Judging Robin Williams

My favorite nurse was Heidi. She was vivacious, blunt and she did nothing but inform and encourage me whenever she came into the room. More than a few times, she'd place her hands on my head and say, "You are incredible," and then she'd close her eyes and tilt her head back in dramatic regard for God. It always made me laugh, but then she'd say, "I'm being silly but I'm not joking. I'm so glad you're  my patient. I've been bragging about you all morning and all the other nurses are jealous."

I scoffed.

"You're working your ass off, Kate," she said. "You've been nursing that baby for three days straight and you're not quitting. I've never seen a mother so happy and determined as you are. And I just love when I get to come in here and check on you."

She had no idea what I'd been through that pregnancy. I hadn't slept for 3 months, I hadn't been able to take a deep breath for 2, and the last month had been so hot that I had barely wanted to move but had managed to spend a good portion of my days in the community pool with my toddler. The last 17 weeks of the pregnancy, I had worried about my baby's kidneys and that the pyelectasis had been a marker for Downs Syndrome.

But he had arrived safely, and he was strong and beautiful and so sweet, and I was safe, and I could breathe and the nausea was gone, and I could finally hold my baby - I never wanted to put him down. He was finally with me, safe, and so tiny, and hungry as hell. So, yes, I had to nurse him around the clock because my body had NEVER gotten the hang of producing much, but I didn't mind because I was grateful - so stupid-crazy grateful.

"Your abdomen is still distended more than I like to see," Heidi told me. "So we're going to keep you here for one more day and hope we see improvement tomorrow. But you'll likely go home tomorrow afternoon."

As much as I hated the hospital, and as badly as I wanted to get home to my toddler, I was fine with it.

For the rest of the day, I held my baby whenever I was awake, stroking his silky dark hair and watching him sleep or nurse. My husband convinced me to let him hold him so I could sleep, and I got a good 3 hours before the baby needed me again. I was excited to have him back and quickly got to work nursing him, no matter the horrific pain of it.

Heidi came back in a few hours later to tell me it was the end of her shift and the next day was her day off, so this was it for us. She hugged me tightly, told me she had never seen a mother so happy and so bright before, and then passed me off to another nurse, who said, "Heidi told me all about you. She said you're her favorite patient. We're going to have fun. " Her name was Vanessa.

That night, my husband left for home to give our toddler some dinner, a bath, and a goodnight kiss for me.

Me and my baby were on our own for a little bit, and I didn't mind whatsoever.

I'd had a good dinner, drunk a lot of water, and nursed him for a good two hours. I needed a bathroom break.

I swaddled him tightly, put him back in his little hospital box thingy, and used the facilities, making sure I washed my hands thoroughly.

Stepping out of the bathroom, I stood over my baby as he looked around and fought sleep.

So sweet, so beautiful. I willed myself toward him but didn't move.

A strange, cold, spiny dread had sprung in my gut.

Looking at him, seeing how tiny and perfect he was, I reminded myself that I loved him.

I had to remind myself. You love him, Kate. You love him, remember?

Yes, I could remember. Clearly. I had a perfect recollection of it. It was only moments ago.

I can't pick him up. I can't. I don't want to. I don't want to do this. I need to leave. I can't breathe. I can't stop shaking. My husband took the car. Is there anywhere for me to hide? Can I walk to a hotel? Do I have my wallet? I need to leave. I have to go. I can't do this.

Knock, knock. Nurse Vanessa.

She saw my face and immediately smiled warmly.

She knew. She must have seen this face before. She must have understood. And I was going to get in trouble. They were going to take my baby away and my husband would never forgive me.

"What's going on?" she asked. "What's going through your mind right now?"

"I don't know," I said shakily. "I was fine a minute ago. I don't know what happened."

I had to be careful what I said, or they'd take him away and put me on psychiatric hold.

"I can't stop crying," I said. "I just can't stop."

She told me I needed to sleep, to try to lay down and sleep.

