I am a Mother by Sarah M

I am a mother. It feels very strange to see that sentence written down in front of me. You'd think it would have sunk in by now, thirteen months down the line. Sometimes, I don't feel like a mother to my daughter. It's as though I'm looking and listening to her through sound proof glass. Or, when I touch her, that I'm wearing wearing oven gloves, unable to feel the warmth of her skin against my own. Everything is surrounded by a blurred edge, like I've had a bit too much to drink despite me not touching a drop for over a year. Then others, I feel too much. I love her too much. I lie awake next to her cot staring, wringing my hands, desperate for an inner peace that I know will not come. I'm in a high state of readiness, every sound making my stomach clench and my heart skip. I feel nothing or everything. There is no in between. There is no rest, no time out.

I am a mother with PND. 

My labour was difficult. I expected it to be but nothing prepares you for it. I thought I was. I attended hypnobirthing classes religiously. I downloaded my "Relaxing Labour Companion" CD. I practised my breathing techniques every day, twice a day. I was totally ready. Except when I wasn't. I've always been a bit of a control freak. I like order, I like to plan, I like to know what will happen next. Nothing went to plan during my labour, I had no idea what would happen next. I never managed to play my CD (despite the whole experience taking over twelve hours). I never used my breathing techniques or all my lovely hypnobirthing poses. It pains me to say it but it was the worst experience of my life. My daughter was not blissfully placed into my open arms (no skin to skin for me!) I was so pumped full of drugs that my arms couldn't function properly. I did not encounter that warm, glowing, all consuming love when I heard her cry pierce the air for the first time. I didn't even know she had been born. I was exhausted and my body felt like I'd been hit by a train. Everything hurt and nothing felt natural. "Your body was made to birth your baby". Countless times I had heard this. As a woman, I was genetically programmed to have children. I carried this little girl inside my body for nine months, talked to her, told her how excited we were to meet her. So why did I feel nothing. Literally nothing. Empty. Spent. A void. 

I put it down to the trauma of it all. The drugs, the stitches, the tiredness. "It's the baby blues" the midwife told me, five days after Evelyn was born. "It will get better". "Once she gets used to being here, to feeding from you, you'll feel 100 times happier". I didn't and I still don't. I was completely overwhelmed and terrified. I watched my husband holding Evelyn, so calm, so self-assured and relaxed. I hated him. I hated myself. How was he handling the situation so much better than me? I had wanted a baby for over five years and now I had one and she felt like an impostor. The first few weeks were a blur of tough breast feeds, painful recovery and midwife visits. Then it all came to a head eight weeks after the birth. 

My husband is in the forces and so was due to go abroad for a month. The night before he was due to leave I didn't sleep a wink. This was not an unusual occurrence as I had spent many nights previous to this one sitting on the floor of the landing outside of the bedroom, listening to my daughter and husband sleeping peacefully through the night. Morning came and my husband found me hunched on the bed, inconsolable, repeating over and over again that I wanted to leave. "I want to run away" I said, "I need to leave". I have a drama degree so I'm pretty good at putting on a front, playing the role of the happy, doting new mother in front of my husband had been pretty easy up until this particular morning. Something inside me snapped and I had no control. The thought of having to be with my daughter alone for four weeks was too much and all I could think about was leaving and never coming back. Anyone looking in from the outside that morning would have thought I'd lost my mind and looking back on it now I had been slowly unraveling from the moment we returned home from the hospital. 

I am incredibly fortunate to have such a supportive and understanding husband who immediately sought help. Within hours I had been referred to Community Mental Health as well as a wonderful charity called Cross Reach who specialise in counselling and therapy for women suffering from PND. My journey to beating this illness has only just begun and it's safe to say that I have a long road ahead of me. However, I believe admitting and acknowledging that something has to change is the first big step. I am currently taking each day ten minutes at a time and there are good days (where I feel I have done a half decent job as a mum) and awful ones where my anxiety levels are sky high and the slightest problem (today it was losing the nappy cream) can push me over the edge. Knowing that there are people fighting to end the stigma surrounding mental health is a huge comfort for people like me who have always struggled to express what's really going on inside their head. Living with one's thoughts can be a scary experience but verbalising them or even scribbling them down can be an incredibly effective, cathartic release. I'm still learning to do this and I urge anyone else who is going through a similar situation to find someone who can help. 

Don't be afraid because you are not alone. Depression: it affects me. I'm not ashamed to say it, and neither should you.