Category Archives: postpartum depression

Rabbi Shmuley, Breastfeeding, and Guilt

Here at My Postpartum Voice, I strive to empower and encourage women to be educate themselves and then move ahead forward filled with confidence in the choices they make for their family.

Of course I have my own set of beliefs which have worked for my family and set of circumstances.

This post is a bit of a deviation from the standard topic but I am so disturbed by this article I feel I must speak up.

I believe in breastfeeding.

But I have also bottlefed.

One of the biggest issues I struggled with while nursing my first daughter was the shift from viewing my breasts as sexual objects to the functionality they now served. It is absolutely amazing that a woman nourishes life from conception until well after birth.

I remember not wanting my husband to touch my breasts while I was nursing.

Today, I read an article at beliefnet.com by Rabbi Shmuley, the host of TLC’s Shalom in the Home.

Beliefnet’s mission is to “help people like you find, and walk, a spiritual path that will bring comfort, hope, clarity, strength, and happiness.”

With said mission in the forefront of my mind, I am appalled they published the article, “Can Breastfeeding Hurt Your Marriage” by Rabbi Shmuley today. Nowhere in this article does he offer one shred of comfort, hope, clarity, strength, OR happiness. Instead, he tears women down, treats them as sexualized playthings and utterly disrespects the directives set forth by his OWN faith in regards to breastfeeding.

According to the good Rabbi, nurturing your marriage is infinitely more important than breastfeeding. Your marriage is more important than protecting your baby from diarrhea, cough, or colds. (The Rabbi’s words, not mine.) He also points out that women should cover up whilst nursing, even in front of their husbands to avoid de-eroticizing the breast. Oh, and that place where the baby came from? A mere birth canal if your husband watches you give birth. Mere? Mere? Only if that’s short for MIRACULOUS, Rabbi Shmuley, because I highly doubt you could do down there what WE sexualized playthings are capable of with our downstairs. Frankly, I’d like to see you give nursing a shot too.

Nowhere in this article does the Rabbi refer to biblical verses which support breastfeeding. Nowhere does he prove his reasoning. This type of article is absolutely reckless and stands to set several mothers up to fail in the already shaky realm of breastfeeding. And for that, Rabbi Shmuley should be ashamed of himself despite his barely there attempt toward the end to support breastfeeding as always being best for the baby. Even then he points out that nursing should always be subordinate to the marriage.

The first example he gives of how breastfeeding ruins a marriage involves a couple in Pennsylvania. The wife held onto an “obsession with breast-feeding well into the child’s eleventh month.”

Ok, Rabbi, Schmuley. Let’s talk about that, shall we? Based on the Old Testament, right?

Moses.

Baby Moses, rescued from the fanatical infantacide of Egyptian Pharoahs, nursed by his own mother as a wet nurse for the Princess (Exodus 2:17), was nursed for close to two years according to Section 1:31 of the Shemmot Rabbah, which is a rabbinic commentary on the book of Exodus. This same resource, Breastfeeding from the Bible by Larry G. Overton, goes on to point out an ancient Babylonian tradition in which babies were nursed until they were three years old.

It also further points out this passage in reference to a woman named Hannah in the book of 1Samuel:

21 When the man Elkanah went up with all his family to offer the annual sacrifice to the LORD and to fulfill his vow, 22 Hannah did not go. She said to her husband, “After the boy is weaned, I will take him and present him before the LORD, and he will live there always.” 23 “Do what seems best to you,” Elkanah her husband told her. “Stay here until you have weaned him; only may the LORD make good his word.” So the woman stayed at home and nursed her son until she had weaned him. 24 After he was weaned, she took the boy with her, young as he was, along with a three-year-old bull, an ephah of flour and a skin of wine, and brought him to the house of the LORD at Shiloh. [1Samuel 1:21-24, NIV]

Correct me if I’m wrong but I would think that an infant would be fit to present to priests at a Tabernacle for lifelong service, thereby implying the child was nursed longer than a mere few months. (According to this same resource, Breastfeeding and the Bible, further reading into 2nd Chronicles reveals this verse: Besides those males from three years old and up who were written in the genealogy, they distributed to everyone who entered the house of the LORD his daily portion for the work of his service, by his division, [2 Chronicles 31:16, NKJV], implying that Samuel, the child from the above passage, would have been at least 3 prior to making said journey to the Tabernacle, having just been weaned)

