#postnataldepression

Post natal depression, they said it was, despite my cries that it was not.

But the reality was, I discovered- after four years of battling the mind and more, I had lost parts of me. The person who carried her. All the people who would have made up my child's mother, not dormant, but gone. Fled.

All these years. Lost.

When I was nine months pregnant with my son Dash an elderly man, who was sitting next to me in the doctors office, lovingly reminisced on his feelings of parenthood.

“When that baby pops out, the love you will feel for it will be overwhelming. You won’t know what to do with it. You’ll see!”

I smiled joyously, it sounded incredible and I definitely wanted to experience that. At different stages of the pregnancy, I listened to other mothers say similar things along the lines of, “It’s the best thing you will ever do with your life. When that baby comes along you will be smitten.”

I listened to my best-friend (who was also pregnant) fantasize about our two boys playing together, how they would be the best of friends, they would grow up together, independent but always momma’s boys at heart. I remember smiling awkwardly, already aware that she was a “baby, baby” person, something I was not. I never looked at other peoples babies and genuinely gushed over how cute they were. I wondered if that meant I wasn’t going to be a good mother.

I remember every moment of Dash’s birth. I distinctly remember the look he gave me as they laid his naked, bloody body on my skin. He knew I was his mother and in silence his blue sapphire eyes stared into mine with innocent wonder. My waters had broken two days before and I hadn’t slept. I was desperate for the nurse to take him so I could rest. I do remember questioning that all consuming loving feeling I was “supposedly” meant to be feeling, but I was too tired to even think about it.

The weeks rolled by, my precious little boy was the perfect newborn. He ate every two hours, he howled til he was hysterical, he was a force to be reckoned with. I rocked, I danced, I pleaded, I cried. I did everything I could imagine to soothe him, yet it was hit and miss. At no stage had I felt the love hormones kick in and I was freaking out. I had a son who I didn’t have that “immense” love for....WTF???? Actually, it kind of felt like he was a new room mate who liked to throw wild parties, enjoyed loud music and understandably I was hesitantly getting to know him. On the flip side of that I was even more in love with my husband, he was my salvation in those first few weeks and I guiltily felt like it was us against the baby.

Michael’s mother Mary (who was also a “baby, baby” person) was understandably horrified. Michael and I had nick names for Dash that she didn’t approve of, “The squealer,” “The terrorist,” “The GTFTS Baby.”

She would say, “This baby is a blessing you know!” Michael and I would smile and nod, knowing our response was abnormal to most.

One night Michael came home and I was deathly sick with mastitis. He took me to the hospital while his mother looked after the baby. Driving in the car, he began to fantasize, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we just drove to the airport and flew to Mexico. We could call mom from the airport and tell her we’ll be back when he’s two years old!”

I was laughing so hard, my belly ached. Thank god my husband was on my wave length. I couldn’t listen to the “baby, baby” rhetoric anymore because for me it was completely inauthentic. It felt like someone was silencing my true feelings with unrealistic propaganda. Since it was so taboo, I couldn’t publicly voice how motherhood really was for me.

My son recently had his first birthday and after all the friends and family had left his party, I held him in my arms and felt that immense love wash over me. These days Michael and I fight for our sons attention, we relish the moments we have with him. I practically have to twist Michael’s arm in letting the little guy go to bed. 

Looking back, I wish I could tell myself not to worry, that I was normal and everyone’s baby journey is different. It took me around three-four months to feel a loving connection, six months to become an obsessed mother and a year to become more of a “baby, baby” person. Does this make me any less of a good mother? NO, I’m a great mom, I just refuse to lie about it.

What is Postnatal Depression (PND)?

Being a mother when your own died half a decade ago. There are scars that therapy could not heal. Conversations and questions i will never hear out loud. The voices of a ghost rattle in my brain if i let them linger for more than a moment.

Her namesake is an homage to how we met.

If we had a boy he would be named after the cowboy her father had.

She came out a girl thus named after the purple assassin sniper i had.

Having brought a life and soul earthside through natural birth with no anaesthetic, it was wild in reflection to think how truly heavy our healthcare system wants to dart needles into our backs, telling us the pain is beyond pain. Animals in the wild birth without pain medication every day.

The gas was a lovely crutch until it stopped working towards the end of labour.

They needle person was busy so they couldn't get to me in time.

So what was the feeling like?

I went from 4cm to 9.5 in 20 minutes.

What felt like a bucket ripped open inside me.

The red carpet premiere was about to start.

My hardwire took over and pushed without me trying to.

Her heartrate was dropping.

They rolled be back and forth over that bed. Still her heartrate dropped.

The vaccume was attached to her head, my strength was nearly depleated. And when it finally was they cut me from hole to hole to get her out.

She was purple as her namesake.

Still and quiet.

And then. A cry.

She is now just shy of 6 months old and we have a bi weekly debate wether grover or elmo is our favourite monster.

We now reside in the old lilyfield house.

I cast my spells in the fireplace when she sleeps. Rune sigils of protection etched on brick with ash.

As much as i have tried to run from the ghost of the past I offer my hand to her, my daughters middle name is that of the ghosts. A name no one knew her by but her family in chile; Leocadia