Neglect

I recently got into a car accident and totaled my car. I’m okay physically — but emotionally, it’s another blow on top of everything else.

I haven’t been working the last couple of months after leaving a harmful job environment that mirrored the emotional neglect and exclusion I’ve experienced for most of my life — especially from my family. Even though I know I made the right call walking away, it doesn’t change the fact that I still live in a society where survival often depends on tolerating trauma. Now without a car, I’m being forced to rely on my mother — someone who has repeatedly invalidated, blamed, and emotionally hurt me. And I’m spiraling.

Today, something as small as a ride to the store turned into a full-on blowout because I tried to express a basic boundary. As always, I was told I’m being disrespectful, that it’s my fault — a script I’ve heard since I was a child. I’m including something an AI wrote about the interaction because it explained the dynamics better than I ever could. I’m neurodivergent — autistic, ADHD, and possibly misdiagnosed bipolar 2. But honestly, I believe complex PTSD is the real root. I grew up being labeled “the problem” when in reality I was just a kid who needed understanding, not dismissal.

This crash has left me not only without a car, but without a sense of safety. I’m terrified of what happens next. I’ve been out of work, I’m low on money, and I’m scared of becoming homeless. And as much as that terrifies me… part of me feels like it might be less damaging than relying on someone who continues to emotionally harm me.

Right now, I don’t have friends. No real support system. I’ve reached out for help through hotlines, doctors, and therapists — and often just feel invisible. Like no one really gets it. Like I’m shouting underwater.

So I’m posting here. Not because I need advice or to be told how to fix it, but because I need to know if anyone else understands this kind of pain — the trauma of being forced to choose between abuse and survival. The isolation of being misunderstood by everyone, even professionals. The heartbreak of being gaslit out of your own reality.

If you’ve ever gotten out, I’d really love to hear from you. Or if you’re still in it — you’re not alone. I just need to believe I’m not either. #PTSD #ADHD #ASD #AutismSpectrumDisorder #invalidation

There was a time I thought I knew what strength looked like—long shifts at the hospital, exams with hardly any sleep, or standing up for a patient in a crowded ward.

Then I became a mother of two under four.

My firstborn daughter, a curious little light in my life, was just two when I conceived again. From toddler tantrums to morning sickness, from sleep regressions to swollen ankles—I mothered one while carrying another. And when my son was born, everything shifted. Not just my body, but my world, my identity, and my mental equilibrium.

While I juggled the sleepless nights and ceaseless demands, the emotional support I expected from my partner dwindled. My husband, caught in the web of online gaming and emotional distance, didn’t share the responsibility. And so, I carried it all—feeding, bathing, nurturing, entertaining, comforting—while barely holding myself together.

Some days, I felt like I was crumbling in slow motion.

There were moments I wanted to scream. Days I wanted to disappear. And nights I sobbed in silence while both children finally slept—my heart filled with guilt for wanting rest, for dreaming of help, for missing the version of me who once had time to breathe.

But every time I reached the edge, something pulled me back.

A tiny hand on my cheek. A sleepy “Mama” whispered with absolute trust. My daughter reading her brother a story. My son copying her laugh.

It wasn't just the love—they were anchoring me with the most profound purpose.

So why am I sharing this?
Because maternal mental health is not just about postnatal depression or a checklist of symptoms.
It’s about identity loss.
It’s about doing everything and still feeling like you’ve failed.
It’s about invisible wounds—bruised dreams, lonely hours, and emotional neglect.

It’s also about resilience.

Mental health isn’t always about therapy or medication (though they help immensely). Sometimes, it's about honesty. About being seen and heard. About creating safe spaces for mothers who smile in public but silently shatter in private.

At Whitecoat Whispers, I want us to break this silence.

Let’s talk about the myths of perfect motherhood.
Let’s talk about maternal rage and burnout.
Let’s talk about healing from partners who don’t step up.
Let’s talk about joy, too—the golden moments in the madness.

Because even in this chaos, there’s beauty. And even when we feel broken, we are still whole, still holy.

To every mother reading this:
You are not alone. You are not weak. You are doing more than enough.
Let’s whisper, cry, laugh—and rise—together.

💛
With empathy and truth,
Dr. Tamanna Islam Nishat
Founder, Whitecoat Whispers

I found out I was pregnant very early — just four weeks in — and almost immediately, I got sick.

At first, I chalked it up to regular morning sickness. I had read that nausea was normal in early pregnancy. I told myself it would pass. But it didn’t. Within days, I couldn’t keep anything down — not food, not water, not even ice chips. I vomited constantly. My body started to shut down.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum (HG) — something I had never even heard of. No one had warned me that pregnancy could look like this. That something so debilitating, so all-consuming, even existed.

