Personal Experiences
of Affected Mothers and Families

Now I am a wonderful mother!

The Pregnancy

My daughter Emily was very much a planned and deeply wished-for child for me (27) and my husband (31). The time felt right for a baby, and I became pregnant on our very first try. I diligently attended every prenatal appointment. Each time it felt like a miracle to see our little baby on the ultrasound screen. Until week 26, my pregnancy was picture-perfect. Then I was admitted to hospital with premature contractions - which, for me, was half a drama in itself, as I had always hated hospitals. I was put on medication to stop the contractions and was only allowed to get up to use the bathroom. My family and I prepared ourselves for the possibility of a premature birth. But the contractions became less intense day by day. After two weeks I was discharged - still pregnant - but prescribed strict bed rest. I spent my days lying on the sofa, watching television and playing video games. I would have loved to go into town with my husband to buy more baby things. During that time I cried a lot. My whole body ached from lying down constantly. I had daily CTG monitoring and was afraid every time that the contractions I continued to have would worsen. The psychological strain was enormous. (My therapist later said that I was probably already suffering from antenatal depression at that time, but it went unrecognised and therefore untreated.) From week 35 onward I was allowed to be up and about again and enjoyed the remainder of my pregnancy without complications. My husband took wonderful care of me. My fear that the baby would not fit through the birth canal (I weighed only 46 kilograms before pregnancy) was brushed aside by the doctors with the words, “It will work out somehow.”

The Birth (18 June 2007)

At first my little one wanted to arrive too early - and then not at all. She was one week overdue and I had to go into hospital. They tried homeopathic globules and a labour cocktail. I have no idea which of those helped, but at 9:30 p.m. my waters broke. Within an hour my cervix was fully dilated and labour progressed quickly. By 4 a.m., however, my daughter became stuck in the birth canal. Labour stalled, I could no longer push effectively, and the doctors and midwives began to panic. A caesarean section was no longer possible at that stage. Because her heart rate was deteriorating, they decided to use a vacuum extractor. At 4:35 a.m., she was finally born. It was a beautiful moment. I was not allowed to hold her immediately, as she was first examined in the adjoining room by paediatricians. Then they placed her in my arms. I cried and could not believe that my husband and I had been given something so beautiful. To us, Emily was the most beautiful baby in the world. Because of the vacuum extraction, I had a large episiotomy and had to be stitched for one and a half hours. It was very painful. You want to enjoy your child, but instead you cannot concentrate on your baby because of the pain. Finally, I was taken to my room with my baby. I gazed at her all day and loved her deeply from the very first moment.

On the Postnatal Ward

At night I took my baby to the nursery because I was utterly exhausted. I had severe problems with my stitches and was in intense pain. I had to hold on to the little hospital crib just to be able to walk. The pain dominated my entire day. I was given no pain medication. “Women have been giving birth for centuries - pull yourself together,” was all I heard from the nurses. I also chose not to breastfeed and stopped lactation immediately after birth. Many nurses and even the paediatrician criticised me for that. But it didn’t matter to me — it was my decision.

At Home

It was pouring with rain on the day I was discharged. My husband picked us up and had arranged little surprises in the living room for Emily and me. But I could not enjoy any of it. Instead, I snapped at him that I just wanted to lie down. When it was time to prepare Emily’s first bottle at home, we argued about how to do it. I felt completely overwhelmed.

My husband took a week off after the birth. Each day things improved slightly. I was happy - and so was he. But my stitches were still causing me severe pain, and I went back to my gynaecologist because I could barely endure it. But that first week together as a family was beautiful. After that, I was alone with Emily during the day. I became more and more exhausted and weak. I cried more frequently. We assumed it was the “baby blues” - something normal. At night it became increasingly difficult to fall asleep again after feeding her. Soon I was barely sleeping at all. I was completely exhausted, yet constantly tense. I counted the hours until my husband returned home. I want to emphasise: I loved my Emily every single minute. Then the fears began: fear of being alone, fear when the baby cried, fear of being a bad mother. My days were filled with tears, exhaustion and anxiety.

