What a picture-perfect family.  I am looking at a photo that was taken 20 years ago. Without false modesty, I can say that the photo portrays an attractive, young, successful looking family—mother, father, baby. How lovely. What a charming setting, too. My husband and I are standing in the flower filled backyard of our beautiful Hamptons getaway cottage where we were throwing a 10th anniversary party for our dearest friends. It looked like such a joyous occasion. My smiling spouse, Richard, was standing with his arms around me and our 3 month old infant son, Brett.   I, too, managed to put a smile on my face specifically for the lens of the camera to capture. But after the flash, my smile fades.  Who would ever know that this photo really reflects a time of pure terror? It was a time when my heart was incessantly pounding and I couldn’t stop my thoughts from endlessly racing.  Over and over and over again I’d hear an inner voice repeating “You are a terrible mother. You don’t deserve to have this child.  You shouldn’t even exist”.  It was a time when I couldn’t eat… I couldn’t sleep…but worst of all – I couldn’t feel.  So the moment after this photo was taken, I frantically searched out the Nanny and quickly gave my son to her for safe keeping. I couldn’t be trusted. It was obvious to anyone who knew me that something was not quite right.  My speech would sometimes slur and my reactions were painfully slow. I’ve been told that during this period of time my eyes were glazed over and I had a  zombie-like stare. During the weekdays when I was living at our apartment in Manhattan I would sometimes wake up to find myself wandering the streets of a strange neighborhood, or I’d be standing in the middle of a main thoroughfare like Broadway and become completely startled when cars  would start angrily honking at me to move. “What’s the matter with you—are you crazy or something?” “Hey lady, get the f--- out of the way”.   But which way was I to go? I was completely confused as to my whereabouts and not exactly sure where it was that I lived. But worse still were the moments when I would actually forget my name.  What was my name?  WHAT WAS MY NAME?   I would anxiously search through my handbag to dig out a drivers license to reveal my name and address.  I’d then seek out a police officer and ask for directions. They were always kind to me.     Sometimes I would remember that I had been the Vice President of a highly respected entertainment production company.   A pioneering feminist of the 1970s era, I was so proud that I continued to work full time right up until the very day I gave birth.  Yes, by gosh, I could do it all and have it all!  And I returned to work full throttle three weeks later, supervising a huge Exhibition for the Walt Disney Company at the National Broadcasting Convention in Las Vegas.  It was the talk of the town.  What a super woman—I was unstoppable. But when I returned home from my business trip, my world gradually started to change. Normally a person of high energy, positive focus and tremendous enthusiasm, I began to feel completely numb and detached.  I was in a walking dream state all day long.  Everything was now making me fearful. The simplest task became completely overwhelming.  Writing an ordinary business letter was an entire workday activity.  When at home, I was especially terrified of my own son, racing to the bathroom to throw up from anxiety the second the Nanny left me alone with him at the end of the day.   How was I going to take care of him until she returned the next morning? I would begin to have a massive panic attack.  Shaking and crying, I’d call my husband.  “Richie, you have to come home NOW.  I can’t take care of Brett. I don’t know what to do. Help me. Tell me what to do. I‘m so afraid.” “Just hold on until I get home”, he’d say in a soothing voice.  A very logical, competent lawyer, Richie was blind to the fact that his wife was falling to pieces.  He assumed that I was going through some kind of “new mother” syndrome that I would soon be able to shake off.  All he needed to do was to get me more help. But then I started having lapses of memory. Something deep inside of me let me know that I was becoming a danger to my baby and probably to myself. On the day when the Hampton’s family photo was taken I wasn’t working anymore. Actually, I was on a forced leave-of-absence dictated by my boss who was convinced that my odd behavior was a reflection of some kind of drug addiction. Since I couldn’t explain to him what was actually wrong with me, I just promised that I would seek professional help. In truth, my only addiction was to nicotine, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette as I sat all day and all night long huddled in the darkest corner of my living room, sobbing until there were no tears left. So what kind of help did I need?  What piece was missing from the picture? Mostly, I was traumatized being left alone with my son. I was terrified to hold him or even touch him.  