Ending therapy. Alternatively titled: Can I do this without professional help?

Over the years I have had many different therapists who have each approached me in different ways, using various and sometimes contradictory methods.

One thing that has always been the same though, no matter who I was seeing at the time, is that on leaving a session, I've always felt worse. Without fail. Because talking about shitty things sucks big hairy balls sometimes. I would always be left with a sense that I was a complete basket case (which may be true, but let’s not rub that in) who would never ever not need help. Until I met this latest guy; let's call him Brad, because that's his name.

I've only worked with Brad for about nine months after the original therapist I was seeing through the maternity hospital reached the end of her contract. I hate changing therapists. The whole rehashing of why you’re so fucked up is painful. Old wounds that were just starting to scab over are picked at. Fresh blood drops breaking the surface, and I’m right back there when it all happened. But other than the first session, where we were both getting to know how each other operated, I’ve always left feeling OK. Not necessarily like I could take on the world, but that everything would be alright. Even after sessions that were heavy. For the first time ever I found a sense of hope.

We worked on all number of issues, but no matter what, I felt I could be myself. Which might sound stupid because, duh, aren’t you always meant to be yourself with your therapist? See, you are, but I, err, haven’t always been. Because HELPFUL. I know, I know, I’m an idiot. Previously I’ve lied to avoid the conversations I didn’t feel ready to have. Very helpful, Glow, very helpful.

Working through my all-encompassing guilt and shame after forgetting Bobbin, I was more truthful than I thought I could be, and I didn’t feel judged. I know that’s his job, but I’ve seen so many therapists that just aren’t good at it, so to have a good one at a time when I really needed it was great.

My sessions at the hospital were to last up until one year post-partum… with Bobbin turning one last month I knew our time was going to be up sooner rather than later. They don’t toss you out on the kerb if you’re in need of care, but because my sessions were maintenance and skill building for the most part rather than crisis management, it would be time to say goodbye.

Our final session was bittersweet. We decided it would be ending now, and I was happy with that, feeling that I had been part of the decision making process, that this was the right time for it to conclude. But then I started to cry just a little.

It was an uneasy feeling and I wasn’t entirely sure why I was crying. Was it because my safety net would be gone? Or that I’d miss the “debrief” that therapy allows? Would I miss Brad and this lopsided relationship we had going on where I knew nothing about him and he knew so much about how screwed up I feel sometimes yet never made me feel like a freak? The answer is probably a combination of all of that and then some.

We joked I was now sane and that he should really invest in a stamp ala The Simpsons so I could prove it to my friends. We summed up the three most important people in my life, my rocks, my happy place; I laughed that the things that make Bobbin (who came to the majority of sessions) full on now, are the exact things I love about her because they'll make her an awesome woman; marveled at Tricky's massive increase in confidence in the last six months; and swooned over MapGuy, who we always called Mr Perfect in our fortnightly meetings.

The session was much shorter than usual, or at least it felt that way. He said he’d enjoyed our time together, that he’d see my name on his calendar and smile, and I believed him. Because we always had great conversations (combined with a somewhat similar sense of humour) that would seem to go in all sorts of directions but always with an underlying theme of “Glow isn’t as crazy as she thinks she is” with a side of “Glow needs to chill out a bit”. I shook his hand and thanked him most ineloquently for everything he had done for me. The words didn’t seem enough, so, announcing it was probably breaking some rule, I gave him the quickest of hugs and walked out without looking back. Because if I’d look back I’d probably start proper, ugly crying. How do you adequately thank someone for returning a sense of hope to your life?

I don’t think I’ll be getting a new therapist any time soon, instead I'll fly solo for a while. The idea of rehashing my past isn’t attractive, and I feel like I’m in a good place right now, and if those introductory sessions aren’t handled well, it can cause a spiral down with the “I’m more fucked up than I thought, I’m going to be insane forever” thing. But don't panic, I'm still medicated for your convenience.

The day I left my baby in the car

I'm opening myself up to a lot of criticism with this post. If you'd like to tell me how horrible I am, go ahead. There is nothing you can say to me that I haven't already said to myself. But maybe, just maybe, you'll see that by pressing publish on this post, when tragic stories hit the news, it isn't necessarily torch and pitchfork time.

