How Do I NOT Know My Own Story?

For eight years I've been hanging around campfires telling my story about how I survived postpartum psychosis. I am woman! Hear me ROAR!

Only now I'm realizing two things:
A). I'm actually not able to diagnose myself.
B). It appears I had a big scoop of postpartum OCD, drizzled with some depression and a possible sprinkle of psychotic tendency. Apparently, I'm comparing myself to a pospartum sundae for some reason.

Anyway, you get the idea. It's embarrassing. I had my own story wrong. And it's MY OWN! I lived it and I still can't put the pieces together to figure out what the hell I had. To me, it kind of all mashed together in a complete and total breakdown of mind, body and soul. Whatever THAT definition is, it's what I had. What can that be called, a postpartum wapatui? (What is with my metaphors concerning food and drink today?)

But you see, in my defense, I was just trying to find a home for all my Stephen King-like, horrifying, instrusive, uncontrollable thoughts. "Psychotic" was a word that certainly felt like it fit the bill. But after recently seeing the OCD checklist (posted on our Symptom Checker tab), I realized OCD was a bigger beast than just washing dishes over and over again. It fit my experience. Who knew that worrying about harming your child and/or husband was an OCD thing? Not me.

I'm not even going to try and label myself anymore. For now, I'll just accept that I'm a sundae of all kinds postpartum goodies.