Welcome to my mental illness blog on modern motherhood, a journey through depression, anxiety and PND. Crazy is a spectrum and we all sit somewhere on it.
My doctor expressed his concerns that I was not bonding well with our newborn baby. I recall sitting in his office completely unimpressed, pointing at my baby boy saying, I have to look after that thing.
OMG. Did I just call my precious baby a thing? Clearly, I was not that giddy loved-up mum who just about elevated off the floor because she’s so besotted by the fruit of her womb.
I thought the parasite days were over once gestation had finished. Squeezing milk out of my boobs 24/7 proved that this was NOT yet over and in fact, the slavery had only just begun.
I will add that breastfeeding for the first time in the public eye was a monumental event, one that I’m convinced every news channel were broadcasting all over the country. It’s hard to play it cool in public with a pair of ballooning breasts that emerge every hour on the hour, awaiting an agitated baby or breast pump to release the pressure and make everything in the world right again.
On top of that, sleep deprivation can make you do strange things. Like putting undies in the bin instead of the wash basket and breast milk in your husband’s cereal.
We lived in a tiny studio flat and our son’s bassinet was strategically located next to my bed so I could watch him breathe while he was sleeping. When you’re an overly anxious mother who’s well versed in tragic infant deaths as foretold in the media, you can’t help but fearing the worst.
Seemingly, babies die all the time why would our baby be exempt? I constantly had images flashing in my mind of the baby getting wrapped up in the cot sheets and being strangled or smothered to death. As I approached his bed each morning, I often anticipated that I would find him dead from asphyxiation.
In hindsight, have discovered there’s a fine line between a normal amount of concern that every parent experiences and obsessive worry.
Concern for your new baby (especially if it’s your first) I believe is completely legitimate, whether it’s the smallest detail such as a nappy that’s suspiciously too tight (no judgement for those mums who use velcro) or big things like the risk of SIDS.
No matter is too minute to phone a friend, seek knowledge from our hypothetical buddy Google or, my parenting method – a la wait to see what happens. Don’t worry folks, I have a PhD in trawling through online parenting forums and self-diangosis hypochondria-style. I got this.
On the other side of the coin is a little pickle called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), that can present in different ways.
I always thought OCD is when someone excessively cleans, checks door locks or aligns objects a certain way. Well, it is that too, but OCD is a spectrum and the symptoms can vary in themes and severity.
As time went on, my obsessions would not only increase but switch between violent thoughts to health anxiety and religious OCD. Dr Google and I have become well acquainted over the last few years, our relationship becoming what I would call ‘complicated.’ Every time I Googled my symptoms, sudden death was lurking around the corner ready to take me away to the Land of Worst Case Scenario.
Into our firstborn’s second month, we decided to move out of the studio flat and into a 100% legit house with doors and walls, allowing separation between parents and offspring.
It’s one thing to be Australian; it’s quite another to actually live in a two-bedder fibro shack built in the 70’s on a house-o street in Western Sydney. Those old shabby shacks were constructed of building materials about as useless as gingerbread, except it wasn’t as fun as gingerbread because if you ate the fibro walls, you would probably die of asbestos poisoning. In that house, stray cat piss fumes would seep through the floorboards and propagate a nasty funk in every room, as a poignant reminder that cats really hate humans.
I will say that moving house is a BIG DEAL. Its something I have done many, many times and it is nothing like aged wine.
It does not get better with time and you run short of creative ways to bribe your friends to help.
You have to clean the house you leave and then the house you move into, pack and unpack boxes, disassemble, load, unload and reassemble furniture, disconnect and reconnect utilities, make settlements with perfectionist landlords whilst dealing with the incompetence of new real estate agents who simply don’t care.
It’s exhausting, expensive and can be a trigger for emotional upheaval, especially for those of us who are vulnerable to stress and are trying to push through PND.
Ladies and gentleman, may I present the real reason why bubble wrap was invented.
In a wonderful act of irony, Husband also started a new job the same week we moved, because why have one big stressor in your life when you can have two?
Following the move, I started to get strange dark thoughts in my head thoughts about harming our 2-month old. The OCD had taken on a new form that was not only incredibly scary but also confusing. I was finally bonding nicely with the squishy baby and that was made evident by the excess baby spam on my phone and Instagram feed.
My first response to the violent intrusive thoughts was fear. Thinking about hurting our baby on this side of the birth was something I hadn’t experienced before, so naturally, it struck a deep sense of terror in me. This time, I wasn’t afraid I would actually hurt him – I knew for a fact that I would never cross that line.
My newest fear was that I would go mentally insane, lose complete control and wind up in a mental institution.
Several years ago, I watched a lengthly and riveting documentary on mental illness and since then, developed a phobia of a sudden descent into madness before being wrapped up in a strait jacket to forever dwell in a white padded cell.
