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View as: GRID LIST

The Post Natal Depression Years – The Decline

1
I never imagined that the fight of my life would be with myself. Not with a boyfriend, or a rival, or a job but with parts of my own being – my head, my body, my mind.

In the summer of 2015, three months after my second daughter was born, my mind laid down the gauntlet for a protracted, bloody war that would last us two long years; a Tolkien-war that would take us to f
oreign landscapes inhabited by grim ogres and cunning wizards. If Tolkien were to name this war I’m sure he would come up with something far catchier, and fittingly-darker, than

SelfishMother.com
2
‘Post-Natal-Depression,’ perhaps the ‘Womb of Doom,’ I don’t know.

Either way, it would be a difficult story for even Tolkien to tell because as far as I can see PND manifests itself differently in different people. Not just because anxiety and depression are slippery little fuckers but because we are diverse beings with idiosyncratic susceptibilities.
In my case, PND appeared in the form of Fear and Dread. Sometimes Fear and Dread would lurk a few footsteps behind, raising the hackles on my neck, making me feel unsettled and

SelfishMother.com
3
‘watched’; other days they would be right up behind me like an all-out menacing tailgater, quickening my step and raising my heart rate. On the darkest-of-dark days they would peel back my eyelids and stare in before the sun had even risen.

Of course, I didn’t know I had PND and I would have strongly argued with anyone who dared to say I did. I thought everything I felt and thought was reasonable: obsessing about the dirt in the (brand new) washing machine tray was ‘reasonable,’ concluding my 6-month old daughter was independent because she

SelfishMother.com
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knew I didn’t love her was ‘reasonable,’ suffering from insomnia, feeling paranoid, dreading being on my own, feeling overwhelming anxiety at baby groups, not being able to make a simple decision, thinking my husband was controlling me, assuming my family didn’t care about me anymore … all of that was reasonable, for sure. Fear told me so, and if Fear didn’t, Dread insinuated it.

Nobody said anything (to my face) until December 2015, when a long-term friend witnessed me cry my eyes out in a garden centre café because my husband casually

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5
remarked he would finish for the Christmas holidays three day later than planned. Again, at this juncture I must add that I thought it was reasonable to feel annihilated by the prospect of three additional days at home with the kids. The Christmas-holiday conversation abruptly stopped and we all packed up our stuff, and our kids, to head home.

Whilst we were waiting for our husbands to bring round the cars, my friend gently nudged me and said something along the lines of: ‘I’m not saying you have post-natal depression, I’m just saying think

SelfishMother.com
6
about it.’ And left it at that. On the way home I thought, ‘Pah! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about! I’m fine.’

A few weeks later my trajectory into the furnace of Mordor took a much steeper decline. Fear and Dread stepped up their game and I found myself unable to cope with anything. Anything at all. Leaving the house felt insurmountable because getting my two daughters dressed felt insurmountable because finding their socks felt insurmountable … and you get the picture.

I booked an appointment with my GP, not knowing what

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else to do or who else to call, and the next day I broke down and sobbed in her clinic. She handed me a tissue, ignored my daughters’ gleeful destruction of her surgery and waited until I said the words, ‘I think I have post-natal depression,’ before saying, ‘that’s okay, lots of people do, it’s not your fault.’

There’s no moral to this part of the story, I don’t know what would have happened if my friend hadn’t nudged me, or if she – or someone else – had nudged me earlier, but I do think that sometimes we witness a moment of

SelfishMother.com
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vulnerability in our friends’ lives and how we handle it can make all the difference. Unfortunately, there’s no textbook way to handle it, in my opinion, because it all depends on the friend, the friendship and the vulnerability in question. But what I will say is thank The Lord (of the Rings) for brave, enduring, caring friends, because without them the Womb of Doom wouldn’t last beyond Part I and a hell of a lot more mother-hobbits would fry in that volcano.