Another resource, The ILCA Conference Reviewed: The Benefits of Nursing By: Yaelle Frohlich, Posted: 8/24/08, states the following in one of the last few paragraphs:

Breastfeeding is discussed in Jewish texts. Arthur I. Eidelman describes the positive impact of Jewish culture on breastfeeding rates among the orthodox in his article in “Breastfeeding Medicine” Volume 1 Number 1, and notes that the Talmud puts minimum nursing length at two years. Yevamot 12B even discourages a widow from remarrying if she has a baby under 21 months, lest she get pregnant, lose her milk supply and become unable to nourish her existing child. Additionally, according to tradition, biblical figures such as Isaac, Moses and Samuel were also breastfed for two years or more.

Breastfeeding and the Bible ALSO points out the following passage from the Apocrypha, the book of Maccabees specifically:

My son, have pity on me. Remember that I carried you in my womb for nine months and nursed you for three years. I have taken care of you and looked after all your needs up to the present day. [2 Maccabees 7:27, Today’s English Version. Emphasis mine., (Larry G. Overton)]

And yet here Rabbi Shmuley is tearing a woman down for daring to nurse well into the child’s 11th month as he freely admits, “I told the mother that in being so devoted to her son, she had committed the cardinal sin of marriage, which is to put someone else before her spouse, even if that someone is your child.” Wait. It gets better. “Furthermore, I said, her obsession had turned one of her most attractive body parts into a feeding station, an attractive cafeteria rather than a scintillating piece of flesh.”

Say what?

Let’s go there. Yes, let’s.

First and foremost, breasts are functional. Their sexuality is icing on the cake. Again, back to Pharoah and Moses. A wet nurse provided sustenance for little Moses so that he might live. Why? Because breasts are MEANT to feed infants. In fact, it’s the very attitude of the sexualized breast which Shmuley presents which has contributed to the difficulties mothers face today as they nurse in public.

Next up: “If breast-feeding gets in the way of the marriage—if it means that a husband and wife never go out on dates, or that the mother is so tired from always waking up with the baby that she has no energy to ever be intimate with her husband—the child will probably end up worse off, however many colds or bouts with diarrhea he now avoids.” – Rabbi Shmuley

Now, if Mom today had half the amount of help available to her ancient counterparts, she might just be willing to go out on a date with her husband. If her husband or other family members would help with the baby duties at night by changing baby’s diaper and bringing baby to her so that she may get a few extra moments of sleep, she might just feel up to being sexual with her husband. Of course, there’s also the very real fact that Mom just gave birth to a baby from her “mere” birth canal. THAT may have something to do with not wanting to get busy. Just as with any other physical change or “injury”, it takes time to heal from birth. Some women take longer than others, even if they formula feed. I wonder how long it would take Rabbi Shmuley to bounce back after giving birth.

There’s simply no excuse for Rabbi Shmuley’s atrocious article. There’s no scientific basis. No faith basis. Nothing.

As you read the article further, clicking through to the second page, you’re suddenly clued into why Shmuley feels this way.

“When I was a young boy, all I wanted to see was two parents who loved each other. A daily vitamin also would certainly have done me a world of good. But only my parents’ happy marriage could have provided me with peace at my center and the more secure personality I sorely lack. I would take the diarrhea and cough any day over the permanent sense of brokenness that affects children of divorce.”

So if I’m reading this correctly, Rabbi Shmuley seems to think his parents divorced because breastfeeding destroyed their marriage. Wow.

I am SO sorry if that’s the case.

Sorry your mother was not supported in wanting the best for her children.

Sorry your mother was not supported in what YOUR OWN faith states is expected of mothers in sustaining their children.

Sorry you were raised in a broken household in which there truly was no integrity, respect, accountability, or compassion.

I am sorry.

It’s possible to nourish a child and your marriage. There’s a fine line. There ARE decisions to be made, with that I agree whole-heartedly. I made that decision as I pumped exclusively for our second daughter. I had to choose between giving my daughter breastmilk or my relationship with my family and my own mental health. As I drove home with formula, I wept. Openly. But I gave it my all. Had it not come down to it, I would have kept on pumping. Had I had more support, I would have kept on going. I would have given anything to have had an infant like a limb – anything!

