I have tried to write this post many times over the last 16 years or so. Its a post that is difficult to write for so many reasons and I still don't know if I will get to the end today.
We tried for my first son for 3 years before I fell pregnant. I remember saying to my husband that I was meant to be a mum... that life without children was no life. When I did fall pregnant we were ecstatic and I was lucky to have an easy 9 months. I think the problems started when I was taken in to hospital to be induced - early as they thought I was carrying a huge baby. They were wrong - he was 7lb 12. I ended up having an emergency cesarean, spending Christmas in a hospital that looked like a Bosnian refugee camp, complete with peeling paint and ghastly food - a long way from my vision of the ideal birth and start to life as a mum.
Looking back a lot of the next 4 years, probably, are quite hazy. I look at photos of what appears to be a happy, lovely family and its like seeing someone else. I know that when the photos were taken I was struggling to stay sane.
I remember, and this is the most awful and painful thing to write ... I remember feeling absolutely nothing for my beautiful son. People would hold him and tell me what a beautiful boy he was. I would look at him and feel emptiness. I went through the motions of what I though motherhood should be. And I hated it it.
I resented this small screaming bundle of sick and poo who had come into my life and ruined it. I was no longer a person respected in my job, no longer an attractive woman ... I was 5 stone overweight with a jelly like tummy, scarred and ugly. I felt filled with hatred and anger. I remember thinking that I understood why women killed their children. I hated everything and everyone, but mostly I hated my baby for what he had done to my life.To me he was a parasite, draining me of my life blood. And yes ... I felt, I feel shame for letting that emotion take over my life.
I hid this well.On the outside I showed all the right signs of being a good mum. We even decided to have another baby and were amazed when I fell pregnant the very first month. When my second son was born things were completely different,far better, but it didn't take long for the demons to take over again.
I am rather skimming over the precise details of what happened, partly because they are hard to remember. I did have good days, but, looking back, I see that I was out of control, spiraling towards a breakdown. One day I broke. I remember having been sleep deprived with 2 boys under the age of 2 and I just could take no more. My life was spent in tears, spent consumed with rage and one morning I reached my tipping point. I took the boys to a friend and as snot and tears rained down my face I begged her to look after them while I went to get help.
I remember standing in my GP's surgery sobbing. "I need help" I cried to the receptionist and, thank God, they gave me that help. My doctor understood. My facade of make up and middle class stiff upper lip crumbled to dust infront of her as I sobbed and wailed and keened. I didn't care any more. I couldn't pretend any more. I hated being a mother. I hated my life. I was angry with everyone, but especially my children. I was angry at me for being such a complete and utter failure. After all... wasn't I the one who had smugly said that "life without children was no life"?
My doctor told me that I was not a failure. She told me that I was a strong woman and that coming to her that morning for help was one of the bravest things a woman could do. She told me that this was not my fault - that this was the chemicals in my body gone haywire and that I would get better.
I was so frightened. I was so ashamed. I was afraid that they would take away my children and I was afraid that my life was over - that I would be forever labelled a "nutter" a mental patient.There was such stigma attached to Post Natal Depression. Women with PND had failed hadn't they? I had failed. I had not managed to cope with the most natural event in a woman's life. I had failed to love my children, failed to be a good wife, failed to be a complete woman.
Asking for help was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it was the start of recovery. The huge weight that was lifted from me when I admitted how I was feeling was incredible. Looking back I know that this was the start of getting better, but at the time it didn't feel that way. I felt that getting better would be impossible. I could see no future for me.
I haven't mentioned my husband yet in all this, but without him I would not be here. He was truly the most wonderful, kindest, most patient person in my world. Not only did he carry on a full time job, working nights ... he fulfilled my role too. He washed, ironed, cooked ... he played with the children, he gently cared for me. I would sit for hours, staring into space, rocking, unaware that I was doing this, and he somehow knew what to do. My days were spent trying to survive until he came home. He never judged me, never got angry with me. I will never ever forget his kindness, his love.
