As told to Laura Barcella My husband, James, and I had been married for exactly a year when I got pregnant at 33. I was beyond thrilled. I’m a teacher, and I’ve always been obsessed with kids. Growing up, I assumed I’d be a natural supermom.Of course I knew pregnancy carries risks, and doctors had warned me about the baby blues. But I had no history of mental illness, so I was thrown completely off guard when, the day after I brought our son Isaac home from the hospital, I started noticing that things weren’t…right.Like I said, I’d heard plenty about postpartum depression — “If you cry a lot at first, that's normal,” my doctors said. And it makes sense: New moms are going through a huge host of physical, emotional, and physiological changes; within minutes, your entire identity is upended. Suddenly, there’s this tiny creature who's wholly dependent on you for its survival. All the parenting books and organic diapers in the world can't help you process the magnitude of that.I didn’t have a problem bonding with Isaac — I was in love with him from the start. But as a type-A person fixated on organization and control, I was overwhelmed by the boundless responsibilities of new motherhood.And I wasn't just “crying a lot.” I couldn't sleep or eat; I was nauseous and dehydrated. I had this intense, manic energy, and I was nearly paralyzed with worry about Isaac’s safety. I’d be up in the middle of the night preparing for natural disasters. I had family and friends helping out (and, of course, my similarly sleep-deprived husband), but I felt isolated.My mom had five kids and never experienced any unusual postpartum symptoms. She noticed something was off with me, but I didn’t know what to tell her. James was super-supportive, but he didn’t realize how bad it was getting.I had my first panic attack a few weeks into motherhood, at a work event James had asked me to attend with him. Out of nowhere, my heart began racing. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was going to die. I told James I needed to go to the hospital, and when we arrived, they gave me an IV with some fluids and sent us home.A week later I had another panic attack and ended up in the E.R. overnight. By that point, I was so sleep-deprived that I was feeling out of touch with reality. It was hard to know whether I was awake or asleep; I’d actually ask people, “Am I awake right now?”