Rabbi Shmuley – please. Please heed the words of those within your own faith. Those within the medical community. Those of the mothers struggling to do the best they can for their own families. Words such as those published at beliefnet.com are damaging at best. Do you believe breastfeeding is best? I dare you to prove it. I dare you to support nursing mothers. I dare you to support the family dynamic intended by God from the very start of our existence. I dare you.

Graham Crackers & PB series will return on Monday

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It’s been an emotionally draining week to share my story in such intense detail.

I need to take a few days to myself before wrapping up my story.

The feedback from all of you has been absolutely amazing. It’s thrilling that so many people have found such power and beauty in my words.

It has been such a relief to finally get all of this out in the public eye. I feel free from PPD. Finally. I’ve taken the last step and kicked it to the curb.

I hope you’ll stay tuned and check back in on Monday for the wrap up to my story!

(Once the entire series is published, I’ll create a new page that will link to all the posts for easier navigation.)

Graham Crackers and Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part IV

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The part in which the title finally makes sense:

I rested my thin pillow against the cold glass of the medical transport window, snuggled down into the blanket, and dozed off as the wheels of the van propelled me toward the psychiatric hospital 45 minutes away. I kept shivering despite the blanket. Every time I shivered, I woke up. Then I would fall back asleep. Then I’d wake up again. Finally, the van came to a stop. Ahead of us, bright red brake lights glared into the dark, illuminating stark pine trees lining the isolated country roadway.

About that time, the transport driver said something about a traffic jam. She turned the van around to head the other direction. What should have taken us just 45 minutes quickly turned into an hour and a half. During that time I woke up. The driver and I started talking. She was the first non-medical professional with whom I shared everything I had gone through. And you know what she told me? She told me any other mother in my shoes would have been hard pressed to keep it together. I quietly thanked her and pulled the blanket closer as the shivering had started again.

We finally pulled up to the psychiatric hospital. I sat quietly as I waited for the driver to open the door and unbuckle me. (That’s right – I had to wait to be unbuckled. At 29 years old, I had to wait for someone ELSE to unbuckle me. If that’s not humbling…..) She carried my bag and breast pump for me (again, I wasn’t allowed to do so) to the doorway. A security guard met us there and walked us down a long hall to a small room. As the transport driver stood there, the guard went through my bag, checked me over, and went over me with a wand. We then walked down another hallway to the Acute Flight Risk Ward. The driver said goodbye as the nurse from the ward took custody of me.

We sat at a table and filled out paperwork. The nurse asked question after question. I was cold, tired, and shivering. I wanted to sleep. I wanted a warm blanket. My teeth chattered. I sat there and answered best I could. I remember a lot of “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” It was not me that sat there that night. It was someone else – a shell of myself. A shivering shell nonetheless.

As we filled out paperwork, another patient meandered into the main area. She had wild salt and pepper hair, wore a large plaid pattern flannel shirt and sang at the top of her lungs as she shuffled about. My first thought? Dear Lord. Please don’t let her be my roommate. I asked the nurse about private rooms. She told me no, honey, there are no private rooms here. It was right then and there that I knew this meandering woman was my roommate.

We wrapped up paperwork and I asked if I could pump. I was let into the medical supply/clinic room to do so. A nurse checked on me every five minutes (and I thought topless double pumping with a hospital grade pump in front of my mom was embarrassing!) Once I finished, I went to my room.

(An aside here: Lemme tell ya people – the pillows at a psych ward? Wow. They suck. I didn’t know Aunt Jemima made a line of pillows – they were that damned flat.)

My body collapsed into bed and I was out. They did checks almost every hour so I kept waking up. My roommate finally came to bed a few hours after my arrival, bursting into the room with her loud personality and voice to boot. Between the flat pillows, the loud roommate, and checks, I did not get a lot of sleep that first night.

The next morning, at the break of dawn, my roommate prayed to Jesus at the top of her lungs. She was praying for sunshine because if it was cloudy or raining, she wouldn’t be able to go smoke her cigarettes and then He knew what she was like if she couldn’t smoke her cigs. I didn’t want to find out what she was like if she didn’t have her cigs so I prayed – quietly – that she’d get her precious cigs.

I got up after she left the room and went to shower. A long, hot, shower. Except the water wasn’t hot. It was cold. But it still felt relaxing to shower without worrying about having to take care of the kids.