(In Part II I promise not to mention Lord of the Rings, I’m not even that much of a

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9
fan – it’s just its epic nature, constant surprise battle-scenes and dark magic feels so true to PND.)
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- 27 Apr 17

I never imagined that the fight of my life would be with myself. Not with a boyfriend, or a rival, or a job but with parts of my own being – my head, my body, my mind.

In the summer of 2015, three months after my second daughter was born, my mind laid down the gauntlet for a protracted, bloody war that would last us two long years; a Tolkien-war that would take us to f
oreign landscapes inhabited by grim ogres and cunning wizards. If Tolkien were to name this war I’m sure he would come up with something far catchier, and fittingly-darker, than ‘Post-Natal-Depression,’ perhaps the ‘Womb of Doom,’ I don’t know.

Either way, it would be a difficult story for even Tolkien to tell because as far as I can see PND manifests itself differently in different people. Not just because anxiety and depression are slippery little fuckers but because we are diverse beings with idiosyncratic susceptibilities.
In my case, PND appeared in the form of Fear and Dread. Sometimes Fear and Dread would lurk a few footsteps behind, raising the hackles on my neck, making me feel unsettled and ‘watched’; other days they would be right up behind me like an all-out menacing tailgater, quickening my step and raising my heart rate. On the darkest-of-dark days they would peel back my eyelids and stare in before the sun had even risen.

Of course, I didn’t know I had PND and I would have strongly argued with anyone who dared to say I did. I thought everything I felt and thought was reasonable: obsessing about the dirt in the (brand new) washing machine tray was ‘reasonable,’ concluding my 6-month old daughter was independent because she knew I didn’t love her was ‘reasonable,’ suffering from insomnia, feeling paranoid, dreading being on my own, feeling overwhelming anxiety at baby groups, not being able to make a simple decision, thinking my husband was controlling me, assuming my family didn’t care about me anymore … all of that was reasonable, for sure. Fear told me so, and if Fear didn’t, Dread insinuated it.

Nobody said anything (to my face) until December 2015, when a long-term friend witnessed me cry my eyes out in a garden centre café because my husband casually remarked he would finish for the Christmas holidays three day later than planned. Again, at this juncture I must add that I thought it was reasonable to feel annihilated by the prospect of three additional days at home with the kids. The Christmas-holiday conversation abruptly stopped and we all packed up our stuff, and our kids, to head home.

Whilst we were waiting for our husbands to bring round the cars, my friend gently nudged me and said something along the lines of: ‘I’m not saying you have post-natal depression, I’m just saying think about it.’ And left it at that. On the way home I thought, ‘Pah! She doesn’t know what she’s talking about! I’m fine.’

A few weeks later my trajectory into the furnace of Mordor took a much steeper decline. Fear and Dread stepped up their game and I found myself unable to cope with anything. Anything at all. Leaving the house felt insurmountable because getting my two daughters dressed felt insurmountable because finding their socks felt insurmountable … and you get the picture.

I booked an appointment with my GP, not knowing what else to do or who else to call, and the next day I broke down and sobbed in her clinic. She handed me a tissue, ignored my daughters’ gleeful destruction of her surgery and waited until I said the words, ‘I think I have post-natal depression,’ before saying, ‘that’s okay, lots of people do, it’s not your fault.’

There’s no moral to this part of the story, I don’t know what would have happened if my friend hadn’t nudged me, or if she – or someone else – had nudged me earlier, but I do think that sometimes we witness a moment of vulnerability in our friends’ lives and how we handle it can make all the difference. Unfortunately, there’s no textbook way to handle it, in my opinion, because it all depends on the friend, the friendship and the vulnerability in question. But what I will say is thank The Lord (of the Rings) for brave, enduring, caring friends, because without them the Womb of Doom wouldn’t last beyond Part I and a hell of a lot more mother-hobbits would fry in that volcano.

(In Part II I promise not to mention Lord of the Rings, I’m not even that much of a fan – it’s just its epic nature, constant surprise battle-scenes and dark magic feels so true to PND.)

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By day, I write articles for a children’s charity (a job I adore), for fun I write for blogazines and - if I'm not crying with exhaustion - I write fiction for myself.

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