A few hours later, while my husband slept on the chair in the corner and the baby slept in the box thingy, I sneaked out of the room. Holding my hospital gown shut by gripping one of the ties at my hip, I wandered the halls. I had no place to go, no place to be, and I couldn't sleep. The shaking, the panic, the crying - I couldn't sleep. Especially not with the baby right next to me. I couldn't have him anywhere near me.

And so I wandered, and paced, and sobbed as quietly as I could for an hour before Vanessa found me and walked with me. She asked me questions, so many questions, and I had to be careful how I answered.

What I wanted to say:

I don't want to do this. I don't want my family anymore. I want to run away and die. I can't do this. I'm in so much pain, my heart is tearing open with each beat and I feel like I'm turning inside out, and I wish I could die, because I can't do this. I can't. I don't want to. It's too much and I'm too tired and I just want to lay down and never wake up.

What I actually said amidst hiccupping sobs:

"He deserves a better mother than me. I don't know why I feel this way. One minute I was fine, and then it was like I was hit with a baseball bat and I can't breathe or sleep and I feel like throwing up. I shouldn't be his mom - he needs someone else."

Vanessa got on the phone with the doctor on call to get me a prescription for anti-anxiety medication, ordered the nursery nurses to take the baby into the nursery, and took me to my room. I didn't want my husband awakened but she woke him anyway and told him what I was going through as I took the pill that would knock me out for a few hours.

Then, the next day, they sent me home.

I woke up crying, went to sleep crying, sat on the couch nursing my baby while my toddler played nearby and I just sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. When my husband took the baby, I'd go into my bedroom, fall to the floor and cry so hard that my abdominal muscles burned. (Nope, it didn't help me get my pre-baby six pack back, dammit.) And I'd sit at the dinner table, crying while I ate. And my husband would send me out to get some fresh air, and I'd find a curb far away from home where I could sit and cry into my knees.

I couldn't stop shaking, I couldn't stop crying, I couldn't cry hard enough, and I never wanted to go back home.

I remember, one day, before I headed out for a walk, my husband put his hands on my face and asked, "You're going to come home, right?" I nodded, telling myself he'd be fine if I didn't.

And I had visitors, and people asked, "Have you tried praying to feel better?" I considered acting on my rage by punching them repeatedly, wondering if it would cure me, but I simply answered, "Every minute since it hit."

People told me to eat right, to get exercise, and to be grateful. They worried I didn't love my baby.

And I'd go into my room and cry again, feeling like I didn't have enough faith, that I didn't love my baby enough, that I was a spoiled brat who couldn't be happy having everything wonderful I'd ever wanted.

But even then I knew - this wasn't me. This was my body. My body was doing this. It wasn't my fault.

But I didn't believe - not even for a second - that I would ever feel better.

When I was in it, that was it - this was my new reality and I would just have to pull myself through every horrible moment of it for others' sakes. I was drowning in despair, trying so hard to override it all with my mind, trying to control it, trying to push it down, trying to overturn every bad thought with a good one, but it wasn't working. I was choosing to be happy, I wanted joy, I had earned bliss, and I deserved peace. I wasn't sinful, I wasn't lazy, I wasn't attention hungry. If anything, I wanted to be left alone completely. I wanted to face no one.

I wanted escape.

It had been weeks. Weeks.

And even though my husband had put me in the guest room to sleep while he fed the baby at night so I could have a break from nursing to allow some healing (my baby actually vomited my blood, which did wonders for my mindset!), and even though I was getting a little more sleep and was forcing food into my belly and cinching my throat shut to hold it down, and even though I had amazingly supportive, understanding and generous friends, I was still hoping for some kind of escape.

Maybe I wouldn't wake up the next morning, maybe I'd get hit by a car on my walk, maybe the earth would swallow me whole.

My parents offered to watch my children so I could get out with my husband, but I didn't want to leave the house - and, what, bawl in the middle of a nice restaurant? And then have to come home - ugh - to nurse again. I didn't care how badly I was suffocating - I couldn't go out in public.

I was a failure, and I was sure people were scared of me, and I was positive I was a horrible mother and my family would be better off if I just left. My faith hadn't cured me, others' faith hadn't cured me, and I simply wasn't strong enough to cure myself.