There used to be an Australian TV show called Crownies (it's now called Janet King). They had a story line where a baby died in a hot car after the father forgot him. The episode left me devastated and has stayed with me. Then, last year, it happened in real life here in Perth with an 11 month old baby and I was equally distressed. One was a fictional family and the other a real one that I had zero connection to, and yet my heart felt like it was being ripped from my chest. I remember my arms aching to hold my babies even closer that night, and it was one of the occasions where Tricky kicking me in his sleep was a blessing.

I wrote of my distress on my Facebook page and it touched a lot of people. Some were upset whilst others were confused at how anyone could ever forget a child and suspected something sinister (as the courts in the US suspect now in a horrible case). A Washington Post article did the rounds, explaining how common forgetting a child was (it's a long, but fascinating article). It referenced the Swiss Cheese Theory and it stuck in my head. Likening our lives to slices of Swiss Cheese, the holes are all over the place and when things fall through one layer, there is another right underneath to catch it... but sometimes, those holes line up and accidents happen.

Bobbin is a few days shy of being 11 months old, and yesterday, I forgot she was with me. The holes in our Swiss Cheese life lined up:

For starters my memory is shot. On Monday I forgot, within 40 minutes that MapGuy was off work, sick. I came home to grab a bag I had forgotten and nearly shat myself when I saw someone standing in the hall out of the corner of my eye.

Yesterday MG was off work sick again. With him home it meant I could drop Tricky at his first day back at school solo, which was fabulous because getting two of them out of the car in the rain is a pain.

At pick up time I ummed and ahhed about taking Bobbin with me or leaving her home with MG because of the rain. I decided to take her then I'd go shopping after I picked up Tricks. MG put her in the car while I jumped in the front. As I was backing out the driveway I realized I'd forgotten the shopping list so MG ran inside to get it and handed it to me through the window. I even made a joke about having a terrible memory, and waved goodbye.

I drove to school thinking about nothing important. The shopping list. What time to start dinner. Wondering if Tricks had had a good day at school. Wondering if I'd get a parking spot.

I pulled in to the street and parked in the exact same spot I had parked in that morning. Score. About ten metres away from the gate, close enough to not need an umbrella, even if the few spots of rain that had been threatening for half an hour decided to fall. I got out, jammed my keys in my pocket and walked through the school gate.

I chatted. I put my name down on the parent roster. I chatted some more. Tricky came out, we hugged and I asked him about his day. "It was good. Come and play with me." So I did. The rain was holding back so we walked around his playground looking at the strawberry plants and the Camellias. I was so impressed with myself that brown-thumb me could recognize some plants.

We walked through the gate hand in hand, swinging our arms, chatting about being back at school. It was a lovely moment, until we reached the car and I opened the door for him. Because that's when I saw her.

She leaned forward in her car seat, still rear-facing, and smiled at Tricky, saying his name.

I felt all the air rush out of my lungs and for the briefest of moments I could swear my heart stopped. I was so confused.

What the fuck is going on? How did you get here? Didn't I leave you with your Dad? No. I didn't. I brought you. I forgot you. I left you. Fuck. FUCK!

Ten minutes. I forgot her for ten whole fucking minutes while I made bullshit small talk about school holidays and not getting any sleep.

I got in the car and carried on like nothing had happened. We went to the shops and I walked around on autopilot grabbing the handful of things we needed. I spoke to the cashier, I smiled at a school mum, I told Tricky he couldn't have a packet of biscuits. Just push through, just go through the motions, don't acknowledge the horror, don't fall apart.

At home I told MG and then emailed my sister to declare that I was the worst mother to have ever lived. A throw back to Catholic school days and a need to confess my sins, searching for absolution. They were both shocked but understanding. I withdrew.

You would think, that after such a disturbing event, that I would spend the rest of the afternoon hugging my children, smothering them with kisses. But I didn't. For the remainder of the afternoon I avoided my kids, so ashamed with my actions (or lack thereof) that I could barely look at them. The thoughts that ran through my head were dark and scary, reminiscent of times when the Black Dog was not just barking at my heels, but mauling my soul. It was frightening how quickly I went back to old, familiar thought patterns.