At four weeks old, Emily cried excessively. We learned she had KISS syndrome, related to the difficult birth. For the first time, I felt guilty toward my child. I began vomiting every morning as soon as my husband left the house. I have to describe it plainly: it was not ordinary nausea, but violent retching lasting up to half an hour. After three days I went to the doctor, assuming it was a stomach virus. He found nothing and suggested it was stress-related. But it worsened. Every time my baby cried from hunger, I began vomiting. I would hold the bottle in one hand and a bucket in the other. This continued for a week. When my husband had two weeks of summer holiday, the vomiting stopped immediately. I could sleep again. I began to recover. We enjoyed walks and time together. But in his second week of leave, overwhelming panic returned. I imagined I would not cope once he returned to work. I stopped sleeping completely. The vomiting resumed - even before she cried, simply because I knew feeding time was approaching. One Wednesday night, we called the emergency doctor, who administered a sedative injection. My husband took further leave and cared for our daughter alone. I could no longer get out of bed. My days consisted of sleeping, vomiting and crying.

That was when I realised something was seriously wrong. This was not baby blues. I sought help. I consulted my GP (who prescribed sedatives), my gynaecologist (who prescribed antidepressants), and family support services. For the first time I heard the words: POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION.

One Thursday afternoon, I pulled myself together and started searching online. That was when I found the website of Schatten & Licht. As I read through the information, I realised how deeply unwell I already was - and that I would not be able to get out of this state on my own. Together with my husband, I decided that I needed inpatient treatment. My gynaecologist quickly arranged a place for me at Psychiatrie Altscherbitz. It was incredibly important to me that I could take my little daughter with me. She gave me the strength to take that step. On Friday morning, I admitted myself to the psychiatric hospital in Altscherbitz. I did it for myself, for my husband, and for my daughter. My parents were against it at first. They did not understand what was happening to me. Today, however, they agree that it was the best decision I could have made - because you simply cannot get through this alone.

In the Psychiatric Clinic

From Emily’s seventh week of life, she stayed with me in the psychiatric hospital. Diagnosis: severe postpartum depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and an anxious–avoidant personality pattern. It was an extremely difficult time. My medications were adjusted, and the vomiting episodes eased somewhat. I came to understand that the vomiting was part of how my body was processing the stress of caring for a baby. I also learned that I could be a good mother to my child, even when things didn’t go perfectly. Gradually, I began to feel a little better. As I became calmer, so did my baby. (I should mention that I was not given sedatives in the hospital — only an antipsychotic and my new antidepressant.) She even started sleeping through the night, except for a single bottle. There were four other women with their babies there as well. We went for walks, attended group sessions together, and had long, supportive conversations. We encouraged each other, because progress in therapy was slow and full of ups and downs. Even today, I can say that entering that treatment was the right step in the right direction. The doctor, nurses, and therapists all accompanied me, helped me, and supported me. Since the hospital was quite far from home, my husband could only visit on Wednesdays and weekends. The rest of the time, I was alone with my baby — and I managed to take care of Emily entirely on my own. After two weeks, I was allowed home for the first weekend. It was wonderful to lie in my husband’s arms, to go for walks with our daughter, and to visit the rest of the family. The goodbyes were always full of tears. But every Sunday, I held my child in my arms and watched my husband leave the hospital grounds, knowing exactly why we were fighting this battle. Even from home, my husband continued to fight for us — calling every day, texting, and simply being there. He was my anchor during this incredibly difficult period, when I felt like I was drifting away. I am still grateful to him for his strength. Our families stayed close too. My parents and his called almost daily to encourage me. After seven weeks, I was discharged from the hospital. The feeling of finally being home for good was indescribable.