In this part of the story, Id like to interject and add that the most effective and research-based treatment for OCD and most anxiety disorders is called exposure therapy. And it is literally that. You expose yourself to your worst fears until they become neutralised, thus eliminating any feeling of anxiety associated with those thoughts, making it easier to dismiss and ignore them.
This, I only recently discovered at the time through six months of intense Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT). Previous to that, I suffered silently. For Y E A R S.
When I was about 10, I watched this show called Emergency 911, where a distressed mother called the emergency line about her child that was choking on a chicken bone. From that moment on, I developed a fear of choking whilst eating, even to the point where I couldn’t swallow food properly.
I even went for digestive testing but the symptoms were psychosomatic. It seems the OCD had developed at quite an early age and yet, no one including me was privy to this until after I had a baby.
Over TWENTY YEARS later.
Back to the story: the violent thoughts eventually let down, however, I couldn’t stop myself from constantly checking on the baby when he was sleeping.
I would walk into his room and check that he was breathing about five up to eight times a night, carefully inspecting the surroundings for any objects that may accidentally fall into his bassinet and kill him. Though I am now significantly better in this area, to this day, I still am tempted to check on our children multiple times a night.
Is this standard concerned parent behaviour or obsessive? I’m really not sure. The strongest urges to check on my children is usually at times of high stress. Because that’s what OCD does when you’re stressed: it serves up you your worst fear and tricks you into believing it over and over again.
A few months after the house move, I started venturing out beyond baby life with a home-based business whilst freelance writing. I think this was about the time my confidence had well and truly overshadowed my ability to make sound and wise decisions, tipping me yet again into the land of Hustle Until It Kills You.
Baby brain is one thing but this is a whole nuther level of overly optimistic. I was like Lloyd on Dumb and Dumber, who chooses to ignore the odds (it is well known that 95% of start-ups fail) and go straight for the jugular.
I also picked up a few days casual work to help pay the bills, as being a SAHM living in Sydney is nearly impossible without income for those who need to survive.
While I was juggling motherhood, attempting to kick off a MLM (I shudder in reflection of this), freelance writing and slowly transitioning back to work, we needed to move house AGAIN. The bubble wrap emerged where we spent one week, hundreds of dollars and a lot of energy moving from 2147 to 2147.
Days before we moved house, a minor incident swiftly turned into a life-changing event.
Our 9-month old boy had a minor cut on his finger. It was so minor, it took us forever to work out the source of the bleeding while he was sitting there laughing and clapping with blood covering his face and hands.
After three visits to the hospital and many failed attempts by doctors to stop the bleeding, it became apparent that something was not quite right.
In September 2015, our son was diagnosed with Haemophilia, a rare and incurable bleeding disorder that can be potentially life-threatening.
At the time, we didnt even know there was such a thing as a bleeding disorder until that day the Haemophilia clinic staff terrified us with their fancy medical talk, to which I could only comprehend the words ‘incurable’ and ‘lifelong’.
Two days later, we moved house and things escalated from bad to worse.
They say it takes time to come undone and that’s certainly true. Going batshit crazy doesn’t happen overnight. I know – I’m expert-level neuroticism. But by this stage, the boat was sinking and as the year was winding up, I was coming undone.
Coming to terms with our son’s blood disorder as well as accepting, managing and preventing any slips, trips and falls became my next mission.
I was on high alert 24/7, which meant relaxing would never happen again for a long time and anxiety would be moving in with me – permanently.
Spontaneous panic attacks started to come at the most inconvenient times such as eating out at restaurants, grocery shopping and meeting with mums and bubs group. Fortunately, I was in the type of group where we could freely and openly share what was on our aching hearts; tears, ugly cries and all. “We’re all a bunch of Looney Tunes,” one of the mums once said to me.
I felt touched by my dear friends comment. I had found my place amongst a bag of mixed nuts and none of us were in denial about it. It was both authentic and glorious, something that I believe every mother about to lose her shit desperately needs.
At this point, the physical manifestation of PND and OCD became crippling.
Weakness, muscle and joint pain, IBS and extreme fatigue meant meeting all mumsy KPIs would be a constant struggle. Often, I’d be too tired to lift the pram out of the car and just ache all through my body but somehow was able to lay awake at night consumed with worry about what could possibly be wrong with me.
Cancer?
Lymes?
Multiple Sclerosis?
Hysteria?
I had lost a lot of weight from excessive fear, worry and anxiety. Soon I learnt that being skinny wasn’t a good social move either, as I received many disapproving looks and comments from so-called friends. I gained 72kg and tonnes of compliments when I was pregnant but when I lost the baby weight plus much more, it seemed that everybody demanded an explanation.
Every anxious thought would start like this: What if [fill in the blank]?
It is actually really hard to reason with yourself when all anxiety wants to do is win an argument you didnt even start or want in the first place.
What if you’re sick forever?
