I'm back!

Wow - four days without a post - that must be some kind of record!
Apologies if you've missed me - it's just been one of those weeks with so much going on.
But I think the lack of blog is a bit of a good sign, as there have been some days when I've felt like I would burst if I don't get it all out on here. Obviously not this week though!
So what's new?
Well, Miss Tasha is at the childminders at the moment and I really hope she's having fun. She screamed when I left but I'm focusing on how much she enjoyed playing with the other children before I went...
And I've been doing more thinking about this whole parent thing. I think I've said it before, but I really don't feel like a proper parent, yet I don't feel like myself either.
There are two things that really brought this home to me. The first was talking to a friend about the word "mum". It's one I hear a lot, but it just doesn't seem to apply to me. When I hear Tash saying it she could just as easily be saying dog or cat. I don't know how to explain this clearly but it just doesn't feel like I'm her mum...she must be talking about some grown-up person who would be better at looking after her.
And the other is hearing about other parents who seem able to enjoy pretty much the same life as their pre-child one. They go to music festivals, beer festivals, nightclubs, pubs - and don't seem to struggle with the same level of guilt that I would feel. Even going to work is problematic for me sometimes - if I see parents and children out together while I'm working I feel that should be me and that Tash is missing out.
Of course I know she's not, and besides I need to work to pay the mortgage and the overdraft, even if nothing else. But that old "should" word keeps rearing it's head. Days off "should" be family time, we chose to have a child so we "should" accept that lifestyle which involves a lot of nights in and family days out. And I like doing that, but should we do more by ourselves as well?
I know what my lovely therapist would say - who says I should, and that word is banned anyway.
And I can keep telling myself that, but it isn't working yet!
What does help sometimes is remembering that everyone has different ways of doing things, and Mark and I are a team so I'm sure together we can get at least some of it right. And if not there's always therapy for Tash later...
x

Ha!

I do love when those in authority recognise how clever and right I am!
Of course this report, http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7514115.stm,
was published with perfect timing to coincide with my insightful post on Friday...
If you can't be bothered to click on the link, here are the first two paragraphs...
"Nine out of ten people with mental health problems in England say they are frequently stigmatised - often by those closest to them, a survey has found.
Strangers in shops or public transport were likely to be the most accepting, with family and neighbours more likely to treat them differently."
That mirrors my own experience in a way - although my family have been as supportive as they can be it is often strangers who are most accepting.
I am sure that those who do treat me differently do so with the best of intentions - oh, Liz is a bit fragile so we'd better be gentle...that sort of thing.
But that's not always what I want. It's what I was trying to say the other day - I'm still me, just me with a bit of wonky thinking sometimes.
There was a perfect example today - someone asked Mark how I was because I had seemed a bit down.
Which is fine, in itself. But first of all, why not ask me? Maybe because they don't want to face me and discuss my mental health - although that same person would have no qualms asking how my knee was, to refer back to my previous example.
And secondly, what is the poor guy supposed to say? Fine is clearly the wrong answer, worrying about sliding back into the pits of depression is probably wrong too...in the end he went for a bit stressed out and that seemed to suffice.
But I suppose at least the fact that they are asking is a start!
x

sunshine

Well, yesterday got better after my posting - it couldn't have got much worse!
Salvation came in the welcome form of my inlaws and teenage nephew who proved to be fantastic toddler tamers and any problems of the morning were forgotten.
That's another thing we could all learn from our pint-sized relatives - misery is utterly forgotten within minutes of the experience. There is no dwelling on it or lingering bad feelings...unless they come out in therapy as an adult!
The day, which included sunshine and a family outing, helped provide a little perspective - some things may be rubbish but as long as you can smile and have fun then life isn't so bad after all.
x

unhinged?

