Post Natal Depression
Baby blues. The weepies. A bit hormonal. Just having a down day.
These are some of the different terms I've heard used in relation to Post Natal Depression by those who don't wish to acknowledge it. Of the Mothers that I have spoken to, I would say the majority of them have experienced symptoms ranging from feeling down, to having full blown psychotic episodes.
There is no shame whatsoever in having problems prior to or after giving birth. For me, it was both. As I had a history of depression, I was assigned a mental health midwife throughout my pregnancy. This in itself came with a stigma.
When Ian I met the midwife, we were assured that I would see her every 2 weeks, as she needed to monitor me and baby, and make sure that I was looked after properly. This sounded great. Ian and I left the hospital after our first appointment reassured and confident that we could handle the next few months. The reality was that this woman only turned up to two appointments, and was late for both of those. She couldn't have cared less if she tried. My experience was made all the better by comments from people like 'You must be the only person to have a problem with the ante natal clinic; they've been great with us!'
Alright love, off you f*ck.
When Tommy finally made an appearance, this midwife came to the ward to see us, and she informed us that she would be coming to the house to see us and baby once we were home. She was told in no uncertain terms that should she come anywhere near our house or baby, she would be visiting her colleagues in the A&E department. The knob.
Labour with Tommy was quite a stressful and worrying couple of days. The midwives that looked after us were amazing; and when we were rushed into theatre, the staff were just incredible, and I'll be forever grateful that they delivered our son to us safely. Once on the ward, the midwife and doctor came to see me. They asked me what contraception I was planning on using. Apparently a cricket bat swung swiftly to the side of Ian's head if he came closer than five feet near me wasn't the answer they were looking for.
We were in our little baby bubble for the day and night at hospital, then we were discharged.
Then the fun started.
We walked out of the hospital with Ian carrying our new little bundle of joy in his car seat. I was struggling walking, but hey, I'd given birth less than 24 hours earlier, so of course I was in pain. Then I tried to climb into the car and sit down.
Holy. F*ck.
It felt like I had a breeze block trying to make its way out of my backside whilst simultaneously ripping my groin out with it. What on earth had they done to me in theatre?? I read my notes. '.....third degree perineal tear'. Marvellous.
We made it home, and stitched up from front to back, I hobbled towards the front door. I won't lie, from this moment on I felt like absolute shite. I worried that Alfie would be jealous of the new baby (in reality, he absolutely doted on him, and still does. He's simply amazing). I panicked that I wouldn't be able to split myself in several different pieces; being Mum to Alf, Mummy to the new baby that seemingly needed to be attached to my boobs 24/7, be a partner to Ian; who would do the washing and ironing? Who would get the kids' clothes out ready for school in the morning? Who would batter Twat Cat in a morning for shitting in the garden again?? The list seemed endless.
Ian went back to work a couple of days after we brought Tommy home. Shortly after this, the screaming started. All day, every day, Tommy would scream the house down no matter what I did with him. I was convinced it was my fault and that I was doing everything wrong, and soon enough I was crying along with him. I felt like shit, I couldn't walk, I pissed myself when I sneezed, and don't even mention trying to have a poo. I was eating laxatives and figs like they were fruit pastilles to try and make the situation easier. It didn't work.
After a couple of weeks of constant screaming, I took both Tommy and myself to the doctors. The doctor was super helpful and told me to 'ride it out' with Tommy. Yeah, cheers pal.
I told him that I was really struggling, I was getting about 2 hours sleep a night, I was exhausted, and I really felt that there was something wrong as I couldn't seem to get myself out of the hole I was falling deeper into. His advice?
'Try and get some more sleep.'
What an absolute cockwomble. I explained that at that moment all my stress and anxiety was manifested in my hands, and at this present moment they wanted to manifest themselves around his sodding neck.
The second doctor I saw was a female about the same age as me. She also had two young boys, herself, and had rather helpfully taken off her 'mum hat' on the way into work, and changed it for the 'knobhead doctor' hat. When I explained the situation to her, her advice was also very useful -
'Try and ask your partner to be at home a bit more then you can go out'.