Recovery at Home

But the ordeal was far from over. I knew from the doctors that there was still a long road ahead. Postpartum depression doesn’t simply disappear after a few weeks in hospital. I found a good psychiatrist and started psychotherapy with a psychologist. Mother-and-baby courses were offered near our home. I began with postnatal exercise classes (even though it was already a bit late), followed by a baby massage course. After that, I took Emily to a crawling class. These courses gave my week some structure. I got out among people and was able to connect with other women. I didn’t tell anyone about my postpartum depression - I was too afraid of being judged or excluded. Gradually, I became more confident in caring for my baby. I loved her and celebrated every little milestone she reached. My days fell into a routine, and life slowly began to feel normal again. The panic attacks became less frequent, and so did the vomiting. But life at that point was a constant up and down. Some days went really well - I felt good and could play with Emily. Then there were periods when, although I was taking care of my child, I felt emotionally low and anxious again. Whenever it became particularly difficult, I visited the Schatten & Licht website and read the personal stories of women who had nearly recovered from the illness. These stories gave me hope and reassurance. The structured routine of my day also helped me feel grounded.

1 Jahr danach (18.08.2008)

I’m feeling really well again. The doctors had been right: it takes about a year for everything to return (almost) to how it was before. At the beginning, I honestly thought I wouldn’t survive it. I didn’t believe I could make it that far. But my husband kept encouraging me. I still wonder where he found that strength. For me, recovery coincided exactly with that milestone. Of course, there are still moments when things aren’t so good, but the gaps between these difficult periods keep getting longer, and their duration shorter. I still take my antidepressant today, though I was able to stop the antipsychotic after six months. My therapists told me that the illness changes a person, and my doctor always said I would emerge stronger and grow internally from this experience. They were all right, even if I struggled to believe it at first and during the rough days. Yes, I have changed: I approach new situations with more caution than before, and sometimes the morning nausea returns. But it passes, and I manage the situations. I am a great mom, and I stand up for my child. I love my husband and my Emily, and I have regained joy in life, enjoying each day. Of course, I still have worries, but that’s normal for anyone, even a healthy person. My daughter is now 14 months old - such a lively, bright little girl. I can feel how much she loves me and my husband and how happy she is to see us. She has been attending daycare for a month, and I’m looking for a new job. My previous employer didn’t rehire me - I assume it was because of my hospital stay. But we’ll manage that too.

My husband, especially when I was feeling low, kept reminding me:

I am a great mom, and my child loves and needs me.
We can get through this.
Never lose courage.
Never give up hope.
(Almost) all women recover - why shouldn’t I?
And it will get better - almost imperceptibly, because everything takes time. Never forget: IT REALLY DOES GET BETTER. I didn’t want to believe it at first either, but life will return to you. No matter how bad things feel, never give up, fight - no matter how hard it is - and start finding joy in the little things. And the most important thing is to TALK: with your partner, your child, your family, your doctors, and even strangers. At first, I found it difficult, because even now, postpartum depression is still such a taboo in our society: a mother is expected to be fine, to love her child unconditionally, and to face the world with strength.

It’s shocking that no childbirth preparation classes or pregnancy guides mention this topic. My midwife never spoke to me about it either. In the end, you only realize what’s happening to you far too late.

IT IS NOT A SHAME to feel unwell.

IT IS A SERIOUS ILLNESS: seek help.

Don’t try to manage it on your own — that’s time wasted.

For me, there were probably several triggers for this postpartum depression:

High-risk pregnancy (likely accompanied by antenatal depression)
Difficult birth
Challenging postpartum period
Crying baby (due to KISS syndrome)
Naturally anxious personality, highly stress-sensitive

I hope this story can help someone else. Today, I can live without fear and enjoy my family. I admit I would have preferred to skip my daughter’s first year, but that makes the present all the more beautiful.

Wanting a Child Despite Severe Psychotic Episodes

Over the past ten years, I have experienced four severe psychotic episodes. The last one began three days after the birth of our daughter Paula in June 2006. If we ever decide to have another child, there are many things we would do differently.