Once I showered, I went and pumped. I had no idea what time it was but asked the nurses to please make sure I pumped at least once every three hours until 10:00p.m. They were pretty good about making sure I kept on schedule.

I had several conversations with the nurse who checked me in. During those conversations, we discussed ideas for taking time for myself. But she also told me I did not have to tell anyone where I had been that weekend. (You see how well I followed THAT advice!) Even then, I knew that didn’t seem right. Why would I hide what was happening to me? Where would I tell people I had been?

After I pumped, I walked out into the common area. There were crayons, paper, a TV, a radio, couches, and a phone. I spent a great deal of time on the phone. I called my parents, Chris, my brothers, just to reassure them that I was okay. Kind of funny – here I am in the psych ward and I’m calling folks to tell them I’m okay.

One of these conversations included my father. He told me in no uncertain terms to not let anyone tell me I’m crazy. With everything we had been through with Charlotte, it was no surprise I had collapsed like I had. It was amazing I hung on as long as I did with no support.

I asked Chris to please bring me a book. The other patients, to be honest, scared the crap out of me. They were angry, blank, scary people. My heart broke for them even in the midst of my own trauma.

We all lined up to go to breakfast. The food sucked. I realized I could get food delivered to me from the cafeteria and stayed away from the cafeteria for the rest of the stay.

A couple of times a day, a snack room was open and available to us. We were to eat the snacks in the main room but I snuck them back to my room. My favorite snack? Milk, Graham crackers, and peanut butter. I had never put peanut butter on graham crackers before but for some reason, I found it comforting. And energizing. I’ve not eaten it since. I can’t bring myself to do so. I know I’m better but I just can’t do graham crackers and peanut butter anymore.

While I was there, my charming roommate and I scored another roommate. This woman came in not talking, almost catatonic. I always asked her if she wanted something to eat when I would go get something for myself. She answered once and I brought her some food. It was the first time she had spoken since arriving. First time she ate anything since she got there too. Later that afternoon, as I woke up from a nap, I heard her talking with one of the nurses. I lay there, still, quiet, bored out of my MIND but knowing that if I moved, she might stop talking. I knew she needed to talk. I knew she needed the help.

Once the nurse left and my roommate went back to sleeping, I stared out my window. I saw Chris arrive. I tried desperately to get his attention but he didn’t see me. I rushed to the phone to try to call him to tell him where my room was but I couldn’t – someone was talking. Out of the entire weekend, the one thing that made me feel the most trapped was that – seeing my husband and not being able to hug him.

While I desperately begged my husband (telepathically of course) to look toward me, the psychiatrist came in to talk with me. I repeated my story, including how I broke down. We agreed a med change might be in order. I had not taken any meds in over 24 hours. That night, I was given a new med and another one the following day before leaving the ward.

My mother had come down again to help Chris with the kids. They wanted to release me in the morning but Chris would not be able to pick me up until that afternoon and I did not want my mom to pick me up from yet another hospital. I wanted it to be Chris. Plus if he came to pick me up, I’d get to stay longer and sleep longer.Sneaky, I know.

After a weekend of solid sleep, relaxation, and time to myself, I was feeling much much better. Definitely not the vacation every new mom day dreams about but hey, it worked for me.

As I sat in the car with Chris on my way home, the sky was grey, the world was bleak, and although I had survived, I could not help but wonder what was ahead of me as we drove home, together, yet so very far apart.

Click here to read Part III

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part III

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Welcome to Part III. Today I talk with the doc and get sent to the ER. Not the best day in my life but one of the most helpful by far. Click here to read Part II.

And we’re back at the morning when I wanted to let go.

They say the hardest thing to do is to let go.

Lemme tell you something – that morning, letting go was easy. I was weak, tired, frustrated, confused, and overwhelmed. I had nothing left to do but to let go. So I did.

As I drove myself to the doctor’s office, my mind was blank. I don’t really remember the drive. When I arrived, I went back pretty quickly and shuttled into a little room with a nurse. She asked why I was there. Didn’t I tell you on the phone? Why do I have to repeat myself? It wouldn’t be the last time. I sighed and let the monsters out of the bag. I was too far gone to care about consequences.

