“I can’t be left alone with her.” The words escaped my lips as a half-whisper, half-scream. My physician husband startled awake, expecting a call from the hospital, not the emergency lying beside him.

Three months earlier, I nearly died giving birth to our second daughter. The delivery room, full of music and laughter, fell silent as I was rushed to surgery. I saw my husband holding our baby, the floor slick with blood. A massive blood transfusion. An emergency hysterectomy. Then I woke up to her beautiful, sweet face. Lucky. Blessed. Grateful. All the right words. 

I lived in that gratitude for months. I smiled through checkups, believing my own script: "I am OK. I am thankful. I am happy." But my mind quietly betrayed me.

Intrusive thoughts invaded like static. I saw insects crawling in my food. My baby’s head was distorted. I couldn’t see people who were in the same room as me. And even on beautiful afternoon walks, I was seized by an overwhelming, unwanted compulsion to throw myself and my baby into oncoming traffic.

I became detached from reality, terrified of what I might do to my baby and myself. Shame bound me to silence until I woke him up. 

He got me help. 

I was diagnosed with postpartum obsessive-compulsive disorder and psychosis. I’m a neurologist married to a neurosurgeon; I understood the brain but lost touch with my own. 

I became a patient at The Motherhood Space in Jacksonville, Florida – one of fewer than 40 intensive programs in the nation that treat mood and anxiety disorders during and after pregnancy. Therapy, on-site childcare, transportation and lactation support removed barriers that keep most mothers from........

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