Bonkers Page 9
My hubby came into the nursery to find me holding our tiny human and hysterical. My ‘I’m coping’ mask had not just slipped off; it was lying in tatters on the nursery floor and there was no longer any more disguising the wreck that, until this moment, had been hiding beneath it.
Everything came rushing to the surface and I told him:
‘I can’t do this.’
‘I think I’m going crazy.’
‘I can’t handle this anymore.’
‘I’m having a breakdown.’
‘I need help.’
‘Please help me.’
With the release of these words and my fears, I felt as though I had been set free. Finally I was allowing myself to give in to what was happening to me in all its ugly glory. It was terrifying and at the same time an incredible relief to finally own the fact that I was ill. That I was in trouble. That I was so desperate for help.
I look back now and think of this as my first step, my first moment of taking charge amidst the chaos. Breaking down and admitting my illness to my husband gave me a small but real bit of control over this freewheeling juggernaut that was taking me off road, to places I didn’t want to know about, let alone visit.
With my husband’s support, I made an appointment to see the doctor the next day. It was probably one of the hardest steps I had to take to get well again. Thanks to my lack of knowledge about the illness and what was happening to me, I was consumed with the fear that admitting I was unwell to a professional would mean I would be labelled as an unfit mother and have my baby taken from me. In reality, the conversation with my doctor was straightforward and undramatic. I told him what I was going through and cried; he confirmed that he thought I had Postnatal Depression, prescribed me with a course of antidepressants and advised me on the types of counselling available. He wanted to monitor my progress, so we booked a follow-up appointment in two weeks’ time – and I was sent on my way, very relieved. Relieved that I was fighting an illness that now had a name, relieved that there hadn’t been any mention or hint of my being an unfit mum or any chance of my baby being taken away from me.
That said, with the beauty of hindsight after going through something so ugly, I can now see that my recovery would have been quicker if the approach to its treatment had been more rounded and substantial. If I had been handed a leaflet detailing what the illness was, the warning signs, the treatment options, where to get help locally, where to get support for my husband who was now my carer – just one leaflet, and we would have been set up as a much stronger unit, more able for the battle that now lay ahead of us.
However, I had taken the first vital step. I had admitted I was unwell. And by doing so, I was owning my illness rather than it owning me. I now just had to start taking the pills and start kicking its ass.
CHAPTER 6
THE EVERY MUM GUIDE TO POSTNATAL DEPRESSION
So let’s get straight down to business, shall we?
PND is a TOTAL MOTHERFUCKER.
Let’s just sit and let these words sink in for a moment …
PND is a TOTAL MOTHERFUCKER.
It enters our world unannounced and uninvited during the most inconvenient time of our lives (aka the moment after a tiny human has exited our body). It doesn’t care less how exhausted we are, the type of birth we’ve had, the fact that we are trying to look after our new tiny human as best we can, or what a lovely, fun and optimistic person we normally happen to be. Oh no, the only thing this illness cares about is finding a way in, taking hold of us and doing all it can to well and truly mess up any previous plans and thoughts we had on what motherhood was going to be like.
The not so funny part in this not so funny tale is that the lack of awareness of the illness and its symptoms – and the stigma surrounding maternal mental health illnesses – means that we (ourselves and our partners) are quite simply not prepared to deal with such a cruel, vicious visitor bursting the bubble of what should be – and what we have been sold as being – one of the best and most precious times of our lives.
Yes, we have heard about feeding options, birth plans and sleep schedules until we have them coming out of our ears. We are 100 per cent clued up on the latest buggies, car seats and cot beds. Hell, we even now know about how to tone and strengthen our pelvic floor. However, postnatal depression – or even the fact that we should be paying attention to our maternal mental health, both pre- and post- baby – doesn’t even get a place at the pregnancy party.
I am here to call time on this nonsense and the downright damaging silence that surrounds this illness. And instead to speak openly about the key things I wish I had known when facing motherhood for the first time as a mum with a maternal mental health illness. The things that I wish I could have read somewhere during my lowest and darkest of days, to help me address my fears and reassure me that I was not alone in what I was going through.
• It’s not your fault
I know everything feels like your fault at the moment. I know you feel as though you have done something to cause the illness or have done something to deserve it. You feel useless. You feel inconsequential. You feel you are not enough. But if you take only one thing from reading this book, please take this: You haven’t done anything to deserve this. You have done nothing to cause it. It is not your fault.
• You are NOT a bad mum
Yes, I know you have an overwhelming belief that you are. I know you are questioning every thought, every feeling, look and decision you are making. I know you feel as if your tiny human deserves better. That they deserve someone who can love them and look after them properly. Someone who knows better, who is better qualified, who is just – more. Listen to me and listen good!
YOU ARE NOT A BAD MUM!
You have been dealt a really shitty card. Alongside bringing a tiny human into this world and dealing with everything this gargantuan task has thrown at you, you have also been landed with a cruel and thoughtless illness. An illness that no one can see but which is tearing you apart inside and leaving you feeling lost, isolated, vulnerable and petrified. It is taking hold, whispering untruths into your heart, filling you with dread and giving weight to the lie that you are an ‘unfit mother’.