After a few hours, when I could breathe again, I ran a bath for me and the kids. I washed their hair and we played with cups, splashing and laughing. Be normal. Be normal. Be normal.

I read Tricky a book and cuddled him to sleep, stroking his hair. Bobbin fed to sleep in my arms and I held her for a while, kissing her forehead, smelling that fresh baby smell as the endless what ifs circled whirled through my head. And finally, I cried.

MapGuy says it's OK. That all is forgiven. This was "just" ten minutes on a rainy day with no tragic outcome. I know I would tell someone else in my position that it was an accident, to take the experience, move on, learn from it. But right now, I just can't forgive myself.

The Quiet Blogger and the Anxious Social Butterfly

The quiet blogger? Well that seems like a bit of an oxymoron. Can quiet and blogger even be used in the same sentence without setting in to motion a sad, slow, social media death? Let's see, shall we?

I'm quiet right now in my online space. I'm scribbling drafts but not hitting publish. I'm uploading a few pictures and statuses to Facebook but I've practically forgotten what Twitter is. And I don't apologize.

I took on "slow blogging" when Bobbin was born because PRIORITIES. But that word could very easily be swapped out for renovations, stress, PND, anxiety, life and even meh sometimes. But if I say priorities it makes me look better.

I do miss this little community, though. I miss the purging of thoughts. And I miss reading the anecdotes you share.

As an extrovert, I need to be around people and usually, whenever I'm feeling depressed or anxious I retreat in to a shell, let the real world go by without me and tuck myself in to this virtual space where it is safe and warm and there is Buzzfeed. I always feel worse but the effort to actually get out there and do something about it has seemed too great. Plus, ya know, Buzzfeed.

This time though, getting out and being with people is almost at the top of my priority list because the knock on effect is beneficial for all of us, though perhaps not for my waist line. Coffee date, anyone? So I find myself with play dates, morning teas, girls nights and meetings coming out my ears. And I'm loving it. I'm anxious as all hell, with nails bitten down to the nubs, but a full social calendar. The anxious and socially awkward social butterfly. Who knew?!

With the added OMG PEOPLE WILL JUDGE ME that comes with going out (yes, even with my friends because I'm loopy and lacking confidence and LOVE ME, DAMMIT!), and staying "in character" (read: in clothes that aren't jimjams) for so many hours a day, by the time I come home I am utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally.

When I finish putting the kids to bed, organizing the next days activities and have a shower, I'm so far past knackered that I have sore, swollen feet that I swear are just one hot day away from being cankles. On the few nights I feel like I have an iota of energy left, my old friend OCD gatecrashes my party and I must clean ALL TEH THINGS.

So this corner of the Blogosphere is quiet as my priorities shift and my life settles. And that is OK. A few years ago the lack of a new post would have had me sweating, but now, it feels good. It feels right to step back a little. I'm still here, just breathing, getting my shit together and trying to be a better person.

Ten things that make me disproportionately happy

I'm trying to do the whole "ac-cent-you-ate the positive" thing right now and be all mindful and zen and shit. Becoming one with the cement dust or something like that, in order to not go all the way to fruit loop town (I'm on the bus, just hoping to get off before the final stop).

Today I did something that made me ridiculously chuffed, and led to so much mental high fiving and fist bumps despite it being completely stupid (point 6 below). It got me thinking of all the silly little things that make me happy. What better way to feel a bit less blah than to write down a list of awesome stuff?

So here it is, ten things that make me disproportionately and ridiculously happy:

