Pull yourself together, it's a happy time!

Apparently, one in five women gets post natal depression. That's a LOT! When I had my son, the statistics said one in ten but they were wavering. It seems like some progress has been made.

 

I had PND after I had Boy Wonder. As a modern and informed woman, I diagnosed myself. I do that a lot and it infuriates GPs. Although I am usually right. And in this instance I was. I can't blame any one thing for it, it's chemical, but there are factors that contributed. Without a doubt.

 

Firstly, Boy Wonder had a traumatic delivery. Which I missed. He came out feet first and I had to have a crash section under general anaesthetic. He was an hour old when I met him. I felt cheated of those early moments and of my natural delivery. I'm a woman, that's what we DO! Also, I struggled to breastfeed. In hindsight I was actually doing rather well, but I had no idea what to expect and had nobody to hand that was a nursing veteran. I didn't want to ask the professionals as I felt like a failure. I just assumed I wasn't producing enough milk and stopped. That was that. And I felt judged by everyone. Like some dirty, ignorant chav. I had no support at all. My mum visited three times in three months. She lived 20 minutes away. The day after i got out of hospital she visited and requested I make her a cup of tea while she held the baby. I was 4 days post surgery. And also, reading the Bounty booklet planted a seed of fear into my brain. There was a lengthly section on sleep. In the middle of that section, with no warning, was the phrase "sometimes babies die for no reason".

 

My mum often told me to pull myself together. To go out and make friends. but my paranoia was heightening by the day and I was convinced people were talking about me. They thought I was a dirtbag for bottle feeding, that I was fat, badly dressed, unmarried.

 

Then the paranoia turned itself to Boy Wonder. i would have visions of me tripping and accidentally throwing him down the stairs. Another time I clearly saw an image of myself repeatedly punching my darling boy in the face. I didn't want to do that, it wasn't an urge. I was just terrified in case i did. This slowly and gradually turned into an absolute certainty that something was going to happen to him. That he was going to die. I know mums worry all the time about such things but at the time it wasn't a matter of IF, but WHEN. Every night I would lie awake, terrified to sleep in case he stopped breathing. I started imagining how I would cope when it happened. How we would break the news. I even considered his funeral. What flowers we would choose. Would I be able to cope with reading something? Later on when Boy Wonder was in his own room I would be up several times a night, checking that he was still breathing. It got so ridiculous that i had to tell myself that if he'd died, there was nothing I could do anyway so I may as well get some sleep. I've never admitted that before.

 

This turned to Husband too and when he left for work I would stand at the bedroom window watching him drive away, so I could fix into my mind "the last time that I saw him". I was convinced he'd have a terrible accident on the way to work.

 

I wasn't myself. I spent whole days in my room, laying on my bed with my gorgeous baby next to me. The curtains closed, I would guard him protectively all day, too tired and fraught to do anything.
I wanted to just curl up and die and stop feeling the way I did. My family would be so much better without me dragging them down. I never actively wanted to kill myself but there were times when I was out where it occurred to me that I could just drive into a tree and that would sort everything out. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of harming one hair on the head of my precious baby, who was always in the car with me.

 

I rowed all the time with Husband. I had no capacity for reason, my temper was short. I never  physically attacked him as I knew that crossing that line would be the beginning of the end, but I screamed at him, called him every name under the sun and threw things at him - once a stairgate down a flight of stairs. He didn't know what to do. He didn't understand and I couldn't fully explain to him how I was feeling until long after my recovery. He just wanted to help. Men do, don't they? They like to fix things and make it better. And he DID. In his own way. His faith in me and support did eventually help get me back to myself. That and medication and some group therapy.

 

The therapy was hard as I couldnt admit what I was scared about. It was weeks before I could say "I'm terrified my baby will die" as I was so SURE that i was tempting fate. And yes, even there i felt judged and inferior. They were all older, successful professionals, married, breastfeeding. In hinndsight, I am quite sure that none of them thought any such thing. But they all made friends with each other, met up during the week outside of the sessions. I guess I just didn't quite fit in. 

 

It was 18 months, maybe even 2 years before I was myself again. I was so bloody scared that it would happen again with my second child. I went onto medication as soon as she was born. I was lucky this time and those early months were divine. I think it's good to know that it's not an inevitability if you've had it once. And I know that amongst all of the terror, it was one of the happiest times of my life. I had a home, a man who loved me and the most beautiful baby in the world. So i couldn't pull myself together, i was already there! but I was unwell. Mental health is desperately misunderstood and people assume you have control over these things but we can't even control who we fancy or what flavour crisps we like!