Go out? GO OUT??? I hadn't showered in days, I still couldn't walk as the gap the size of the Grand Canyon between my legs had now been replaced by piles so big that had I wanted to buy them by the pound I wouldn't have had much change out of a tenner.
I left the doctors office absolutely heartbroken and dejected.
We are all, not just Mothers, constantly told to reach out and ask for help when we need it. To talk to someone, to seek help from a healthcare professional. Well what if when you do that, the help isn't there?? These medical professionals that are there to help us can be absolutely fucking useless. In a fit of absolute desperation, I turned to the Health Visitors.
Now before I start, I know that not all health visitors are arseholes.
But, all arseholes are health visitors.
I dragged myself to baby clinic every week to get Tommy weighed. It took me a good four or five hours to get us ready to leave the house, as just the thought of it filled me with absolute dread to the point I would have a panic attack. Nevertheless I would arrive at baby clinic and sit on my own in the corner away from the other mums. On one visit I was called into the side room where there were three health visitors sat on chairs like a court jury and two other sets of parents. Bringing anything up in confidence was not an option. Despite this, I mentioned that I wasn't eating, I hadn't slept for days, and that Tommy was wanting feeding literally every hour, and in between feeds he was crying day and night. I looked at the health visitors for their words of comfort, advice, and ideas on what I could do to help the situation. Their response? 'Do you think you're feeding him properly?'
REALLY??? I've just poured my heart out and I'm doing all but scream out for help, and the first thing you can come back with is that I'm not breast feeding properly??!! She asked how I was putting him down to sleep at night. (For the broken couple of hours that he would eventually sleep for) I told them that I put him down on his front because he was more comfortable that way.
Well, you would have thought I had just suggested throwing the child into a cupboard, locking the door and throwing away the key with the way she reacted. 'There is a much higher death rate for babies who sleep on their front!! They are more likely to be victims of cot death than babies that lie on their back!' No they aren't love. I've been an undertaker for nearly 5 years, and in that time I've looked after my fair share of babies. Not one of them has died because they were led on their front.. Now piss off.
By this point I'd had enough. After deliberating whether or not I could knock each one of these women out, get Tommy dressed and out of the surgery before anyone noticed, I decided they were a bunch of arrogant bitches, left, and decided not to go again.
The next few months were hell. Tommy had colic and reflux. Every day was a constant battle between finding the right formula to give him, (I had by now completely given up breast feeding as I felt like my nipples were going to drop off at any given moment); switching between lying him on his front then on his back, winding him, and taking him out for walks in his pram to try and comfort him. Nothing worked. I was losing my shit with Ian on a daily basis, I was short tempered, and was drowning in the absolute sadness that I didn't have a single person contact me to see how I was, I didn't speak to anyone for days on end, and slept about as much as an insomniac hyperactive chimpanzee. What the hell could I do??
With amazing support and encouragement from Ian, I contacted the mental health unit in Preston and begged to see someone. Whilst I was optimistic at first, my hopes were dashed when I was told that an emergency appointment would be in nine months' time. NINE MONTHS. In a state of hysteria, I rang the unit and told them that I was having some rather frightening thoughts, which wasn't a lie. Several times a day I had to prevent myself from putting my head through the wall. Getting into the car was a scary time as I could picture myself driving the damn thing straight through the front of the house. Amazingly, this brought my appointment forward, and I would be seen in two weeks' time.
The psychiatrist came to my house and assessed me and I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar Type 2 Disorder. Praise. The. Lord. I wasn't going mad. I wasn't a shit Mum. I did know what I was doing. But I needed help, I needed medication, and I needed it quick. After being prescribed medication (that to be fair is strong enough to make even the most miserable of shits smile) I started to feel better.
This made Ian feel a little happier too. Gone were the days where he didn't know if he would come home to me hugging him or attacking him with a set of garden shears. Whilst that was a nightmare for him, I found it rather amusing. I still do.
I still have absolutely shit days. I have days where I hate myself and everyone around me. I have days where I don't want to take my meds because I don't think I need them anymore. Then, I look at Alfie and Tommy. These two drive me further to the brink of insanity than I already am; they have ruined my figure, they drive me mad daily, and I still piss myself whenever I laugh or sneeze. But they're cute and they make me laugh, so I suppose it's almost worth it.