More thinking today, sorry.
I mentioned a few days ago that I had dodgy kneecaps as well as dodgy mental wiring. I'm wondering what would have happened if I had started a blog about that, and my experiences in dealing with the problem, overcoming it and living with it.
I'm fairly confident no one would have batted an eyelid - and who knows, I might even have got some sympathetic emails on top.
But writing about an unhinged brain instead of unhinged patellae seems to provoke quite different reactions.
Some people are concerned that as this blog becomes more widely read (I won't go so far as to say popular!) it could affect the way people see me.
Would that be the case if it was about kneecaps? And if not, what is the difference?
In case you're wondering, I'll go on...
Mental illness - however extreme - still makes people feel uncomfortable in a way that most physical conditions do not. I'll accept that the subject of bowel problems, for example, may not be one that is discussed in public much - but I would argue that the same principle applies.
I truly am not ashamed of what I have been through since having Tasha, and I'm not bothered who knows about it. That's why I started this blog in the first place.
Yes, some people reading may know me in a professional capacity, or may not even know me at all - but although I am a parent, a daughter, a sister, a niece, a friend and an employee I'm also a person, and what's wrong with admitting that? People have issues and problems and I believe that if you can acknowledge them, and show that you are dealing with them in the best way you can, it makes you a better parent, daughter, sister etc etc.
There's a song that Tash and I learnt at sing and sign that comes to mind - it asks how do you feel today and goes on to say if you're feeling happy then clap your hands, feeling angry then stamp your feet, feeling sad then have a cry.
And it really is that simple in the world of a toddler - if she's happy she's laughing and giggling, and yes, clapping her hands; if she's angry she'll stamp her feet and make it clear and if she's sad she'll cry.
If that song were written for adults it would be very different - perhaps something like if you're feeling happy then carry on, feeling angry then keep it in, feeling sad then pretend all's fine.
I prefer the toddler approach, and think if more people were honest it would make life easier for everyone.
BTW, if anyone has got this far and is still interested in my unhinged life, today has been another difficult day so far.
I'm tired and stressed and feel a bit pants physically and Tasha is also tired and under the weather. So when she pushed her limits this morning and I had to remove her from a situation for the fourth time, for half a second I was almost more physical than I wanted to be. It was a stark reminder of those awful days of pacing the floor with a crying newborn in my arms and just wanting to open them up and let her drop.
Of course the important thing is that I wasn't rough with her, I didn't scream at her and all was fine two seconds later when she was on my lap signing her way through her favourite story. But it reminded me of how close to the edge I still am.

Tired and frustrated

That's what Tash was before bedtime tonight and that's how I feel too.
I wanted to blog about how I made it to an aqua aerobics class this morning after three weeks of trying, and about how bizarre it felt to be going into one of the single cubicles to get changed instead of a family one.
I wanted to blog about how I managed to laugh at the fact that Tash was a nightmare at lunch in a cafe today, because my friend's daughter was the same.
Or about how we had fun in the park just letting them run riot and enjoying the cake we ended up getting as a takeaway.
Or I wanted to tackle one of the many things I have been itching to air my views on, from books to babies.

But instead I feel overwhelmed by such a sense of despair that I just can't focus on any of those issues. I wasn't going to blog at all but then I decided it was all better out than in.
Of course there are reasons for this slip backwards to the abyss, but that doesn't always help. I don't particularly want to analyse why I feel like this, I just want to stop.
And more than anything, I want to enjoy my Tash days and I feel so incredibly angry when things like this get in the way. Yesterday was quite disrupted for a variety of reasons so I had planned for today to be extra special and it wasn't.
Maybe that's half the problem, but I'm not very good at just letting go.

On a slightly lighter note, this is my character analysis based on me telling Facebook my birthday. I know it's all rubbish, but doesn't it sound like someone you know?
"A hip non-conformist who truly stands for his/her beliefs - you are out to make a difference in this world, and you have a realistic chance of success. You have always been self-driven and derive your inspiration from those close to you. Ambitious - and why shouldn't you be - the sky is the limit for you!"
It's just a shame that at the moment the sky seems an awful long way off.

NHS: No Hope, Sorry?