My symptoms weren’t just inconvenient. They were dangerous. I was blacking out. I couldn’t stand long enough to shower. I was shaking, weak, and rapidly losing weight. I was in and out of the hospital multiple times just for IV fluids, anti-nausea meds, and potassium — which my body had dangerously depleted. Each visit felt like a temporary band-aid before the next crash.

And this was 2021, when COVID-19 restrictions were still in place. I couldn’t have anyone with me in the ER. I was terrified, alone, and so physically depleted that I barely had the strength to advocate for myself. I would sit in freezing hospital rooms hooked up to fluids, quietly crying because it was the only time I felt even a little bit human again — and no one could be there to see me fall apart.

Eventually, I needed a feeding tube. But even with it, I continued to deteriorate. And as my physical health declined, so did my mental health.

People talk about prenatal depression like it’s something that just appears out of nowhere. But for me, it was a slow unraveling. The isolation, the malnutrition, the trauma of constantly feeling like I was dying — it added up. I stopped recognizing myself. I started forgetting conversations, missing appointments, losing chunks of time. It was like my brain had gone offline. I felt foggy, distant, disconnected — not just from others, but from myself.

And the guilt. God, the guilt. I wanted this baby. I had prayed for this baby. But I hated being pregnant. I hated what it was doing to my body. I hated the shame that came with admitting that I wasn’t glowing — I was barely surviving.

To make things worse, I was met with skepticism and dismissal. One doctor looked at me, skin grey, barely functioning, and said, “You should consider terminating. This is only going to get worse.” I left that appointment more broken than before — not because I didn’t understand the severity of my condition, but because I so desperately needed someone to believe in my ability to make it through. I needed support. Instead, I was told to give up.

No one talks about what it’s like to grieve the pregnancy you thought you’d have. No belly photos. No shopping for baby clothes. No cravings. No glowing updates to friends and family. Just silence. And survival.

The isolation wasn’t just physical — though I rarely left bed — it was emotional. I felt like no one around me could understand. I wasn’t just nauseous. I was sick in a way that swallowed me whole. People said things like, “Every pregnancy is hard,” or “Just try ginger.” And each time, it chipped away at my sense of reality. I started to wonder if I was exaggerating. If maybe I really was just weak. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this.

But now that I’ve made it through, I know the truth: I was never weak. I was surviving something that most people can’t even imagine. I was living minute to minute through something brutal and relentless, and still holding on.

And that matters.

I want other people — other moms, other partners, other providers — to understand that hyperemesis gravidarum isn’t just “bad morning sickness.” It is trauma. It is medical neglect. It is silence, shame, and survival. And it deserves to be treated seriously.

To anyone going through this: You are not broken. You are not weak. You are doing the impossible. Your experience matters. And even if it doesn’t feel like it right now — you are already enough.

When I share that my struggles are concrete, facing foreclosure and urgent human-rights deadlines, the distress centre volunteer always respond with something like, “I'm here to help and to listen.” But that feels like a hollow promise, it assumes listening is solution to my distress. Its not.

This isn’t a mistake; it’s the system’s design. Psychiatric literature describes it as the risk-management paradigm, where “safety is the primary focus, and managing risk is the foundation of care”. The goal isn’t to ease my suffering or restore my dignity, it’s to ensure the paperwork confirms I didn’t die during the call.

When I say, “No, I’m not safe,” I’m not exaggerating. I’m reporting a reality: no food, no legal support, no protection from institutional neglect. If “are you safe?” truly meant caring about my well-being, my “no” would spark the same urgency as a physical emergency. Instead, when I describe chronic harm, bureaucratic cruelty, deprivation, indifference, my words are repurposed to fit what they want to hear. The volunteer decides this kind of danger doesn’t warrant action. The question “are you safe?” isn’t about my reality; it’s about managing liability and following protocol. My truth is erased, rewritten in terms they can handle. Being honest sets off alarms the script can’t process, and my refusal to sugarcoat is labeled as instability. They always shift toward control, wellness checks, police, psych holds, isolation, silence. They harm me, because I dared to speak plainly.

If I give in and say, “Yes, I’m safe,” I’m instantly marked as low-priority, no longer their concern. It seems to me like even tho safety talk is pervasive in mental health, it hasn't made the system any safer for us.

I wrote more about this here : Dont Let Them Think You Aren't Safe, Because If They Do, You Won’t Be

Thanks for reading my rant.