What if your baby hits his head and haemorrhages in his brain?
What if he gets snatched and goes missing?
What if you have an incurable disease?
Anxiety and depression was a stage five clinger and so I needed to turn to professional psychologists. At the time, I was going to go to a private mental health clinic, one with crisp white walls that even smelt sterile and looked sophisticated as heck. Let’s just say that in hindsight, you dont always get what you pay for. Sometimes you get more, but in this case I got less. Way less. And that can be really frustrating when youre sick and just need help.
I believe the main reason why so many people self harm and – dare I say it – commit suicide, is lack of timely intervention.
I’m not saying there’s a shortage of highly-skilled professionals or facilities that can treat and manage mental illness. On the contrary, there is a plethora of private and public services out there. But what I have experienced is the inability of practitioners at popular and well-funded clinics to promptly recognise a specific condition and then treat it appropriately.
I have experienced the inability of practitioners at popular and well-funded clinics to promptly recognise a specific condition and then treat it appropriately.
Everyone I have met in the mental health profession has good intentions. And I appreciate that psychologists spend many years and hours in theoretical study as well as clinical practice to be sufficiently trained in treating mental illness.
But I also find it disappointing that I took four different therapists – clinical and non-clinical – to finally find one who knew how to treat OCD.
We have come a long way as a developed society in proactively treating mental illness, as well as advocating for those who silently suffer. But, there are still gaps in the system and plenty of room for improvement. With increased funding, research, education and professional development, we will get there!
So. The final straw that completely sunk ship was an exchange at a very sweet and innocent baby shower.
Husband and I had spent the entire preceding night in hospital getting treatment for our Haemophiliac son, involving a few trips back-and-forth from home.
I truly wanted to be a good friend to the expecting mother by making an effort and attending her little baby shower tea party. What I ended up doing is pushing myself way beyond my limits, despite everything that was happening at the time and thought, “I can wing it if I just put a happy face on.”
I was so depressed and anxious, yet had to fake it big-time because of the exact type of people I was around.
Cue mean girls.
Besides, I didn’t want to be a downer to my expecting friend during a very special time in her life.
However, it seems even pretending everything was okay wasn’t satisfactory because I had another mum, a total STRANGER, very brashly tell me off for having the audacity to look inconsistent to the way she believed I should look.
She had a go at my hair.
She critiqued my make-up.
And then went off about the clothes I was wearing.
I occasionally read about these types of mums that slam other mums with no hesitation but I had never met one before.
To be honest, I didn’t even think they really existed, I thought they were just urban legends in wildlife documentaries.
After trying to process WTF just went down, I left absolutely disgusted that a human being, a mother, could so brazenly spew out molten-lava venom-words all over a sister like that and think absolutely nothing of it.
(The extended version of this story is covered in my book Having A Baby Turned Me Batshit Crazy and in my mental illness blog).
From this, I have learnt about letting go and holding on – and learning to get the timing right.
Friendship is so important in human development because it brings us comfort and compassion, which cultivates an environment for us to trust, grow and become better versions of ourselves.
So, if you have to mask your feelings of despair/depression/worry/anxiety/fear around a certain circle of friends – THEY ARE NOT YOUR FRIENDS.
It’s time to let go and say buh-bye.
Life is way too short to hide behind a faade and pretend everything is peachy when it’s clearly not.
This experience demonstrated that true friends will walk with you way beyond the ‘feel good days’ and into the deep, dark and sunless valleys. These kinds of friends are a rarity but gosh, when you find them, hold on and nurture that friendship! How you define nurture is up to you, but for me it means spending quality time together, chatting over coffee or wine and tagging each other in memes.
Thanks to this mental illness blog and my book, I have had the sheer pleasure of helping other women in similar situations and I tell you what, it’s powerful when we come together and say it how it is with #nofilter to mask the ugliness that life can sometimes bring.
Life is NOT easy and yet we put more and more pressure on ourselves to live up to this expectation of being perfect.
I call BS on this one.
Nobody is perfect, in fact, the human race has perfected the art of stuffing things up.
I will finish up on this: Please remember that there is always hope.
A close friend whom I dearly love reminded me of this in my darkest hour. We will all lose hope at some point in time, even the strongest and boldest of us. But that’s when we turn to our faith, family and friends for love and support, to help us renew our hope daily when it all dries up.
Who in your circle of influence needs hope?
Go ahead and be that friend to lift someone else up and encourage them in their time of need.
Don’t be afraid to ask the hard questions and refer to professionals too, that’s really important!
A simple word, a kind deed, a text to say you’re thinking of them can make a difference in someone’s life. Indeed, it is more blessed to give than receive, and I can guarantee you will leave with a profound feeling that no one or nothing can ever take away.
Modern Motherhood and Mental Illness is part of a blog series uncovering the ups and downs of my personal two-year journey battling PND, PTSD and OCD.
