The old me can not coexist with the new mommy me. No more carelessness, sleeping until I really feel like waking, or partying with associates each time the urge strikes. Now I am doing the jobs of 20 individuals free of charge. And I nonetheless have to keep up enough sanity to be functional at work. Somewhere in there, I’m supposed to whip out my husband’s attractive wife for playtime. As a working mom with a keep at house husband, I’ve both experienced the huge social/emotional/physical transformation and witnessed it in my partner.
Bustamante went into my hospital records and adjusted my diagnosis to PTSD, a far cry from the lifelong mental illnesses for which I was compelled to take court-ordered medicine. “You have post-traumatic stress dysfunction, but you haven’t displayed any of the symptoms of any psychological sickness that the hospital diagnosed you with,” she informed me. “People expect people to speak,” she quipped once I complained about how traumatized I felt about their debilitating misdiagnoses. After emerging, the questioning surrounding my psychological well being continued. The most humiliating was having to visit a psychiatrist to keep my driver’s license, something I brought on myself once I first renewed it and answered truthfully that I had been institutionalized.