1. Getting a shady parking spot - if it's on a day where the temperature has gone above 38C then I have been known to do jazz hands all the way from the car to the shop and back again.
2. When my favourite meal base is discounted - it's a 30c saving but I go ape shit and buy six.
3. New stationery - for my fellow stationery aficionados, this needs no further explanation.
4. Eating Brie - I only "discovered" soft cheeses about two years ago. Brie and I are now BFFs. Serve it to me with some crackers, olives (also a recent love) and quince paste and I will do practically anything for you.
5. Clean sheet day - especially if you have a bath and exfoliate your whole body because then it is clean sheet day and squeaky clean skin day combined and the result is wanting to lay naked in bed and feel the delicious contradiction of soft yet crisp linen. Oooh I'm getting excited just thinking about it.
6. Changing lanes without hitting the cats eyes reflectors - did you even know that was possible? I try to do it every time I change lanes if there is no one else around. When I succeed I feel a little bit like the Stig.
7. An organized linen cupboard - I have just got a walk in linen cupboard and I have been known to just go and stand in there and inhale the scent of freshly washed sheets and gaze upon them folded nicely and stored in the pillow slips. And what's that? Clear tubs for Christmas decorations, wrapping paper, clothes for donating and space to hide presents? *faints from happy*
8. When the car in front's indicator is blinking at the EXACT speed as mine - the OCD me freakin' loves this. I may even do a little shoulder shimmy in time to the clicking. Move to the beat, y'all.
9. Hearing my favourite song on the radio - I may have it on Spotify and be able to listen to it at any time I want, but when it comes on the radio it's like a sign that the day won't be so shit.
10. Receiving mail that isn't a bill - something I've ordered, a letter, a card, whatever it is, I feel excited to see who it is from and love that someone took the time to do it. I'll be taking the time to send more cards this year because I'm pretty sure everyone likes mail. 

Tell me what little things make you disproportionately happy.

A much needed parenting win

I'm not the parent I want to be right now. This whole PND malarkey is kicking my butt in terms of patience and acceptance of kids being kids. I have to keep reminding myself that Tricky is only three, because he just seems so much older now that Bobbin is here and he has a booklist I have to buy for kindy next year. KINDY!

Tricks has had some major adjustments over the last few months; his aunty leaving to live overseas, losing his bedroom, his backyard, and then the lounge room where he would play, gaining a sister, his beloved day care teacher leaving and of course having a mother who is not as bubbly and fun as she once was. It is so much in such a small boy's life and understandably he's pushing boundaries and figuring out where he fits.

Last week he had conjunctivitis. Have you ever tried to put eyedrops in to a stubborn three and a half year old child's eyes? One who doesn't like anything done to his head at all? OH it is glorious fun. The highlight of my day and just the thing to reduce me to tears because IF YOU JUST SAT STILL IT WOULD TAKE TWO SECONDS NOT TEN MINUTES!!!

My usual negotiating and firmness has been replaced with bargaining, bribery and, I'm ashamed to say, threats. I even pulled the biggest threat of all on him... that Santa would not come. As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Because the behaviour wasn't "naughty" and therefore in need of consequences. He was scared. Absolutely petrified it was going to hurt. If I tell him off for telling me how he feels, what sort of message is that sending him?

I felt awful and his little frown broke my heart. I swore there and then I wouldn't let this bastard PND screw up my kids. I would have to get my creative parenting mojo back.

And today, I did.

Right now, his eczema is flaring. I've tried countless techniques to get cream on him but he hates it, again based on fear after one extortionately expensive cream stung him terribly. So, after refusing cream and being unable to even force it on him, he wakes up screaming and scratching until he bleeds. Every goddamn night. Something needed to be done.

I went to the shops and bought a new tube of cream and grabbed a $2 sheet of Lighting McQueen stickers and wrapped the former in the latter. I raced outside to show Tricks our tube of 'Rust-eze' and his whole face lit up. It was magical. I told him that this was the same type of Rust-eze that Lightning McQueen used and it would make him run, scoot and ride faster. Yep, I lied. And I'm damn proud of myself.

For the first time ever, he let me put cream on him without crying and begging (from either of us). Then, with the biggest smile ever, he ran around to see if it was working already. We whooped and hollered at how unbelievably fast he was going, and he was pleased as punch.

It might sound pathetic that I'm so proud of this, but if you knew what a fight it was every time he needs this cream, you'd be fist bumping and air punching too. And I feel that maybe, just maybe, a little bit of my mojo is on its way back.

The internal monologue of the anxious chick at the PR event

This is a C2 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

Last week I went an awesome PR event. A cake decorating class (with no obligation to blog, I might add) to help celebrate Appliances Online’s 8th birthday and help spread the word about their cake decorating competition (you decorate an appliance themed cake and hashtag it #AOLbirthday to win awesome appliances – ends this week so spit spot).