I didn’t trust myself around him because I would go in and out of consciousness.  Why the hell couldn’t I be the adoring mother I desperately wanted to be?  How was it possible that I was an ivy league graduate who was completely incapable of feeding a bottle, changing a diaper, or taking my son for a stroll. Twenty years ago NO ONE discussed this type of problem. I was a complete disgrace… so really, how could I possibly confess this to anyone! Only my Dad, a medical doctor, was fully aware of the situation. Although completely stumped by my behavior he was determined to find the cause.  Thus began our journey through the medical suites of Manhattan.  He took me to one doctor after another: internists, endocrinologists, obstetricians, gynecologists, hematologists, oncologists—you name the specialty. My most memorable appointment was with a male obstetrician who scolded me like a naughty child. “Just get a hold of yourself and snap out of it”!  And as each doctor sent me away without a diagnosis or helpful suggestion, I began to despair and seriously contemplate suicide.  I decided that if I couldn’t shake my abhorrent behavior by a certain date, then I would throw myself under a city bus or train.  Really…this was my most positive solution. After all, my husband was beyond the perfect “catch” for a single white Jewish female - and there are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of those in Manhattan. He was in his 30’s, nice looking, very smart, a  partner in a prestigious law firm. The entire Jewish world would want their daughter to marry him.  Some lucky young lady would lovingly embrace him and willingly want to take great care of his beautiful infant son.  Yes, to me, this was the most reasonable plan.    Finally, my Dad took me to a psychiatrist who was the first doctor to acknowledge that I was seriously “ill”.  She called Richie at his office and told him that she wanted to hospitalize me. The husband who refused to see reality then freaked out. “Please, oh please, don’t do that.  Let’s do anything other than that”, he pleaded.  He couldn’t face that type of humiliation. So I was sent to yet another specialist I’d never heard of before—a psychopharmacologist.  This is a doctor who fully understands the chemistry of the brain and how different drugs will affect various parts of the brain and thus your behavior.  I would say that this doctor truly saved my life the moment he told me that he actually knew what was wrong with me!  I was suffering from a chemical brain imbalance caused by my delivery…I had a condition called “Post-Partum Psychosis”.  This was not the standard “emotional baby blues” nor a typical mental depression.  I don’t recall most of our first session together, but I will always hear his soft spoken words - words of hope.  “I promise that I will find the right medication that will cure you over a period of time.  You can’t give up.”  God bless you,  Dr. Levine. It was indeed a matter of trial and error—first I’d take a particular drug for a couple of days and then call Dr. Levine to tell him how I was reacting. Sometimes I’d take a “cocktail mix of drugs” and test that combination out.  Days turned into weeks. Not one of the standard anti-depressants worked for me. Never giving in or surrendering hope, Dr. Levine then had me try a drug that was actually not available here in the U.S., but had been legal for years in Canada. It was a drug for obsessive-compulsive behavior disorder.  Even though I did not have this particular condition, or even exhibit symptoms of that condition, the chemical of the drug started to make my mind more lucid.   The haze enveloping my brain was starting to lift.  I could actually walk from my bed to the front door in less than an entire afternoon. I started to respond to people’s questions without sobbing. Ever so slowly I began to stand at the door of the nursery and stare at my son.  I even ventured to hold him in my arms. This was actually my baby and I was his mother. Day after day it became clearer that I was going to remain Brett’s mother after all. I started to feel alive again. One night Richie watched as I rocked our child to sleep and said “Welcome Home.” One doesn’t come out of Post-Partum Psychosis unscathed. It took several years of psychiatric therapy to reach a place where I could forgive myself for not being there for my infant during his first year of  life. My therapist finally convinced me that there is no such thing as the perfect mother…but that it was important to be the good enough mother.                                      I am now looking at another photo that I keep in my wallet. It’s a photo of me standing with my arm around a strapping, handsome young man at a high school graduation. That young man has just been accepted to Harvard!  Three beaming faces look out from the glossy print. On the back of the photo are the hand written words: Thank you for always being there for me. You’ve guided me every step of the way. I love you Rosie Red. The picture has been taken…but this time the smile never fades.