About Me

Kent, United Kingdom
I have the perfect family but still struggle to find the light in the darkness of post-natal depression.

Thursday, 28 April 2011

21 weeks

And yes, I do know it's 21 weeks. But only because we braved the health visitor last week and she told me it was 20 weeks. She also told me baby D was too skinny and we had to start weaning him onto solids, a lot earlier than I wanted to. I don't think I need to spell out how that felt...but if I did it would involve the letters b, a nd d. Another thing I can't get right. You get the picture.
Even leaving that aside, this has not been a good week. I can tell it's not good when I start depending on other people, without actually letting them know I'm depending on them.
Or when I can't even be bothered to explain it all, even here.
You know when you see a small child walking a big dog and they are being dragged along and literally can't stop it? That's how my mind feels at the moment. That old friend anxiety is back, with a few extra guests. I know it's irrational. I know the fact that Miss T has a sickness bug doesn't mean she's going to die. Or that if we put baby D (age almost five months, remember!) in his own room at night he will be fine and I won't go in there to find him lying cold and still. But I can't help it. I can't stop it. And I can't tell you how much I hate that.
I'm great at telling others their feelings are valid. And I know mine are too. But at the moment they are not welcome. Or useful. And they have no place in my life. But I can't make them disappear. And at the moment, I can't really let them out either.
So I'm stuck in no-mans land. Where I spend my days being dragged after that big dog (metaphorically - my dogs are too old and too well-trained on the lead to attempt to drag me anywhere!), my feet skimming the surface unable to get a firm hold. Where I can see trees and fence posts and other things that I could grab onto but I keep missing them or losing my grip.
But I'm going back to work next week. And I'm hoping that will at least persuade the dog to stop for a breather...

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Eighteen weeks...or is it nineteen?

I've actually lost count. How bad is that? I think it's eighteen...nineteen on Tuesday.
Oh well.
Life rather got in the way last week, so apologies. And since then, there hasn't been much joy to share.
That combined with my previous state of mentalness does not paint a pretty picture. In fact, I'm starting to wonder whether what we are doing now, with anxiety levels of meds and gentle talking therapy, is a mere sticking plaster solution. I'm not sure I will ever achieve actual saneness. The sort where you can go about your life and not worry that what you are doing is totally wrong, or hugely offensive to someone, or likely to result in serious harm to someone. The sort where you can enjoy an afternoon, an hour or a moment without fretting about its consequences for the future. The sort where you can be with people and be happy rather than constantly stressed about what they are thinking and feeling.
Does it matter? Maybe not. But at the moment, the prospect of months and years living like this is not very appealing.
I'm not sure what else I can do though. I'm applying all the "strategies", I'm taking the pills. I'm living the dream.
I just have to hope it's enough.

Friday, 1 April 2011

16 weeks...

...and all is still meh. I feel like I'm living in a bubble. Like a piece of gauze separates me from the rest of the world. Like no one can see me or hear what I'm saying. And it's only a short step from there to wondering if anyone would actually notice if I wasn't here at all.
I know it's the effects of those good old pills, and I know that it's better that I take them. But I can't help wondering when I'll start feeling like me again.
Of course it's better that I can accomplish everyday tasks like shopping and driving without irrational panic. And of course it's better that some of the more extreme aspects of PND-me are muted. But I wish that didn't mean the whole of me had to be turned down too. Subdued. Flat.
I spent this afternoon at work and that was great. But that's just an escape. A distraction. My real life now is what I've been doing the rest of the week - juggling two children, housework and general domestic drudgery.
I can manage that, of course I can - it's not rocket science. But I want more.
I want to feel alive. I want to feel happy. I want to feel.
I want Miss T and Baby D to think of their mother as a vibrant, loving, fun person but at the moment I fear I'm more like a hologram. A reflection in water. And if you throw a pebble in, I just might disappear.
But if you reach your hand out, who knows, I might emerge...