Now we all know I’m fond of appliances. When this renovation malarkey is finished I will have an entire cupboard space dedicated to them. It will be like a shrine and I will worship at the alter of convenient and fast food preparation. So I said yes. Then the whole “OMG I HAVE TO INTERACT WITH PEOPLE WHEN I FEEL LIKE CRAP” thing hit me and I wondered why the hell I was doing it.

Cake. Cake is why I was doing it.

So here’s how it went…

8:15am OK. Nappy bag? Check. Phone? Check. Child looking adorable in cutest outfit? Check. Go, go, go. Do NOT be late. Everyone will stare at you and think you’re rude. I repeat, do NOT be late. If you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re late. Don’t forget to pick up Georgia.

8:45am Sweet, Georgia is on time. Could not handle being late. Oh wow, she has a present for Bobbin. I feel bad. I don’t have anything for her. I didn’t get her anything when her kids were born. I didn’t know her when her kids were born but that is beside the point. Set GPS and drive. Do NOT be late.

9:30am Where the fuck am I? This is a house, not a cake shop. I followed the GPS and it has taken me to the wrong spot. OH SHIT. It autocorrected the address. We’ve come 20 minutes out of our way. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit! I’m the biggest dickhead in the world. Who doesn’t check the address? What moron named two streets so similar? If I find him I’m gonna smack him upside the head. Fuuuuuck It’s OK. It’s OK. Go now and you will still be on time. WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A TRUCK DRIVING SO SLOW IN FRONT OF US?!

9:40am Bobbin please stop crying. Is it drive slow in front of Glow day? FECK!

9:45am Bobbin pleeeeeeaaaaase stop crying.

9:50am OK. Baby has milk. Baby is more important than being on time. People will understand, surely. When the kid is hungry, you have to feed it. They’ll understand. Should I tweet them?

10:01am YOU’RE LATE!!!!!!!!!! Go home. Just go. Drop Georgia and go. Pick her up after. Make an excuse. Oh god I’m so dizzy.

10:05am OK, they haven’t started. It will be OK. Who are these people? Repeat their names so you don’t forget. Woo, Bobbin is best buffer ever. Yes, let’s all talk about the baby.

10:10am Walk out, the baby is crying. People don’t like crying babies. Boob. Yes, boob. Boob fixes everything. Go back in. Oh shit, what did I miss? Who is that talking? I shouldn’t have come. I wonder if I should take a tablet to calm down? Oh they have free delivery. Cool.

10:30am Everyone is being nice. This could work. Stay with Georgia. Stay with Georgia. Stay with Georgia. Smile. Nod. Smile more. Talk. ACT NATURAL.

10:35am Baby smells, excuse yourself. Oh bloody hell, it’s leaked on to her clothes!!! Wardrobe malfunction!!! ABORT!!! ABORT!!! Will they notice she’s changed outfit? They’ll all know it went everywhere. Oh shit, is it on my clothes?!

10:40am I don’t think they noticed. PHEW! Do some of the cake thing. You came for cake. Do it. It looks like you’re not having fun. Talk to people. Smile. Laugh.

11:00am You’ve done cake decorating, why are you not getting in there and doing it? Baby is no excuse, she’s in the hugabub, she’s fine. Take a photo. Put it on Instagram.

11:30am Is it rude to just offload my kid on to these people? They keep offering. They seem to really want to cuddle her. Do it. Oh, she likes them. Look at her smile. Wow, I love her smile. Happiest baby ever.

11:40am Make a Santa? I can do that! You’ve done this before, all is well. Oh baby stinks again. Wow, the staff are so nice, I’m so glad I made a point to remember her name… shit. What’s her name?

11:50am It’s OK to breastfeed in a commercial kitchen, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. Of course it is. Just do it. Excellent. Sit back and relax for a bit. No, keep doing the Santa. Everyone will think it sucks. Try harder. Wait, don’t try so hard, you look like a… try hard. Smile. Make a joke.

12:00pm So tired. Don’t let anyone see you yawn, they’ll think you’re bored. Being “on” is exhausting.

12:20pm Sweet jesus I get to take home an appliance? Duuude! I was coming for cake! Awesome.

12:30pm Talk to camera or you look like a selfish bitch. I bet I look ugly and fat on that video. Say thank you. Say it again. Once more, for good measure. Thank the other girl. Oh crap what was her name again? They are such lovely people.