I sat in the doctor’s office confessing all of my dark secrets. But it wasn’t me.

No, I floated above myself as this other woman confessed to a multitude of sins that I had not committed. To thoughts I had certainly not had. To horrible things like not bonding with my child and wanting to smother her with a pillow. My mouth moved, sound escaped, but surely it wasn’t my voice uttering these things. I am a good mom. Good mothers do not want to do things like smother their children or abandon them at the hospital. Good mothers can do anything. Good mothers are perfect and kind and… well, like June Cleaver.

My house was a wreck, I slid closer and closer to carrying out these horrific pirhanic like thoughts swimming through my brain, I barely slept, barely kept up with anything anymore. There was no way in hell good mother applied to me.

She spoke slowly and deliberately, asking how long it would take me to get to the local hospital, what route I would take, if I felt I could drive myself.

I asked if I could go home to get some of my things. I needed a breast pump. My breasts were starting to sting they were so full. (It was almost 4:00 p.m. now. I had not pumped since 11:00a.m. and normally pumped every three hours.)

No. You have to go straight to the hospital. Can you do that?

But I need to get my things….

No. Hospital. Now.

Okay. If you say so.

She and I walked quietly to the front of the office where she helped me check out. (Sidenote: I carry that receipt/slip with me in my wallet to this day. It reminds me of how far I have come since then.)

I left and walked to my car. I called my husband to tell him the doctor sent me to the ER. I’d call with an update when I could.

When I arrived at the ER, they were waiting for me. The doctor said she would call ahead. I was triaged and sent back almost immediately.

The ER doc on call came in, sat down and asked me what was going on with me.

I told him. Quietly and calmly.

“I’m here because I do not want to be Andrea Yates. I don’t want to be Andrea Yates. Please, keep me from being Andrea Yates.” I pleaded with him as he sat across from me, legs crossed, arms crossed, yet seemingly warm and open. Relaxed. He stood in a very relaxed position. This made me comfortable.

I remember this ER doc. He kept telling me how much courage it took to seek help. He commended me for my bravery. Shortly after the ER doc left, a nurse came in and a security guard showed up. My belongings were taken away from me to keep them safe. (Translation – to keep ME safe.) I talked openly with a social worker about my situation, my thoughts, everything. I don’t remember what he asked or what I said to him. I do remember asking if I could have a breast pump. It was now nearly 6:00 p.m. I believe. My breasts were moments away from bursting.

The social worker talked with me about hospitalization. I nodded in agreement. I needed help. I needed to rest. He disappeared to make some calls. I wish I had known about Emory at this time. I would have requested to go there. But I didn’t so off to elsewhere I went.

My husband arrived with some of my things including my breast pump which I received permission to take with me. He looked exhausted and scared. I’m sure I looked the same – or worse.

Shortly after he arrived, the transport driver showed up. I asked to go to the rest room and had to be quick about it. I hugged my husband good bye and followed the driver to the van.

I don’t know what time we left the ER. The inky sky swallowed me whole as tiny rays of light beamed down. I missed the sun. I felt even more trapped and alone as the van glided over streets I had driven time and time again prior to this night. Yet tonight the buildings judged me, the stars judged me, and the headlights of the oncoming traffic judged me. They all knew – they all knew why I rode in the back of the medical transport van.

As the driver turned onto the main road away from my town, I took a deep breath. I had no idea what the rest of the night held but I already felt a tremendous sense of relief.

(Read Part IV here)

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter served with a side of crazy: Part I

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I had planned to post my full story here today. But as I typed, it got long. Really long. I’m at five full typed pages with a few more to go.

(You’ll have to wait until I’m hospitalized for the title to make sense. Just go with it for now!)

In Part I, we’ll work our way from waking up the morning of my hospitalization to later that afternoon when I finally called the doctor’s office.

Tomorrow will offer some background on what led up to the day of hospitalization.

This series is the most brutally honest I’ve ever been with anyone about my experience. Including myself. It feels good. It feels oh so good to get it all out in the open.

As I walked with my family this morning, I thought about this post. And for some reason the movie The Goonies popped into my head. You know the scene when they realize they’re in the wishing well?

Mouth gets pissy and says, “This wish was mine! And it didn’t come true. So I’m taking it back. I’m taking them all back.” Then he disappears under the water as he hunts for his other wishes.

