The [M] Word: How Milk stole my Marbles, but saved my Mental Health

Meg Ramsell - 9 May 18

“I am in hell”

The words I spoke to my own Mum after the birth of my daughter, Robyn. I hissed them out between sobs, hunched over my baby while my tears, yet again, fell onto her sleeping face. My exhausted husband looked on helplessly and shuffled around the house in his dressing gown.

The road to my hell had been of my own making – professional, married woman in her thirties has uncomplicated, planned pregnancy, looks forward to straightforward and empowering  birth and maternity leave spent drinking lattes with new, pre-paid NCT pals while easily losing weight thanks to successful breastfeeding. Sure, I knew that breastfeeding was hard. In acknowledgment I’d bought a small pack of ready made formula, and when asked if I was planning to feed from the boob, I’d given a feminist friendly answer about not applying too much pressure to myself, but the silent reality was different – I actually didn’t believe that I would find it hard.

Maybe my arrogance caused a cosmic order, because following that hushed revelation of my own private little hell, encouraged by my Mum and my husband, I stopped breastfeeding all together.

The story of my struggle isn’t an unusual one, and, physically, it was nothing out of the ordinary – I tried, but I didn’t make enough milk, and in my case, I couldn’t keep up with my big baby. I nursed, I pumped, and I snatched 30 minutes of sleep in between. We visited the Infant Feeding specialist, the Lactation Consultant and tongue tie clinic. Still, our girl lost weight. I gritted my teeth through the pain, while Robyn ended up with my blood on her clothes. My 9lb 6oz baby was now 7lb 13oz.

Eventually, enough was enough. We opened that first bottle of ready made and, finally, our starving daughter was full.

What a relief! Thank goodness for Cow & Gate! Now Dad can feed too! Isn’t science amazing?!

Yes, it is. Formula saves lives. That’s a fact.

What isn’t amazing is the damage done in the process of arriving at this checkpoint. My daughter was fine, that was clear – I, on the other hand, was anything but. By the time we made the transition from boob to bottle, my sanity had just about rolled away along with my muffin, and although I started telling people that breastfeeding had come to an end for us, justifying it with vaugities about the physical journey we’d been on and masking it with confidence in my own decisions, inside I’d lost myself in a dense fog of guilt and self loathing.

Here’s what I didn’t tell them – I cried. Hourly, if not more, and sometimes for hours on end. In the early days, family came to visit our new addition, offering cuddles for her and showering my husband with congratulations while I sat upstairs attached to my pump, crying into an untouched, microwaved ready meal. My sense of proportionality had become so unbalanced that milk production consumed me – even when I produced only 2oz of milk in over an hour.

Here’s something else I didn’t tell them – that while feeding my baby with my body, anxiety about her health had taken up permanent residence. I convinced myself that I was going to drop her everytime I carried her down the stairs; I checked her breathing every 15 minutes while she slept; I became obsessed with a possible (imaginary) infection in her cord stump, and I berated myself with verve when she caught a cold after being told that, if she were getting enough breast milk, I would have produced preventative antibodies for her. Even worse, she caught it from me, so clearly I’d not been washing my hands enough, despite the fact that my knuckles were bleeding from being under the tap so frequently.

I also didn’t tell them that when I stopped, and she started gaining weight like a champ, I felt relief, absolutely, and I knew it was the right decision – but I also felt cheated of that experience. I felt jealous of other Mums who had succeeded. I felt guilty that I was depriving her of the ‘best’. I felt shamed, trapped in my house so I didn’t have to get a bottle out in public.

I absolutely didn’t tell them that in a punishing act of sadism, I googled anti-formula articles and absorbed every reason I could find that I was a failure and unfit mother, such was the level to which I’d reduced my role in Robyn’s life – food source and nothing more.

The days were dark, and the nights were darker, as I drowned in tears and formula made up from the Perfect Prep. I looked at my body in the mirror with disgust. Inside, I raged. Outside, I raged – mostly at my poor husband, who must’ve felt that divorce was imminent. I knew nothing, and questioned everything – except the love for my daughter, which against all odds, grew stronger by the day.

At first, the love made the pain more acute, while I struggled to come to terms with my perceived failure to give her ‘The Best’. And then, she grew. And she smiled. And she squealed, dancing her legs with joy when I lay her next to the pink washing basket. She started chatting. She rolled over. She started showing when she was interested in something. She played She laughed. She slept against my heart while I carried her in the sling. She smiled. And smiled. And smiled.

And I loved her.

And I got better.

And now, I sleep for several hours at a time (as long as the movement monitor is on, but, you know, small steps). She’s had another cold, and I handled it. I’ve fed her many times in public, and I’ve stopped feeling heavy in my heart when I see other Mums breastfeeding – it is, after all, beautiful. I have moments, on bad days, when I feel sadness that it didn’t work out for us, but here’s the kicker – I have no doubt that to continue trying to breastfeed would have pushed me too far, and my mental health would have suffered. Now, Robyn has a full tum and a healthy Mum, two things she didn’t have before. She is well, I am well, and crucially, I no longer consider myself solely a source of food for her – I am her comfort, her playmate, her constant companion, her safe place. She is by my side, in my arms, 24 hours a day – I didn’t love her with my boobs, and I don’t love her with a bottle. I love her with my heart, my mind and my soul.

My daughter is the one who healed me, but other things helped along the way: I found a tribe of other Mums who mothered like I do (breast and bottle feeders, co-sleepers, crib sleepers, baby wearers, push chair-ers, whatever-ers, but all accept-ers); I did my research and learned more about Science Milk (it actually is amazing) and I stopped listening to woo; I grieved, and I spoke to other grievers who made me feel validated (I recommend the book ‘Healing Breastfeeding Grief’ by Hilary Jackson for a balanced approach to this); I offloaded on social media about mum-judgers (someone did recently share a back-bitey Britney meme in response to my post, but hey, it only served to illustrate my point). I equipped myself with knowledge and strength to have as a side dish to my main course of love. I started to focus on what I could do, instead of what I couldn’t. 

Gradually, I’m getting comfortable with the notion that the indisputable nutritional ‘best’ isn’t always the best in every other way. Formula saved my baby, and it saved me. That makes it The Best in our home.

Nevertheless, I have, without doubt, been judged – sometimes silently, sometimes with brazen – for bottle feeding. Sometimes it’s hidden behind a smile, but it’s there. Sometimes it’s not judgment, but pity. I’m not sure which is worse.

So, there are lots of things I didn’t say then, but here’s what I want to say now – the next time you judge a Mum for doing something ‘you wouldn’t do’, remember that there may be a whole story she hasn’t told you. Her truth is hers to share, or not. You might hear it, you might not. Be kind – there’s a chance she’s berating herself more than you will ever be able to do. Wouldn’t you rather be a member of the tribe, than the one to bring her to her knees?

Oh, and a final word to Formula Haters  – it might be science, bitch, but it ain’t cooked up in an RV. Get in the fucking sea. 

Meg Ramsell

Mum to Robyn, wife to Mark. Professional organiser, part time volunteer, expert level worrier.

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