12:40pm Get in the car. Don’t hit the pole while everyone is watching. Go, drive. Oh shit, wrong way. Um, fuck. Where am I? Fuckity, fuck. Oh god. It’s coming. The panic is coming. Stop moving your hands like that. Calm down. It’s not safe to drive when you’re like this, you need to calm the fuck down NOW. YOU’RE AN EMBARASSMENT! Apologize to Georgia. Profusely. She’ll never want to come out with you again now for sure. Shit. Stop apologizing now, you sound like a tool.

1:00pm OK. Blood pressure returning to normal. You can do this. Georgia is so nice. It’s awesome to have fun friends.

1:30pm You’re alone now. You did OK. Hopefully they didn’t notice you were ready to snap. Maybe they think you’re just aloof and not a total bitch. You can let go of that fart now.

Anxiety is exhausting. I needed a two hour nap when I got home to recover. These meds better kick in quick.

Do you freak out?

Shove your stigma

Back in May I wrote about all the red flags on my file for post natal depression as part of the One Million Mums in May movement by PANDA for The Shake. If this weird brain of mine was in a graduating highschool class it would be voted "brain most likely to have a breakdown" so when I'd felt a little off for a few weeks during my pregnancy I made sure my midwife knew and I went and spoke to a counsellor to have a plan in place should I need it.

I copped a bit of flack for that article. I was told that "some people" thought I was speaking about things that should remain private. Funnily, those "some people" wouldn't say this to my face and got others to do the dirty work for them.

If it is taboo to talk about the possibility of needing help for mental illness and creating a preventative mental health plan, then what hope do those who do need help have? How much longer will it carry such shame that there are those that would warn you off talking about it?

These last few weeks, those thoughts have been racing through my head. Do I appease the "some", keep my mouth shut and feel like a fake, or, do I just put it out there, knowing that there are others who can relate. Others who may have been in the same boat and can offer a word of support; others who are there now, and need that little push to ask for help.

So I'll say it. I have post natal depression. There. Did it.

This isn't the most appropriate way to let my family know, but I just couldn't find the words to say it to them face to face. How do I even start that conversation when on the outside everything looks so fine? Oh hey, this slice is delicious, you must give me the recipe, and by the way I'm looking in to inpatient treatment for my mental illness.

So I'll sit behind my computer screen, safe behind the keyboard that lets me say these things and not have to see your face. Or let you see mine. Because mine is tear streaked and seems to have more wrinkles on it than ever before. I look old. I feel old.

I've been struggling. Really struggling. There is a lot going on in my life right now and I suppose I'm a bit stupid for taking so much on, but there isn't much I can do about it now.

A few weeks ago it became glaringly obvious this was more than just a temporary low mood.

Because crying for hours after the kids are in bed because you think your latest blog post was a bit shit isn't normal.

Because not being able to turn your brain off until 1am and then waking at 4am is not normal.

Because breaking down in to tears and becoming mute when someone asks you to make a simple decision (what you want for lunch?) and you just don't know isn't normal.

Because standing in front of the fridge and eating two blocks of chocolate without taking a breath isn't normal.

Because falling to the floor in a sobbing heap when you have a bad day care drop off isn't normal.

Because shaking like a leaf and crying at a loud noise isn't normal.

My nerves are shattered. I feel like I have ants under my skin. The pressure is building and I can't seem to find that release valve. So I called for help. And I'm getting it.

Having worked tirelessly to get off medication, I find myself a little disappointed to be back on it after all these years and find it hard to admit that I'm not as strong as I thought I was. And I'm so sad that it means I can no longer donate my milk to the prems.

But here I am, medicated and back in therapy. It is helping me sleep, which is good because I'm just so tired. The lethargy goes right the way through to my bones. Map Guy has been given carers leave so that I can just chill out for a week to try and keep from needing inpatient treatment.

I've been trying to keep going out, seeing friends, doing normal things. All the things that I really don't want to do but I know I should. And I'm so lucky to have friends that could tell something was up and have been checking in on me. 

So that is that. I'm sure I should be feeling empowered, but I don't. All I want to do is just go to bed and snuggle with my family. To feel MG's arms around me and tell me it will be OK, to hear Tricky talk about cars and tell me a fart joke, see Bobbin smile and hear her giggle when I kiss her scrummy neck. Those three people are my lifeline and stopping me from going over the edge. For them, and for me, I will stand up and ask for help.

