my pregnancy. Following the advice of mental health professionals, I acknowledged my vulnerabilities and sought accountability for my well-being. When I disclosed my suicidal thoughts, rather than receiving support, I triggered a series of events that led to CPS knocking on my door. For nearly two months, my family lived in terror until it was confirmed that I posed no risk to my child. To this day, I suffer from panic attacks and nightmares, and the sound of the doorbell sends me into a state of panic.

My struggles with suicidality did not start during my first pregnancy; I had contemplated ending my life as early as age 16 and battled anorexia for most of my life. Yet, I have always found ways to cope, pursuing triathlons and open water marathons, focusing on future goals. However, much of my life has revolved around avoiding thoughts of self-harm.

The challenges I faced intensified after the traumatic birth of my first child, which culminated in an emergency C-section. The subsequent sleep deprivation took a toll, leading to hallucinations and self-harm. Despite having a beautiful baby, I felt lost in despair, rocking back and forth in the dark, grappling with the notion that death might be a release from my pain.

One night, I wrote a letter to my child while formulating plans to end my life. My partner found me the next morning, and despite my reluctance, I sought help from a psychiatrist. While I was skeptical of mental health professionals, I begrudgingly accepted the medication prescribed. Initially, it brought relief, allowing me to sleep and alleviating my hyper-vigilance. Eventually, I weaned off the medication, but I remain aware of the complexities and potential risks associated with psychotropic drugs.

As I regained a sense of self, I cherished moments with my child, reflecting on a joyful trip to a wedding where our son slept peacefully through the night. For a brief moment, life seemed worth living again. However, that joy was abruptly shattered when CPS arrived, leading to an ordeal that would haunt me.

If you have never experienced a CPS investigation, count yourself fortunate. I was subjected to humiliating procedures, including a drug test, while caseworkers rifled through my belongings. The allegations against me were eventually deemed unsubstantiated, but the process took a grueling 45 days. During this time, I was left to navigate the chaos, all stemming from a blog post.

Upon reviewing the report after the case closed, we were horrified by the incompetence displayed by Arkansas DCFS. Many references I provided were falsely listed as having been interviewed, and a social worker, unknown to us, had claimed concern over my blog. This revelation revealed the extent of my sister-in-law's involvement in this distressing situation.

The anger we felt was immense. I made vague statements on social media regarding family betrayal, which led to a smear campaign against me by my partner's family. Their responses ranged from denial to outright hostility, particularly when they learned the truth about the report.

Today, I recognize that my anger was a valid reaction to the abuse I endured. My sister-in-law did apologize, but her assurances ring hollow, especially when I see her perpetuating harmful narratives about mental health. I want my children to have relationships with extended family, but I struggle to reconcile that desire with the pain inflicted upon me.

It's been eight months since my sister-in-law's husband died by suicide. My heart aches for him and for my sister-in-law and their children. It's a tragedy that feels preventable, yet I can't confidently assert that. When I was in crisis, I was not irrational; I simply wanted to end my suffering. I have no insight into what my brother-in-law faced in his final days, but I know he likely felt isolated, believing his family would be better off without him.

My sister-in-law has suggested that if her husband had taken proactive steps, he might have avoided his despair. This perspective dismisses the complexities of his situation and contributes to victim-blaming. He was actively seeking help, yet his circumstances may have played a significant role in his mental state.

I can't shake the thought that he witnessed the fallout of my own struggles when I reached out for support. It is not unreasonable to think he felt unsafe seeking help himself. Yet she continues to misrepresent the realities of suicidal individuals, perpetuating damaging myths about their intentions.

The theme of harm and evasion of accountability seems prevalent in my partner's family. During my darkest moments, not one of them reached out to see how I was doing. It’s easy to express sentiments about someone's worth after they have passed, but the challenge lies in making individuals feel valued while they are still alive.

Leaving these discussions unexamined does a disservice to those who suffer. Public declarations that suicidal individuals must rescue themselves ignore the depth of despair they experience. As Baril and others suggest, it’s time to shift the focus away from non-suicidal perspectives in conversations about suicidality. Those who have not faced this darkness may lack the understanding necessary to offer meaningful support.

I didn’t want to be saved; I thought it would be better for my family if I was gone. My thoughts were not cries for help but rather a misguided notion that my absence would alleviate their suffering. This perception does not come from nowhere; the world can be harsh, particularly for new mothers, as I have previously mentioned.

As I write this, I can hardly fathom believing my children would be better off without me, yet I remember those moments vividly. Struggling with suicidal thoughts does not equate to selfishness or delusion. Ironically, the last lines of the letter I wrote to my son years ago expressed my love and desire for his happiness.

I have no regrets about sharing my experiences with suicidal thoughts. I regret that those who should have supported me turned away, allowing my family and me to endure further pain from systemic failures. Their continued perpetuation of harmful narratives regarding mental health only deepens the wounds.

Suicidal individuals exist in a society that often renders them invisible. They are either seen as lost causes or falsely believed to be "cured." Yet we are here, often hidden away, fearing the repercussions of our truths. It’s time for the voices of those living with suicidality to be amplified.

I hope, for my brother-in-law’s sake and for all others who have faced similar struggles, that the narrative shifts toward genuine understanding and empathy. Those who have lived through these experiences deserve to be heard, and it is imperative that society begins to listen with compassion.