Friday, September 24, 2004, my husband, Paul, came home from work to find me sitting crisscross applesauce on the nursery floor. Head in my hands, I couldn’t speak. My tears fell fast and hard. My heart raced so fast, I couldn’t catch my breath. The fear reverberated through my entire body.
Finally, I squeaked out,
“If I move from this place, I’m scared I’ll grab a knife and kill you and Joshua.”
Paul called my counselor. The counselor called her supervisor, the Medical Director. Off to the emergency room at Barnes Jewish hospital in St. Louis, MO, we went.
Joshua entered the world on February 13, 2004 at 2:23 am. My sweet boy was tiny and deeply loved. His birth was not easy. After 27 hrs of a start and stop labor, a c-section was performed, my worst fear. And breastfeeding, forget it! Something was wrong, but we just couldn’t seem to figure it out. I was devastated.
I spent five days in the hospital. My wonderful husband at my side each moment. We were enamored with Joshua. I just kept telling myself, “We’ll figure out this breastfeeding thing.” I grew up in an environment where birth and breastfeeding were very natural events, which I do still believe, but I couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong with me.
Finally, my mom, a certified nurse midwife, discovered Joshua had a tongue tie, but no one would clip it for us. The tenacious person I am, I would NOT give up. I was determined something would go right with this birth. So, I chose to pump every three hours because damn it,
“I WILL NOT FAIL.”
The first weeks after birth were a stupor of no sleep, constant pumping, and the c-section incision not healing well. My OB/GYN must have noticed something was off because he offered me Prozac during my two week check up. “It’s a happy pill. It will make you feel great in no time”, he said. Internally, I lurched at the idea of a “happy pill.” I worked in the mental health field. I knew how the SSRIs worked. I, STEPHANIE SEIDL, DID NOT NEED OR WANT AN SSRI.
I AM FINE!
Time continued to move on. My mind swirled with questions about what happened during my labor and surgical delivery. I assailed Paul with questions for clarity. I couldn’t organize my mind around what happened. I cried. I journaled. I prayed. I kept crying. All while I loved my baby more than my life. I went back to my job in the psychiatry department at Washington University, School of Medicine.
Friday, August 27, 2004, I put my sweet, six-month-old Joshua, down for his nap. I walked into the living room, sat down on the couch, and immediately a blanket of darkness descended over me from the back to the front. I was enveloped. The scariest thoughts I have ever had in my life consumed my mind:
You are going to kill Joshua.
You’re going to be just like Andrea Yates. You’ll drown him just like she drowned her kids.
You are going to lose your mind, kill the people you love, and start hearing voices.
You have schizophrenia.
My heart raced. My hands shook. My skin tingled. My head felt fuzzy. I knew it. I was having a panic attack, and I couldn’t stop it.
Somehow, I made my way to the landline to call Paul to come home. I left Joshua in his crib, too scared to touch him. Paul arrived quickly. He calmed me to the best of his ability, but the quake within me could not be stopped. I knew I needed to get into counseling ASAP. I called the local counseling practice and got an appointment for Monday, August 30, 2004. I thought I would be ok. I WAS NOT OK.
Restoration Counseling, PLLC 
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