Welcome to my PND blog on modern motherhood and mental illness, a journey through depression and anxiety.
This PND blog is part of a series uncovering the ups and downs of my personal journey battling PND, PTSD and OCD.
“I don’t need this.” I stated in a matter-or-fact kind of way to my GP.
He looked at me like I was about to strangle his cat. Dread covered his face. I had been on antidepressants since I was 16 and at the time being 32 decided this psychotropic drug stuff was sheer nonsense, a big conspiracy by Big Pharma.
Little did I know I was also a few weeks preggers at the exact same time I decided to drop the meds. Looking back, that definitely explains the meltdowns.
Hormones.
Emotionally-charged pregnant woman.
Coming off prescription drugs I’d been on for 16 years.
The commotion landed me a few disapproving glances from the young couple next door, who somewhat reminded me of Ned and Maud Flanders. In contrast, I was the madness to their self-righeousness and boy, did they make it known they did NOT want to catch the crazies.
It seems what I thought was standard growing a human being pregnancy emotions was actually straight-up Perinatal Depression (PND), which is the official term for anxiety and depression during and post pregnancy.
It is apparently very common and can vary in severity. For me, these emotional outbursts, feelings of anger, anxiety and sadness were starting to become the norm as PND well and truly set in, making its dark presence known.
What also didn’t help was the fatigue, exhaustion and relentless morning sickness, that continued into the second trimester.
Not only was I struggling mentally and emotionally but physically, I was wrecked.
Throughout the pregnancy, I couldn’t wear a seat belt without it touching my neck and making me gag.
Everything smelt and tasted weird.
Very lovely, well-meaning people would say, “You’re glowing! You look great!” and I would think, “Yeah, I just vomited in your toilet, I think I still have chunks in my hair, oh and my thighs are chaffing cos I got some serious water retention going on.”
Here’s an actual video of me glowing during pregnancy:
After the incessant vomiting had settled down, the intrusive thoughts started coming.
“What if I get angry and throw my baby against the wall?”
“Or down the stairs?”
“What if I accidentally leave him in the car on a hot day and he dies?”
To help relieve my anxiety, I thought it would be a good idea to watch a documentary on mothers who killed their children. I was horrified, terrified and more anxious than ever. I was convinced that I would somehow lose control and go berserk on our newborn baby.
These fears felt so real in my mind, though my loving husband would often reassure me that he was confident I wouldn’t harm our baby.
He had no concerns whatsoever, but his reassurance did nothing but feed the anxiety. There was simply no way to be certain and I could never be sure that something bad wouldn’t happen.
Where there are no absolutes, fear, worry and anxiety festers, which then leads to depression and down and down it goes.
It is completely normal for expecting mums and dads to feel anxious about the parental responsibility that lies ahead. In fact, if you’re not afraid, then you probably have a personality disorder.
We ruminate in our minds, what if this? What if that? Will I be a good nurturer, role model, protector and provider?
Our desire is to give our Mini Me the best start in life, and somehow, not stuff it up in the process within a world that has gone mad.
The midwives and doctors were fussing over me a lot during pre-natal checks and I couldnt understand why they kept bringing up the medication thing.
Apparently, I was a high-risk pregnancy given my history of depression and anxiety. One of the maternity nurses looked at me intently and said, “I think you might be depressed” and made me fill out a survey asking, ‘Do you feel depressed?’ more or less in 10 different ways.
Enter the third trimester.
The baby’s due date came.
My birthday came.
Jesus’ birthday came.
Best friend’s wedding came.
New Year came.
No sign of baby.
Was I going to give birth to a teenager?
Two weeks over cooked and I had had enough. I weighed 72kg during my final week of pregnancy and by this time, I had not only gained 20kg but gained the admiration of my friends! They all smiled with glee as my body continued to balloon out and kept attesting that I looked great.
The midwives finally set a date after I begged for intervention. How convenient.
I had no control over what was happening to my body and my life, but at least I got to decide when I would expel a human.
The whole birth thing was really a blur, but here’s what I remember. I had a birth plan: give birth in a bath set at ambient temperature with essential oils, candles and calm music playing while Husban sits in the corner humming Shout to the Lord.
This is what really happened: I had a complicated, overly-invasive traumatic birth experience involving an episiotomy and forecepts that compounded my depression and anxiety.
I will admit for a natural birth, the level of intervention was beyond comprehensible. Manual breaking of waters (nothing like being poked in the uterus), syntocin the hormone that sends you straight into active labour intravenously pumped through my veins, fetal monitor strapped to my bulging stomach, happy gas, antibiotics, forceps and episiotomy.
After a few hours of sucking in gas that was as useless as a helium balloon, I said, “Screw this, get me an epi!” and called for the anaesthesiologist who I think floated in on a white fluffy cloud with her magic trolley of make-the-pain-go-away drugs.
I only smiled once during labour and it was when I saw her, because there were rainbows beaming from her face.
She rattled off some legal mumbo jumbo ‘paralysis this,’ ‘infection that’ in between contractions. I profusely accepted the terms and conditions and eagerly nodded to a big long needle inserted into my spine.
You can read about the full birth experience here.
Yes, it’s true that you forget about the labour.
That is, until the epi wears off, your undies are packed with ice and you can hardly walk, let alone sit or let anything touch your womanhood. The pain in the weeks and dare I say MONTHS following birth does not allow you to forget as it is a brutal reminder of what your body went through to bring forth life.
I wish I could say I was fully recovered from birth after the standard six-week time frame so universally spoken of in the medical profession. But NO, life can sometimes be a bitch and for whatever reason, us women seem to be punished further, way beyond the labour pains.
I had post-partum haemorrhaging, infected stitches, mastitis and thrush in my breasts, chronic pain from the episiotomy, a bruised tailbone and serious bladder control issues. Being challenged on a physical level was somewhat manageable, as I knew that in time I would naturally heal.
However, PND was not quite the same. In fact, there are no guarantees when the thick, dark cloud will make its departure and piss off.
Who knows if and when I would ever see the light of day again? You just wait and hope.
I thought Baby Blues was meant to last a week or so, but these intense feelings of sadness, hopelessness, anger and fear were relentless. PND was not going away without a fight.
I have only a few photos from our baby’s first month, because I spent the majority of the time grieving the eternal loss of freedom whilst resenting the insurmountable responsibility that now lay upon us.
It’s a paradox in every possible way: the inexpressible love for your child but the shock of this new life. Riddled with non-stop lactation, cries, colic, poo, vomit, rocking, arguments as to how to settle the baby, feed the baby and let’s not forget the eye-rolling Huggies commercials showing flawless mothers doting on their spawn in slow motion.
For most parents, this transition is probably one of the most difficult and life-changing.
Every parent responds differently and that’s totally okay. For some, they take it in their stride and as they collect more tiny humans until it becomes like clockwork.
For others (like me), we go batshit crazy and end up winging it while suffering with a host of mental health issues that extends beyond months and into years.
Though I have graduated from the tenacious tentacles of severe PND, PTSD and OCD, symtpoms still come back from time-to-time to remind me that I’m an imperfect human being, tasked to raise little people in an imperfect world.
Both of our children have grown older now (school aged) and I’m proud to say, I still have no idea what I’m doing.
My modern motherhood and PND blog is part of a series uncovering the ups and downs of my personal journey battling depression and anxiety.