I wanted so badly to be happy. Those first few days after my second child's birth were among the happiest days in my life. How did this happen? Why did I have lose that? And would I ever get it back?

Two weeks after the birth of my perfect little boy, two weeks into the darkest hell of my life, two weeks of surviving and taking weird pills and hating living, I sat on the couch with my husband by my side and we watched television. It was usually one of the worst times I day - I would just sit silently and cry, wiping my face with burp rags and dreading bedtime.

But that night, things were different. As I sat there with my baby sleeping on my chest, I said, "I feel better."

My husband perked up. "You what?"

"I feel better," I said. "I don't know. I just feel better." And I even smiled.

The next day was easier. I didn't cry.

The day after that, we went to the park as a family.

Three weeks after his birth, I looked forward to getting him up from his nap and holding him and playing with him. I was proud of him, and I found small joys in him, and I wanted him and my toddler around.

A month later, it was possible I was going to be okay. I finally believed that. I was going to be fine.

I've been in ruts, or funks, or had hard times before and since. I know when I'm getting over a breakup, or am overwhelmed with the holidays, or am grieving a lost loved one. I know when it's circumstance and I know when it's chemical. And, yes, I can choose joy when I'm going through a hard time, and I can look for the good to pull myself out of a rut, and I can pray away a funk or two.

But there are times when that just isn't possible.

And so when I read that Robin Williams was hurting so badly that he hurt himself to death, I understood and I grieved because of how much pain he must have been in. Because I know when you can't escape yourself, when your own mind is self-destructing and when you can no longer sense reality.

It's easy to call him selfish, to blame his ego, to even be angry at him. And, conversely, it's easy to say that we shouldn't honor him because it might encourage others. But only people who cannot imagine that kind of pain are the ones fearful that random people will simply end themselves. No, healthy, happy, occasionally troubled people don't just kill themselves. Not often. And so paying respects to a brilliant man in too much pain to live won't likely give others ideas. It's an exquisite pain that drives someone to that point.

Yes, you can choose to live. And you should. He should have. It pains me that he suffered and that he's gone. It hurts me that his family is beside themselves with shock and grief - a grief that will never, ever go away. And what is even more frustrating is that he could have been helped and he could have gotten better. But to say depression is a choice or a chosen mindset is irresponsible at least.

I wanted to be joyful. I loved my baby, my toddler and my husband, but I was in an immense struggle with my brain and I was injured from childbirth and burdened with expectations. It was my mind that was breaking me. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it. No amount of praying, gratitude, or positive thinking could change anything. I knew, rationally, so many things, but reality was still falling apart.

No, you can't snap out of it. No, you can't pray for God to fix it. No, you can't just hope for the best and not think about it anymore. Do we tell that to patients who've had heart attacks? No, they take aspirin and other meds. Do we say that to type 1 diabetics? No, we give them insulin. Do we say that to people with ear infections? No, they get antibiotics.

This is the human mind gone haywire - a chemical, a hormone, a gland is off course and it needs correction. And it's not your fault, and you don't deserve it, and you can get better.

There is help. A better life is ahead, I assure you. It might take some different attempts at different medications and it might require some lifestyle changes and sacrifices, but you are worth it because you are needed here. People love you, people would hurt at losing you, and you would miss so many beautiful things here. The first cool, crisp breeze of autumn, good belly laughs, deep kisses, the smell of new rain, Jimmy Fallon, hearing a song on the radio for the first time and loving it immediately, warm cookies... 

Life isn't perfect. It's hard. People are in pain everywhere. But we can find joy in so many things, in each other, in our own little quiet corners that we've carved out for ourselves and a few loved ones. And we can know pain and regard pain and let pain pass so we can have a few moments of peace and even delight.

There is help. From one hopeless person who truly felt the substance of me had gone dark, I can tell you that I hadn't realized how simple the solution was and how bright the world would become.

You don't deserve to be in pain and you don't deserve to die. Stay, try, find help. It's here. You're worth it.