I’ve been there. I know the struggle and the battle you are facing. What I didn’t know at the time of my darkest of days was that it was the illness telling me these things. It was the illness lying to me with such force and perseverance that before long I took on these poisonous thoughts and devastating beliefs as my own.
I am here to remind you that your illness is lying to you. Your illness is deceiving you. I know it’s damn near impossible to ignore the persistent voice of your illness. However, when that voice gets too loud, too intrusive, too easy to believe, when you start to believe the voice is your own, come back here and read these words and listen to my voice instead telling you:
YOU ARE A GOOD MUM!
• Your tiny human does not think you’re a fake or a phoney
One of my biggest beliefs and fears after having my eldest daughter was that despite her being just weeks old; despite her not being able to speak yet; despite her newness and limited knowledge of this new world she now found herself in – the one thing she did know was that I was a phoney. A fake mum. It was only a matter of time before everyone else found out and rescued her from me and placed her into the arms of the real mum that she deserved.
I watched my daughter watching me, following my every move and sound. She looked at me with her beautiful big blue eyes and it was as though she was looking beyond the fake exterior of a mum who was coping, the hollow new mum smiles which the rest of the world (including her daddy) had fallen for, and was giving me a look that meant ‘I’m not buying it. You are not fooling me! Where is my real mum? How did I end up with this dud instead?’.
I believed that my tiny human knew I was a fake, a phoney, a crap mum. I wanted to scream, ‘Why can’t anyone else see the truth? Someone needs to save her from me and give her to a mum she deserves.’ Th
e level of insecurity, anxiety and self-loathing this illness can instil in us is as terrifying as it is debilitating. We are left believing that the one person we love most and wanted most in the world, the one tiny person we have been dreaming of meeting for what feels like forever, the one person we want to hold, to love, to nurture is the one person who does not want us, the one person who deserves better than what we have to offer.
It is only now in hindsight that I realise I got it wrong. It is only now that I realise, without the dark veil of PND blurring my vision, that what she was really trying to tell me was something quite different.
Remembering how she looked at me, I now realise that rather than questioning me she was actually trying to reassure me, and was saying:
‘I see your hurt. I understand. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be OK as long as we have each other. I love you mummy. You are my world.’
I know this now because I am well once more. I know this now because I no longer have a dark passenger barraging me with evil and spiteful untruths, trying to turn me against myself. God, it is a bloody ferocious battle to make yourself believe that your tiny human does love you, that they DO want you as their mummy. That they don’t think you’re a phoney. That they don’t want anybody else apart from you. That all they want is you their amazing mummy. End of. But this is the truth.
So next time you find your tiny human looking into your eyes and you start to hear the familiar sound of insecurities and doubts seeping in, just remember that what they are really trying to say to you is;
‘I love you mummy. You are my world.’
• Find your fight
When we are suffering from a maternal mental health illness that controls us and has such a strong hold over us, one of the worst fears and beliefs is that it now owns us. We are no longer in charge and we no longer have the ability to determine where our life and our minds are heading.
I felt at a total loss throughout the early parts of my illness, not knowing why I felt the way I did, feeling as though I had no control over what it was doing to my life or any strength to tackle it. However, this is when something clicked in me. I started to view my illness as something I had to fight. This gave a physicality to the illness, and made me able to visualise the illness as a person. A person who had invaded my life and whom I now had to fight to reclaim my life and my mind. I found my fight, which enabled me to find the strength for the battle I had every day. Now I had the fire in my belly to face up to my illness and to do all I could to overcome it.
• Anti-depressants are NOTHING to be ashamed of!
‘It’s just a pill. If you had a headache, you would take a tablet to make it better. This is just the same as that!’
‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ I screamed back at my husband, who was trying to convince me not to feel ashamed about having to take anti-depressants. ‘Give me a headache any day over my mind being fucked up.’
God, I hated the fact and despised myself that things had got so bad that I was now a new mum having to pop pills to get through the day. How the eff did this happen to me? I was so angry! I was supposed to be happy. I was supposed to be well. I was supposed to be loving my life, and here I was instead about to place the responsibility for all these things onto a tiny pill sitting on my tongue and waiting to be swallowed.
Was this going to take me on a slippery slope to all things mental? Was I going to become addicted to them and, before you know it, be sectioned and strapped down in a padded room with electrodes on my head and no idea where my baby or new family were?
It was scary trying to reason with my unreasonable mind that my hubby was right, that it was just a pill and I needed it to make me feel better.
I ended up screaming to myself repeatedly: ‘Just take the fucking pill! Just take the fucking pill! JUST TAKE THE F’ING PILL! TAKE IT!’.
So I did.
I took the fucking pill and kept taking them until they started to make me feel better. They gave me the first chance of seeing a way out. They helped to clear a corner amongst all the evil crap in my mind, a place where I could sit, take stock and make a plan as to how I was going to start to clear the rest of the crap out. They gave me a respite from the illness, where I could gather my thoughts, my energy reserves, my troops, to come back fighting and to kick the illness into touch. They gave me my first glimmer of hope that I could feel well again.