Even before becoming pregnant, I thought carefully about the topic of having children while living with mental illness. For example, I found an institute online where people can ask whether certain medications may be harmful during pregnancy or breastfeeding (Embryotox: www.embryotox.de). There I learned that I could continue taking my medication without concerns. I also searched for literature about mental illness and the wish to have children, but could not really find what I was looking for. Then I became pregnant. I truly enjoyed the pregnancy, although from time to time I felt stressed and worried that I should be earning money. That feeling still occasionally stays with me today, even though I am very happy as a mother and homemaker and we live well on my husband’s income. I was happy, excited about our baby, and proud of my growing belly.

And now comes the paradox: although we knew a psychotic episode might occur after the birth, we never really planned for what that would mean in practice. How could we make sure I got enough sleep, when sleep deprivation is one of my strongest triggers? Who would care for Paula if I needed hospital treatment? Was there perhaps even a clinic where mother and baby could stay together? Was there a way to make the birth itself less stressful? Looking back now, I think the midwives, my gynaecologist, and my psychiatrist could have prepared me better. They all knew about my mental health history. It is difficult to say what exactly triggered this severe psychotic episode. Hormones, sleep deprivation, stress… I do not know. It cannot be undone, and perhaps somehow it also became part of our path in life. But if we ever have another child, the birth will probably be by caesarean section to reduce stress as much as possible, and the baby will definitely be bottle-fed so that I can get enough sleep and receive more support from my husband, family, and friends. The birth itself was very exhausting. It lasted a very long time, and in the end Paula was born by caesarean section after all.

My memories of the hospital afterwards are vague. The boundary between reality and psychosis gradually blurred. After about three days, it became clear that I needed psychiatric treatment. I remained in hospital for three months. During that time, my husband, my mother, and friends cared for little Paula. My husband visited every day and often brought her with him. But quite soon I lost my emotional connection to my daughter. I barely reacted to her anymore. This was probably influenced by the large amounts of medication I was receiving. Even after being discharged from hospital, I could not fully connect with Paula at first. Slowly, very slowly, I opened my heart to her again. She is now two years old, and I can no longer imagine life without her.

This is what things felt like inside me: Joy. Excited anticipation before the birth. No fear, more curiosity than anything else. Then the contractions. Breathing, contractions, breathing, contractions — almost like a trance. In the pauses between contractions there was total relaxation. Again and again into the water. No sense of time. Nothing progresses. Nothing moves forward. Then the decision — my decision: I want a caesarean section. Laughter… funny how everything shakes — the whole bed is shaking. Luckily I cannot see anything. And then she is there — Paula — and with her come love and happiness. Timelessness. Breastfeeding. Pain from the caesarean. Breastfeeding. Rooming-in.

At some point I start handing her over to the nurses more and more. Then the night marked by pain. The baby cries endlessly from severe wind. I sing, rock her, offer the dummy, crying, pain, singing, “The river is flowing!” Like a trance. Timelessness. The next day I storm barefoot to the reception desk in fury. “Where is the cook?” I shout: “How can he cook food that causes bloating?” I run outside and scream at the top of my lungs. At some point everyone arrives: my mother, father, husband. They take me to the psychiatric hospital.

I know the ward already from years earlier. I sit in the same place as before. Everything feels strangely familiar. Names confuse me. During the first days I sleep in the corridor. “Camping holiday.” “Active – passive – smoking.” I disrupt the whole ward. I am restless, timeless, childless. I smear butter all over myself — people say it is good for the skin, don’t they? Eventually they have to restrain me to the bed — something I ask for myself. I am loud, slam doors, terrified of dying. Then I move into a single room: “All-inclusive hotel holiday.” But I still carry an overwhelming fear of death.

Paula drifts further and further away from me. Then one final attempt to be close to her. I run away from the clinic and try to get home to my child. Carrying a heavy travel bag, I make my way there — walking, taking trains, eventually barefoot, abandoning the bag by the roadside. My husband finds me and brings me back. After that, I begin forgetting Paula more and more. Everything else feels more important. I want to become a writer, not a mother. I want to become an artist, not a mother. I want to study philosophy instead of caring for a baby. The weeks pass. I smoke endlessly. I write meaningless phrases, eat constantly, and live on the ward as though at a holiday camp. The other patients become my friends. I receive many visitors, spend a lot of time on the phone, and see Paula every second day. But she feels far away. I am too consumed by myself. “Give me the full dose,” I say during medication rounds. And those heavy medications push me further and further away from my child — from our child.

