One day I was walking to the mailbox with my baby wrapped in his blanket, his tiny face tucked into my neck, when I thought, “Slap his cheeks. Slap him really hard and see what happens.” I ran back into the house in my hurry to get my son away from myself. I laid him down in his swing slowly, watching every move I made. I was his mother, and I felt like his worst enemy.
My postpartum intrusive thoughts terrified me
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