My doctor prescribed me Prozac. This, to me, was yet another failure, but she told me that a woman with a broken arm would not expect to get better without a plaster cast so how could I get better without all the tools available? I also went to see a therapist. We talked about me, we talked about my life, my children. She told me that I was grieving for the life I had lost and I knew this was true.
Slowly my life began to get better. I began to rebuild myself. My barometer of mental health was my coffee table. If I had the energy to keep it tidy then that was a good day. I built up from having a clear table to having a clear lounge. Gradually, as my mind grew more ordered, the order was reflected in my house and my life.
I began to walk and managed to walk the Race for Life 5k. I was finding time for me in my walking and in that time outside my mind found time to start healing. One day I decided to jog instead of walk and before I knew it I was running the next year's Race for Life. I began to have a purpose in my life and I began to have a little bit of respect for myself again.I went from having never run to doing 5k's, 10's, half marathons and eventually, in 2008 the London Marathon. I wasn't a "good runner" but I didn't give up. I was determined. And I knew that the time spent running was time just for me, time where my mind could be free.
It is 16 years since my son was born. Its probably 14 years since I went to see my doctor for help. It has not been an easy road and there have been times when the darkness has been at my back again, but I have kept on going, kept on fighting. There was a time when everything seemed hopeless to me - a black nothingness of despair and hatred and misery. I have come through to the other side. I do not see myself as a good mother, but I do see myself as a strong woman who has done her best. I am not ashamed that I suffered Post Natal Depression. I know that it came upon me and I had no choice over the matter. It did not come upon me because I was weak, but because it was just my turn.
You would be amazed how many women go through PND. I am out and proud now! If the topic is discussed then I am not afraid to say that I have been there.
If you are reading this and recognise something of yourself in me, if you are some way along the journey of PND, then I raise my hand to you in respect. You are not alone, even if it feels that way sometimes. And you will get through to the other side. If you have not yet sought help - do it.
We tried for my first son for 3 years before I fell pregnant. I remember saying to my husband that I was meant to be a mum... that life without children was no life. When I did fall pregnant we were ecstatic and I was lucky to have an easy 9 months. I think the problems started when I was taken in to hospital to be induced - early as they thought I was carrying a huge baby. They were wrong - he was 7lb 12. I ended up having an emergency cesarean, spending Christmas in a hospital that looked like a Bosnian refugee camp, complete with peeling paint and ghastly food - a long way from my vision of the ideal birth and start to life as a mum.
Looking back a lot of the next 4 years, probably, are quite hazy. I look at photos of what appears to be a happy, lovely family and its like seeing someone else. I know that when the photos were taken I was struggling to stay sane.
I remember, and this is the most awful and painful thing to write ... I remember feeling absolutely nothing for my beautiful son. People would hold him and tell me what a beautiful boy he was. I would look at him and feel emptiness. I went through the motions of what I though motherhood should be. And I hated it it.
I resented this small screaming bundle of sick and poo who had come into my life and ruined it. I was no longer a person respected in my job, no longer an attractive woman ... I was 5 stone overweight with a jelly like tummy, scarred and ugly. I felt filled with hatred and anger. I remember thinking that I understood why women killed their children. I hated everything and everyone, but mostly I hated my baby for what he had done to my life.To me he was a parasite, draining me of my life blood. And yes ... I felt, I feel shame for letting that emotion take over my life.
I hid this well.On the outside I showed all the right signs of being a good mum. We even decided to have another baby and were amazed when I fell pregnant the very first month. When my second son was born things were completely different,far better, but it didn't take long for the demons to take over again.
I am rather skimming over the precise details of what happened, partly because they are hard to remember. I did have good days, but, looking back, I see that I was out of control, spiraling towards a breakdown. One day I broke. I remember having been sleep deprived with 2 boys under the age of 2 and I just could take no more. My life was spent in tears, spent consumed with rage and one morning I reached my tipping point. I took the boys to a friend and as snot and tears rained down my face I begged her to look after them while I went to get help.
