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Early motherhood left me trapped in my own anxiety

1
When my first baby was born I spent the first few days in a state of shock. I even developed my own unique body twitch which rhythmically surfaced at all times of day and night. Everything in my life up to that point had a built in ‘get out clause’. If a relationship wasn’t working out, I could leave him. If I started to find my job dull, I could find another. I had control. However, as I looked down at my little bundle I realised that despite my overwhelming panic and need to break free, I had absolutely nowhere to run. I was, for a better word,
SelfishMother.com
2
‘trapped’. I considered that yes, I could walk out the door and leave him behind (it was a genuine thought) but I knew I could never ever do that. I did love him and I couldn’t ever, EVER leave him. I reasoned, even if I did, how would I ever live with myself? My life would be over, either way…
Every time he cried I felt my whole body stiffen in terror and dread. Every day I would pray for the day to be over but every evening I felt the black hole of the long night ahead with a restless, breastfeeding baby. There was no time for myself, no time
SelfishMother.com
3
to reflect and escape. The only time I felt content was when I was feeding him. It felt constructive and the only time I wasn’t waiting for him to cry for more attention.
I felt I had no one else to turn to – it was down to me and only me. The buck stopped squarely at my door and no one else, not even his attentive Daddy, could give my baby what he needed. Everyone looked to me as I was the Mummy. Mum knows best, Mum is instinctive, maternal, loving. Mum is breastfeeding, how can I really help? This level of responsibility weighed on me so heavily
SelfishMother.com
4
that I felt swamped by it. I used the 10 minutes I was alone in the shower each morning to literally heave with tears. I could release all my tension and misery in private, away from questions and judgements. The shower would cover up the noise of my sadness and wash away the evidence. I remember lying on the bed when he was a few days old. I could hear him murmuring and hiccupping downstairs as I had a few minutes to myself. The sun was pouring through the window and I could see the world continuing its normal daily pattern although I felt stuck in
SelfishMother.com
5
time, waiting for the next scream that would pull me reluctantly out of bed and down the stairs. I remember closing my eyes and pretending I was lying on a beach, on my own, with a book and my old life. There was a distinct sense of grief.
I always wanted children. When I was a little girl, I would play with my baby dolls, dressing them, feeding them, putting them to bed. When I hit my early 20s I had the pleasure of nephews and then nieces and I prided myself in being a relatively hands on Aunt when I saw them. I played with them, cuddled them and even
SelfishMother.com
6
helped with feeding and nappy changing. Children? Piece of cake! Can’t wait to be a mum myself. I met my husband when I was 27. I had a successful career as an Actors Agent and was content going from theatre production to film screening to after show parties. I dined with the famous and socialised in some of the best private clubs in London. Life was good but I knew I wanted to be married and have a family. I married at 29 and was pregnant a year later. I loved being pregnant. I had a private midwife who prided herself in giving women the birth that
SelfishMother.com
7
they wanted. She quickly and succinctly talked me into a home, water birth – free from intervention and an artificial hospital environment. I was content to go ahead but at 14 days late, I was admitted to hospital for an induction. A truly horrible and traumatic labour ensued where I was encouraged to take no pain relief other than gas and air. I remember lying in the post-natal ward, with my baby in a crib beside me. We were staring at each other, wide awake with a mutual look of bewilderment at what we had just been through. An overwhelming feeling
SelfishMother.com
8
of panic was tinged with just a touch of resentment.
That baby boy is now 7 years old. I love him so much and my life has settled into family life. We now have another 5 year old son who has been a very easy addition to the family.
Looking back, I guess I was suffering from a form of post-natal depression. PND is so often intrinsically linked to feelings of wanting to harm your baby, that I hadn’t spotted the signs. I never wanted to harm him, in fact it was almost the complete opposite. I was so scared of doing something wrong I was paralyzed by
SelfishMother.com
9
fear, overwhelming anxiety and sadness. My expectations of being a mother were so high, I am not sure they could have ever matched up to reality.
SelfishMother.com

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- 20 May 16

When my first baby was born I spent the first few days in a state of shock. I even developed my own unique body twitch which rhythmically surfaced at all times of day and night. Everything in my life up to that point had a built in ‘get out clause’. If a relationship wasn’t working out, I could leave him. If I started to find my job dull, I could find another. I had control. However, as I looked down at my little bundle I realised that despite my overwhelming panic and need to break free, I had absolutely nowhere to run. I was, for a better word, ‘trapped’. I considered that yes, I could walk out the door and leave him behind (it was a genuine thought) but I knew I could never ever do that. I did love him and I couldn’t ever, EVER leave him. I reasoned, even if I did, how would I ever live with myself? My life would be over, either way…
Every time he cried I felt my whole body stiffen in terror and dread. Every day I would pray for the day to be over but every evening I felt the black hole of the long night ahead with a restless, breastfeeding baby. There was no time for myself, no time to reflect and escape. The only time I felt content was when I was feeding him. It felt constructive and the only time I wasn’t waiting for him to cry for more attention.
I felt I had no one else to turn to – it was down to me and only me. The buck stopped squarely at my door and no one else, not even his attentive Daddy, could give my baby what he needed. Everyone looked to me as I was the Mummy. Mum knows best, Mum is instinctive, maternal, loving. Mum is breastfeeding, how can I really help? This level of responsibility weighed on me so heavily that I felt swamped by it. I used the 10 minutes I was alone in the shower each morning to literally heave with tears. I could release all my tension and misery in private, away from questions and judgements. The shower would cover up the noise of my sadness and wash away the evidence. I remember lying on the bed when he was a few days old. I could hear him murmuring and hiccupping downstairs as I had a few minutes to myself. The sun was pouring through the window and I could see the world continuing its normal daily pattern although I felt stuck in time, waiting for the next scream that would pull me reluctantly out of bed and down the stairs. I remember closing my eyes and pretending I was lying on a beach, on my own, with a book and my old life. There was a distinct sense of grief.
I always wanted children. When I was a little girl, I would play with my baby dolls, dressing them, feeding them, putting them to bed. When I hit my early 20s I had the pleasure of nephews and then nieces and I prided myself in being a relatively hands on Aunt when I saw them. I played with them, cuddled them and even helped with feeding and nappy changing. Children? Piece of cake! Can’t wait to be a mum myself. I met my husband when I was 27. I had a successful career as an Actors Agent and was content going from theatre production to film screening to after show parties. I dined with the famous and socialised in some of the best private clubs in London. Life was good but I knew I wanted to be married and have a family. I married at 29 and was pregnant a year later. I loved being pregnant. I had a private midwife who prided herself in giving women the birth that they wanted. She quickly and succinctly talked me into a home, water birth – free from intervention and an artificial hospital environment. I was content to go ahead but at 14 days late, I was admitted to hospital for an induction. A truly horrible and traumatic labour ensued where I was encouraged to take no pain relief other than gas and air. I remember lying in the post-natal ward, with my baby in a crib beside me. We were staring at each other, wide awake with a mutual look of bewilderment at what we had just been through. An overwhelming feeling of panic was tinged with just a touch of resentment.
That baby boy is now 7 years old. I love him so much and my life has settled into family life. We now have another 5 year old son who has been a very easy addition to the family.
Looking back, I guess I was suffering from a form of post-natal depression. PND is so often intrinsically linked to feelings of wanting to harm your baby, that I hadn’t spotted the signs. I never wanted to harm him, in fact it was almost the complete opposite. I was so scared of doing something wrong I was paralyzed by fear, overwhelming anxiety and sadness. My expectations of being a mother were so high, I am not sure they could have ever matched up to reality.

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