So, if you are finding yourself in the same shame-filled predicament I did, just you remember this:
Screw the shame. Screw feeling you’ve failed. Screw being ill. Take the fucking pill!
• You need to get help
This illness is not going to go away without any help or support. The level of help and support you will need to get through PND will depend on just how ill it is making you feel. But regardless of whether you have mild or severe symptoms, you do need a helping hand in your personal battle.
I have spoken a lot to women about my own experiences of PND and postnatal psychosis. In fact, it’s got to the point now where I am comfortable enough to drop the fact that I suffered into conversations with mums at the park or on playdates – and I have been overwhelmed by the number of mums who have then opened up to me about their own experiences. A number of women have said: ‘I’m sure I had something like that after having my children, but I never went for help, so I’m not sure if it was PND or not. Something was definitely wrong and, to be honest, I still suffer with things today.’ It is heartbreaking to hear of other mums suffering – even more so to hear of a mum who has suffered without help.
Addressing this illness, no matter what form it takes, is vital. If the issues are not addressed and dealt with properly, they can have lasting negative effects, which we can carry around long after we have given birth and our tiny humans have grown. And who wants that? I know I don’t want to be carrying around the burden of depression for the rest of my life. I don’t want its evil creeping into even more areas of my life.
Back then I wanted control back. I wanted a chance to be completely well again and to be allowed to enjoy motherhood. Getting help was my first step towards this.
• Find the right route for you
Help for me took a variety of forms. My winning combination was the rock solid and constant support from my husband, a course of anti-depressants, counselling and letting my friends and family know that I was suffering. I also started to share my experiences by writing articles about my illness, and publishing them on my Facebook page, blog and other online sites. My writing became a form of therapy for me; it allowed me to give a voice to my illness and to share my personal insight into living with a maternal mental health illness.
After I published my early articles, I received messages from other mums going through the same thing, and I am still in touch with some of these mums today. Being able to write about my experiences, and then to receive messages from other mums who had been or were going through the same thing, made me realise I was not alone and that it was something that needed to be spoken about more. The route out of the illness is different for everyone – but once you find your first step on that path, you can start to look ahead and realise there is a way out.
In some of my most darkest of times, it took a hell of a lot of perseverance to stay on that path. However, slowly but surely, it led me to where I am today – well and reclaiming my right to enjoy motherhood.
CHAPTER 7
POPPING YOUR MOTHERHOOD CHERRY
As well as battling a number of ‘firsts’ that came from being a mum whose mental health was suffering, I was also popping my motherhood cherry, and going through all the ‘normal’ firsts – those crazy, hilarious and exhausting experiences that every new mum goes through.
When we become a mum, we find ourselves in a hazy world of firsts that can make us feel empowered and in control on the good days – and slightly off kilter and unhinged on the not so good days, when minimal sleep and never having done this before makes everything seems like an uphill struggle, and you ha
ve no clue even about where you are struggling to go.
So, my lovely friend, I am here to talk motherhood firsts. And to share a few little gems I wish someone had given me when I was popping my motherhood cherry.
FIRST POST-BABY POO – ‘I’M SHIT SCARED TO TAKE A SHIT’
Just when you thought you had fulfilled your quota of terrifying acts by bringing a tiny human into this world kicking and screaming, you are then faced with a task so horrific that you would prefer to be back in the labour room. It was scary enough having to push out a baby. Now the ante has been upped by the request that you push out your first post-baby poo.
Terrified does not even come close to the feelings of dread that overwhelm your exhausted and pain-riddled body at the request from your midwife (who at this point resembles a pointy eye browed, turd demanding heathen): ‘Have you had a poo yet?’.
Holy Mother of God, is she for real?
You have been ripped to shreds and sewn back up and now you have to try and squeeze out a poo? How about it feels like they have mistakenly sewn up all exits down there? How about the pressure will split me front to back and I’ll have to live the rest of my days going to the toilet in a plastic bag attached to my stomach? Not a chance in hell am I putting myself through that, no matter how desperate I get for a poo. Unlike my baby, it is going to have to stay put. I am taking back control.
This longed-for control lasts a whole ten minutes before Sod’s Law kicks in: which means that the moment you start thinking about not having something, then along that something comes and any control you had is out the window and down the toilet. Accompanied by your sobbing tears of terror as you inform your partner: ‘I just can’t do this, I’m too scared, it’s going to hurt so much.’
Oh yes, ladies, the run-up to labour has nothing on this!
Why do we not warn unsuspecting mums to be that we go from worrying about pooing ourselves during birth to eventually wishing we had in order to prolong the interval before we need to go afterwards? When thinking about the pain and fear of having a tiny human, our brains stop in the labour room and do not think past the moment of said tiny human’s arrival. So when these post-baby moments happen to you, you feel completely cheated and totally unprepared.