Unless you've been under a rock this year you've probably noticed that it's the 60th anniversary of the NHS.
And after a conversation with a friend about their experiences battling to get even the most basic of care, I thought perhaps some of my own reflections on the subject might be timely.
You may already have read a bit about it but if you're interested, here's the rest - at least in how it relates to my PND. There was a whole other battle about my frequently dislocating kneecaps but that could be a whole other blog!
So as I mentioned the other day, the birth was fantastic. As good as it could have been, and the care in the birthing centre could not have been better.
But a few weeks on, when I realised there were problems that weren't going away, things started going wrong.
I've thought and thought about this (with the old rational argument at the back of my mind) but I do believe the early stages of this "illness" could have been handled better, and then who knows what would have happened?
So I started with the health visitor who came round after the midwife signed us off. She was lovely, in a motherly kind of way, but that's as far as it went. When I spoke about my feelings of despair, guilt, failure, she nodded and listened and offered to come back for more nodding and listening.
Which maybe is all that some people need - but I needed more.
So then I tried the nurse at my six week check. Who could not have been less interested. She seemed to care more about ticking the boxes on her screen about contraception, which I can assure you was the least of my concerns!
She suggested I saw a GP. So I did. And to give him his due, he didn't question my belief that I had PND or needed help. But his answer was simply medication, and then go away and get on with it.
I tried, I really did, and increased the dose and tried some more. But it wasn't getting better. And every visit to the health visitors' clinic ended the same way - not with a lovely chat about how well Tasha was doing but with me in tears begging for someone to help me. The response? We'll make a note on your file and ask someone to get in touch. No one did.
So I went back to the GP again and asked for something else - it's called "talking therapy" in the magazines.
He was keen for more drugs and more time. I thought that combination could be a lethal one - and that's not an exaggeration.
So I ended up with my own mental health nurse. Who was lovely, and managed to get me a referral to a psychiatrist, who then referred me to a psychotherapist. And I saw both for a bit - until the pyschiatrist discharged me for the sole reason that she was moving jobs and would not be replaced.
Therapy in all its forms is a slow process - some would say a lifelong one. So I wasn't expecting instant results, but some kind of hope of improvement would have been nice. That was dangled over my head, in the form of a group therapy session that was being set up.
Hurrah, I thought - finally people who understand and won't tell me how fantastic motherhood is...
And to some degree, I got that - and I've made at least one good friend who I hope will be a lasting one. But that was the only thing I got out of it. I had to take time out of work - which meant a premature confession to my problems and made things feel uncomfortable - and some weeks we would spend the time discussing holidays or the therapist's family life.
I did speak up - I'm sure you would expect nothing less! - after a particularly distressing session where I literally asked for help in coping with just living and surviving another week, and was told to bring it back to the next session as we were out of time.
That was a catalyst for me - I wanted to get better and it's clear it wasn't going to happen here. So I started looking around and managed to find my lovely therapist. And after just one session I felt a hope I hadn't experienced in the months and months since Tasha was born.
But when I mentioned this at the group session - which I had been persuaded to give another go - I was told it showed a lack of committment to the group. So I decided committment to my recovery was more important and 'quit' group therapy.
I've since heard that another two people have quit and one is only going part time, which perhaps indicates the problems go deeper than my dissatisfaction.
I'm glad I'm angry about this, because it's what helped me survive. But it shouldn't be that way. Not everyone who is depressed has the strength to battle with those who are supposed to be there to help - for some, even plucking up the courage to make that first appointment with a GP can be a struggle.
Of course, some people do just need a low dose of those good old happy pills and that's enough to sort them out, so it's right that they should be the first option. But if they don't work the system seems to fall apart somewhat.
Maybe it's about budgets. Maybe, as I've said before, I'm just difficult. I know many people who would agree with that.
It's great that there is a real awareness now among the medical profession about this, but I'm not sure it extends beyond the relatively mild cases. But there are still mums out there with PND who harm themselves or their families so surely that makes it a priority for training and budgets?
When it's a fight just to get out of bed in the morning, let alone get dressed and leave the house, it's massively unfair that we have to fight for the help we need to get better too.

Good sign?

Important news! Last night my VIC campaign was back at the council and we won a partial victory in forcing the ruling executive committee to look at it again.
Which is obviously fantastic news for Whitstable, the campaign and everyone involved but I have to admit there is a tiny part of me wondering if it is such a good thing for me.
But I think, and hope, I have learned from my experience so far and that is already evident - I did write up my notes last night but waited till this morning to transform them into stories, and I did text Mark and my petitioning friend last night with the good news, but avoided the temptation to text everyone in my address book.
And I did feel bad this morning when Mark took Tasha downstairs so I could write up the stories - she looked at me as if to say "But Thursdays are our days - why aren't you with me?".
Fear not little miss - we will be having lots of fun later, as soon as you wake up from your sleep!