Every mother wishes for a good postpartum experience. Many of us get that wish. Some of us don’t.

This is me. Taking back the power that Postpartum Depression had over me. Taking it ALL back. But I’m keeping my head above the water.

Four years ago this weekend, I visited a mental hospital. Involuntarily. This is how I landed there:

As I stumbled out of our bedroom, I remember looking out the living room window. Blue sky, sunshine, green forest stared back at me. Birds chirped, the dogs glanced at me, I heard our two-year old awake and prayed our almost three-month old was still asleep.

One question repeated over and over in my head.

“What would happen if I let go?” Just let go, they whispered. “You deserve to let go. Let go. Reality is a joke. Just.LET.GO. Let go. Let go. Let.go. let go….let go…..” the soft whispers echoed in my head all day long.

I fed our two-year old breakfast as I pumped. Set up our infant daughter’s tube feeding. Took our two-year old to her room to play. Laid down on her couch. Closed my eyes. Slept through her lifting my arms, dropping them down, begging me to wake up and play.

I did not want to play. I could not play. If I was unconscious, I couldn’t hurt her. If I was unconscious, the voices would shut up. If I was unconscious, visions of smothering them both with pillows would go away. If I was unconscious – no wait, if I was not here……maybe…. maybe…..but how… just.. if I wasn’t here, I couldn’t hurt them.

I dozed as she played. I heard her as she begged me to play with her. Yet there I lay, paralyzed, my mind miles and miles away, locked in a deep dark closet somewhere, refusing to come out just like obstinate toddler.

Our infant daughter’s Kangaroo pump alarm sounded. After a few minutes, I finally stumbled into her room to turn it off and disconnect her. Back to the kitchen to make lunch for our two-year old. I think it was a PB&J.

Let go. Jump. Take a deep breath and fall. The hardest part is just letting go. Let go, they whispered. Over and over and over and over and over……

I clearly saw myself with a pillow, hands tightly gripping either side. If I just made them go away, the voices would go away. The pillow would solve everything. I could just make them go away. Then I’d let go and everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. Everything. Would. Be. Okay. It’d be okay.

I put our two year old down for a nap and started another tube feeding for our infant daughter. I hadn’t pumped since 10:45 a.m. It was pushing 1:00 p.m. I didn’t want to pump. Why should I?

She’s asleep now, they both are. It’d be so easy. So easy.

My thin strand of reality shredding, I turned to the voices. They started to push me toward the brink of the canyon. I didn’t have much fight left inside. Home alone, it would be so easy. The monsters were gaining ground. Their battering ram tediously close to knocking down the last door I had shored up against them, I went to our bedroom and closed the door, disgusted with myself.

Our bed saved my children.

I lay down, curled up in the middle with the phone. I clutched it as a stranded sailor clutches a life ring. Tightly, refusing to give it up even as I rocked back and forth, staring past the squirrels scrambling up and down 200-year-old oak tree swaying softly outside our bedroom window.

As the tears began to slide down my face, my breath shallow and my chest felt tight, I dialed my husband at work.

“You have to come home.” I choked the words out.

“Why?”

“You have to come home.”

“I can’t just leave work for no reason. Why?”

“I’m not doing well. You have to come home. I need you to call the doctor for me.”

“I can’t leave work. Why can’t you call the doctor?”

I gasped for air. The one person I felt safe in reaching out to was shooting me down. I needed help. I needed… I needed…

“Because I just can’t. I can’t… I…. “ burst into tears.

“Call them and let me know what they say, okay?” his voice was slightly softer.

“But I… “ argh. I hung up on him. I had tried to call the doctor’s office for the past four days, dammit. Yet somehow today had to be the day I made it happen. The day I had no strength left in any corner of my mind. Yeh.

I dialed the doctor’s office. And hung up.

I dialed again. Hung up.

Dialed. Ring. Ring…..ring… automation. Press 0.

Hang up. Dammit.

And now my husband was calling me back as I tried again. Ring…ring. Automation.

PRESS 0, dammit, said the only sane part of me. Press it! Say something when they answer. SAY something.

“Hello, this is Dr. X’s office. How can we help you?”

“I… I… I need help. My name is Lauren Hale and I’m not okay. I need help.”

It felt good and so horribly wrong all at the same time.

(Click here to read Part II.)