Thank you for this story. I have a similar of my own, down to the evil that is effexor and the (I’m sorry to project) asshole husband.

Except no one ever mentioned ppd to me. I was “just depressed”, which was apparently not allowed in our home. My son had been gravely ill, an idiopathic catastrophic pulmonary hemorrhage at 6 weeks. I was the reason he didnt die, because I had somehow managed to take his sister to a preschool class at the imaginarium that day instead of staying home in my bathrobe, which would have placed him face up, flat on his back, in his crib napping when it happened. As it were, I happened to be staring right at him asleep in his stroller, stroking his cheek and thinking he seemed pale, when the blood volcano erupted — only because he was propped at an angle. On his back he would simply have drowned and I would have checked on him when his nap went long and…I cant even type it.

Anyway, his lungs bled until he was 3, for the first 18 months he wore a pulse-ox on his toe that fell off 3000 times a night and set off the alarm. So, I stopped sleeping.

When he was 2 1/2, he got the all clear, the blood was so minute now. They started weaning him off the steroids and all was well and the way I handled that was to fucking fall all the way apart.

My (ex) husband got sick of having a sick wife…I dont remember him ever asking why I was so messed up. Funny that even in the midst of my breakdown I was still the one having to shield the kids from his tantrums, his threatening to blow his brains out and storming out the door with his gun, the three of us on the couch, terrified. His throwing US out of the house, then becoming insanely furious when he called to say we could come home and I told him his daughter didnt want to come home so we were going to my brother’s for the night. He told me then that *i* had ruined his relationship with the kids because now he wouldnt ever be able to face them again. God, if ONLY. I remember my 2 1/2 year old baby boy climbing onto a chair so he was eye level with his dad and pointing and screaming “No, DADDY! we don’t TALK to people that way!” in the kitchen as his father berated me once again.

So suffering from what I know now was c-PTSD with a healthy helping of PPD, I became suicidal. Fighting with him one night I grabbed a knife and (superficially) cut my wrist and it was like one of those spoof swat scenes where the whole team comes from nowhere busting through the doors.

See, I had asked him to leave and he begged to stay til he found a place so I relented, not knowing he had hired a divorce atty and they had a plan in place for when he finally managed to drive me completely mad.

I was escorted to the hospital and served with divorce papers and a restraining order, citing me as “a danger to myself".

I was officially homeless-never set foot in our home again-and didnt see (or speak to) my kids for almost 5 months.

Because despite court ordered visitation while I got on my feet, he decided to ask our 7 year old if she WANTED to see me (say yes and the crazy man I have to live with will hate me too, say no and take a gamble mom will understand), and when she said no, just let that stand with the 3 year old (who thought I died) as well.

Until I could get in front of a judge again.

It will be 10 years in october, he remarried a rich woman and revels, to this day, in finding ways to pay minimal support and gouge me for the little money I have. I dont know how destroying someone’s life can hold a person’s interest for this long, but damn if he isnt persistent.

I would still take it over having stayed married to him, though.

The way your husband spoke to you triggers me, and I truly hope he has made sincere amends because he was just so fucking wrong.

Sorry a lot more than I meant to write.


I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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