And I flat out refuse to believe that talking about this is shameful.

Shove your stigma.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

The following post was originally a guest post on Early Childhood Resources on the 11th of October 2010.

 

I’m going to talk about something that a lot of people feel uncomfortable talking about. So fasten your seat belts and place your tray in it’s upright position and get ready for take off.

A few weeks ago my son, affectionately known as ‘Tricky’, needed an operation – a long story short, his fontanelle had closed up due to the early fusing of the sagittal suture in his skull. I hadn’t really cried in the lead up to it but the day before the surgery I more than made up for it – I cried, I sobbed, I wailed. I honestly do not remember ever feeling so anxious about anything before. It didn’t matter that he was at a great hospital or that he was in the hands of the surgeons who brought the technique to Australia. It didn’t matter that I was confident in the abilities of the team of doctors and nurses who would be caring for him. It didn’t matter that complications from his type of surgery are extremely rare. What mattered was my little boy at only three months old, was having his skull cut in to and I was scared. And in a moment of self doubt (a mother self doubting? wow that’s new) I wondered if I was too scared? Too anxious? Crying too much? It is a strange feeling to worry about worrying.

You see, my past is full of mental health issues. There. I said it. The cat is out of the bag (phew, it was getting stuffy in there and someone was about to call the RSPCA!). I’ve been treated for depression and other mental health disorders since I was about 18. To put it bluntly, I’m a nutter. A crazy lady. Cute, but psycho. But that badge is something I wear with a warped sense of pride these days – because I went through it all and managed to come out the other end. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not “cured”, this is something that I will continue to face for the rest of my life, but it is not in need of being actively treated right now… well that’s what I thought until all the tears and worry started.

Even when I was pregnant with Tricky I was worried about Post Natal Depression (PND), mainly because every health professional I went to asked if I had depression or other mental health problems and when you say yes they automatically lump you in to the high risk category for PND. They start telling you about the signs, the symptoms and how serious it all is. It was important for me to know those things but having each person say it to me again and again made me feel like I didn’t even have a chance of coping. They had all decided I was going to get it. Whilst women with past episodes of depression or a diagnosed mental disorder such as bipolar or schizophrenia do have higher incidences of PND, it is not a definite.

So a day before Tricky’s surgery I rung a PND centre and asked for their opinion. It’s amazing how just speaking to someone on the phone can make you feel better. They assured me that the worry I was feeling that day was completely normal – that as a mother you have to have enough anxiety to keep your baby safe (leftovers from the days of protecting you little ones from wild beasts). They said some people even react to that degree when their child shoves popcorn up his nose and needs to go to the hospital to get it out (oh I have so much to look forward to). But just to be sure I made an appointment to go see one of their counsellors the next week.

At the appointment I had to fill out a PND survey – I answered honestly and it didn’t look good. But the counsellor didn’t seem concerned… she said because it was a reaction to an event, and not just worrying over “nothing”, that I sounded exactly like an exhausted new mum who had just gone through a stressful time. Instead of antidepressants, all I needed was sleep and a bit of time to process it all. A sense of relief washed over me. If I’d been able to think clearer I could have seen for myself that I didn’t fit the bill for a PND diagnosis. But hindsight is 20/20 after all.

I still find myself worrying about worrying every so often. So for now I’m still sitting in the high risk category and have decided in a possibly deluded attempt at a preemptive strike that I will continue seeing the counsellor once a month. That way, if the events of the past few weeks (and the next round of surgery for Tricky in a few months time) do cause my mood to spiral down then I have the support I’ll need ready and waiting.

The fasten seat belt sign has now been turned off, feel free to move around the cabin.

If you would like more information on PND contact PANDA or your GP.

Update: Since writing this post my mental state has deteriorated somewhat and I have been officially diagnosed with mild PND. Even though the stress of Tricky's surgery was the catalyst for this, I don't blame him... this illness may have reared it's ugly head even without having that hurdle. I'm currently in a group therapy program once a week to learn new skills that will hopefully have me back to my normal (well normal for me) self sooner rather than later... I still think a decent night's sleep will help me more than anything else.