I remember standing in my GP's surgery sobbing. "I need help" I cried to the receptionist and, thank God, they gave me that help. My doctor understood. My facade of make up and middle class stiff upper lip crumbled to dust infront of her as I sobbed and wailed and keened. I didn't care any more. I couldn't pretend any more. I hated being a mother. I hated my life. I was angry with everyone, but especially my children. I was angry at me for being such a complete and utter failure. After all... wasn't I the one who had smugly said that "life without children was no life"?
My doctor told me that I was not a failure. She told me that I was a strong woman and that coming to her that morning for help was one of the bravest things a woman could do. She told me that this was not my fault - that this was the chemicals in my body gone haywire and that I would get better.
I was so frightened. I was so ashamed. I was afraid that they would take away my children and I was afraid that my life was over - that I would be forever labelled a "nutter" a mental patient.There was such stigma attached to Post Natal Depression. Women with PND had failed hadn't they? I had failed. I had not managed to cope with the most natural event in a woman's life. I had failed to love my children, failed to be a good wife, failed to be a complete woman.
Asking for help was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it was the start of recovery. The huge weight that was lifted from me when I admitted how I was feeling was incredible. Looking back I know that this was the start of getting better, but at the time it didn't feel that way. I felt that getting better would be impossible. I could see no future for me.
I haven't mentioned my husband yet in all this, but without him I would not be here. He was truly the most wonderful, kindest, most patient person in my world. Not only did he carry on a full time job, working nights ... he fulfilled my role too. He washed, ironed, cooked ... he played with the children, he gently cared for me. I would sit for hours, staring into space, rocking, unaware that I was doing this, and he somehow knew what to do. My days were spent trying to survive until he came home. He never judged me, never got angry with me. I will never ever forget his kindness, his love.
My doctor prescribed me Prozac. This, to me, was yet another failure, but she told me that a woman with a broken arm would not expect to get better without a plaster cast so how could I get better without all the tools available? I also went to see a therapist. We talked about me, we talked about my life, my children. She told me that I was grieving for the life I had lost and I knew this was true.
Slowly my life began to get better. I began to rebuild myself. My barometer of mental health was my coffee table. If I had the energy to keep it tidy then that was a good day. I built up from having a clear table to having a clear lounge. Gradually, as my mind grew more ordered, the order was reflected in my house and my life.
I began to walk and managed to walk the Race for Life 5k. I was finding time for me in my walking and in that time outside my mind found time to start healing. One day I decided to jog instead of walk and before I knew it I was running the next year's Race for Life. I began to have a purpose in my life and I began to have a little bit of respect for myself again.I went from having never run to doing 5k's, 10's, half marathons and eventually, in 2008 the London Marathon. I wasn't a "good runner" but I didn't give up. I was determined. And I knew that the time spent running was time just for me, time where my mind could be free.
It is 16 years since my son was born. Its probably 14 years since I went to see my doctor for help. It has not been an easy road and there have been times when the darkness has been at my back again, but I have kept on going, kept on fighting. There was a time when everything seemed hopeless to me - a black nothingness of despair and hatred and misery. I have come through to the other side. I do not see myself as a good mother, but I do see myself as a strong woman who has done her best. I am not ashamed that I suffered Post Natal Depression. I know that it came upon me and I had no choice over the matter. It did not come upon me because I was weak, but because it was just my turn.
You would be amazed how many women go through PND. I am out and proud now! If the topic is discussed then I am not afraid to say that I have been there.
If you are reading this and recognise something of yourself in me, if you are some way along the journey of PND, then I raise my hand to you in respect. You are not alone, even if it feels that way sometimes. And you will get through to the other side. If you have not yet sought help - do it.
