Chapter 6 - POSTPARTUM
At four weeks postpartum, I began having panic attacks.
The irony was brutal.
Derek had spent months claiming I was mentally unstable.
Now, after leaving him, I actually needed mental-health treatment.
For two days, I avoided calling anyone because I feared creating evidence for him.
Claire noticed.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m tired.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I ate.”
“A granola bar isn’t food.”
I snapped:
“Stop watching me.”
She stepped back.
Immediately.
That made me cry.
Because Derek never stepped back.
Claire said quietly:
“You need help.”
I called Dr. Grant.
She referred me to a perinatal mental-health specialist.
Diagnosis:
Postpartum anxiety with trauma-related symptoms.
Not psychosis.
Not incapacity.
Not proof Derek had been right.
I started therapy.
Discussed medication options.
Worked on sleep arrangements with Claire and my mother so I could get longer rest while protecting breastfeeding goals as much as possible.
There was no shame in any of it.
But I felt shame anyway.
Healing often requires knowing something intellectually long before your emotions catch up.
My therapist, Dr. Hannah Lee, said:
“You are afraid that needing care will validate his narrative.”
“Yes.”
“Does having pneumonia make someone correct if they falsely accused you of lung cancer?”
I laughed despite myself.
“No.”
“Then illness is not confession.”
That sentence saved me more than once.
I documented treatment openly.
Not performatively.
I followed medical advice.
I cared for Lily.
Accepted help.
The custody evaluator later considered all of it.
Derek’s attorney tried to suggest my postpartum anxiety supported his earlier concerns.
The evaluator rejected that simplification.
Mental-health treatment can indicate responsibility.
Not unfitness.
My functioning mattered.
Safety mattered.
Evidence mattered.
May you like
Derek’s prior attempt to manufacture incapacity without medical support mattered too.
The narrative he built began collapsing under actual professional evaluation.