I do not know exactly when it happens. But at some point the world slowly becomes clearer again. Why? I do not know. I begin going home more often, even staying overnight. Gradually, a connection begins to form again between Paula and me. At first it is only a thin thread, but over time it grows stronger and stronger. And then I am discharged.

It is early October, after three full months during which I experienced so very much. Even now, Paula and I continue growing closer and closer. I think this is a process all mothers go through — only in our case, that process was delayed. I am simply grateful that my maternal love fully returned. Paula is a wonderful child. She is cheerful, lively, and has a strong personality of her own. Our friends and family form a strong support network around her. My mother helps us enormously, and Paula adores her “Moma”. The psychosis feels further and further away now, and yet it is always there in the background. It could return at any time. But I am no longer afraid of it. I do everything I can to stay well. And if it should return one day, I know that together we will get through it again.

In March, my little sunshine Joe was born. It was a very difficult birth — 32 hours long, and honestly, I never want to go through that again. After three days in hospital, we went home, and that was when things really began to fall apart. I cried constantly, did not know what to do with my baby, had no support, and believed I had to manage everything on my own. I coped like that for about two weeks, and then suddenly I simply could not cope anymore.

I stopped being able to sleep, and these terrifying intrusive thoughts started taking over. I called a midwife, and she brought me to a psychiatric hospital. I thought: “Now I’ve completely lost my mind. This will never go away.” Joe stayed with me there for four weeks, but because the clinic was not set up to care for infants, the doctor eventually decided it would be better if my husband took the baby home. Thankfully, that worked very well. I truly admire my husband for coping so bravely with everything. Every day I cried to the nurses and doctors, telling them I was a terrible mother, that I would never truly love my baby, and that I would always have these intrusive thoughts. I was met with enormous understanding and encouragement, and for that I remain deeply grateful.

After a few weeks, things slowly began to improve. I decided to continue treatment in a day clinic so that at least I could spend evenings back at home. I slowly began asking myself why I had become so unwell. The therapies helped me enormously in sorting through the chaos inside my head. Eventually, I stopped fighting the intrusive thoughts so desperately and simply allowed them to be there. Surprisingly, once I stopped battling them constantly, they became less frightening. And during the worst period, they truly felt unbearable. No one who has not experienced this themselves can fully imagine what women affected by these thoughts have to endure emotionally.

I have now been back home for four weeks, and I feel a little better every day. Of course, some days are still exhausting. But life with a baby is demanding in itself, and that is completely normal. Mothers do not always have to walk around smiling and feeling joyful all the time. It would be lovely if life always worked that way — but that is probably unrealistic. Be honest about your vulnerabilities, because there is strength in that. I now go for long walks every day and meet many other mothers along the way.

Some seem to have everything perfectly under control all the time — at least on the surface. I often wonder how they manage that. It simply cannot always be true. And then, when I begin talking openly about my postnatal depression, suddenly many of them open up too and share their own struggles. In those moments, I realise how important and comforting honest exchange can be.

I have also started therapy again. I believed I had already processed the trauma from my childhood and difficult family relationships, but this illness showed me how deeply I still suffered because of my relationship with my mother. She rejected me throughout my childhood, and during pregnancy those experiences resurfaced painfully. But instead of truly confronting them, I kept pushing them aside. I worked constantly to avoid thinking too much — until eventually everything collapsed. I believe that becoming a mother yourself often triggers a process of separation and redefinition in relation to your own mother. I had spent my entire life longing for my mother’s affection and approval. Now I have to let go of that longing, and this process is deeply painful. But I also believe that only those who can forgive can truly become free for their own life. I have decided that once I feel truly stable again, I will write down my past on a piece of paper and burn it. A farewell to the painful past — and a step towards freedom for myself, for my son, and for the wonderful life that still lies ahead of us. We only have to learn to see it. “The quality of your life depends on the quality of your thoughts.”