I'm so glad I got help. I know a lot of people haven't been as lucky as me, and are sadly no longer with us. Please, please, if you are feeling shit, don't give up at the first hurdle. There is help there, but the fact is it won't come to you, you've got to go and look for it. The mental health service in this country is on its arse, but there are good ones out there.
If you know a new Mum and haven't seen or spoken to her in a while, message her. Phone her. Face Time her. Go round and see her. Reach out - even if offers of coffee dates or days out are constantly declined... Keep asking. It might be the only time she speaks to anyone other than a screaming baby.
To all the Mums, and all the Dads, you rock. We are all winging this shit together; lets help each other, support each other, and if someone you know needs help, HELP THEM GET THAT HELP. It isn't going to come to them.
And finally; if you know a woman who is pregnant and want to get them gifts when the baby is born, sod the baby grows. Three gifts will go down a treat with any new Mother and they will love you forever -
Dry shampoo;
Suppositories;
And Tena Lady. Big fat jumbo ones.
Wishing you all good health, mental health, and the strength to get through this crazy ride in one piece....
Rachelle xx
These are some of the different terms I've heard used in relation to Post Natal Depression by those who don't wish to acknowledge it. Of the Mothers that I have spoken to, I would say the majority of them have experienced symptoms ranging from feeling down, to having full blown psychotic episodes.
There is no shame whatsoever in having problems prior to or after giving birth. For me, it was both. As I had a history of depression, I was assigned a mental health midwife throughout my pregnancy. This in itself came with a stigma.
When Ian I met the midwife, we were assured that I would see her every 2 weeks, as she needed to monitor me and baby, and make sure that I was looked after properly. This sounded great. Ian and I left the hospital after our first appointment reassured and confident that we could handle the next few months. The reality was that this woman only turned up to two appointments, and was late for both of those. She couldn't have cared less if she tried. My experience was made all the better by comments from people like 'You must be the only person to have a problem with the ante natal clinic; they've been great with us!'
Alright love, off you f*ck.
When Tommy finally made an appearance, this midwife came to the ward to see us, and she informed us that she would be coming to the house to see us and baby once we were home. She was told in no uncertain terms that should she come anywhere near our house or baby, she would be visiting her colleagues in the A&E department. The knob.
Labour with Tommy was quite a stressful and worrying couple of days. The midwives that looked after us were amazing; and when we were rushed into theatre, the staff were just incredible, and I'll be forever grateful that they delivered our son to us safely. Once on the ward, the midwife and doctor came to see me. They asked me what contraception I was planning on using. Apparently a cricket bat swung swiftly to the side of Ian's head if he came closer than five feet near me wasn't the answer they were looking for.
We were in our little baby bubble for the day and night at hospital, then we were discharged.
Then the fun started.
We walked out of the hospital with Ian carrying our new little bundle of joy in his car seat. I was struggling walking, but hey, I'd given birth less than 24 hours earlier, so of course I was in pain. Then I tried to climb into the car and sit down.
Holy. F*ck.
It felt like I had a breeze block trying to make its way out of my backside whilst simultaneously ripping my groin out with it. What on earth had they done to me in theatre?? I read my notes. '.....third degree perineal tear'. Marvellous.
We made it home, and stitched up from front to back, I hobbled towards the front door. I won't lie, from this moment on I felt like absolute shite. I worried that Alfie would be jealous of the new baby (in reality, he absolutely doted on him, and still does. He's simply amazing). I panicked that I wouldn't be able to split myself in several different pieces; being Mum to Alf, Mummy to the new baby that seemingly needed to be attached to my boobs 24/7, be a partner to Ian; who would do the washing and ironing? Who would get the kids' clothes out ready for school in the morning? Who would batter Twat Cat in a morning for shitting in the garden again?? The list seemed endless.
Ian went back to work a couple of days after we brought Tommy home. Shortly after this, the screaming started. All day, every day, Tommy would scream the house down no matter what I did with him. I was convinced it was my fault and that I was doing everything wrong, and soon enough I was crying along with him. I felt like shit, I couldn't walk, I pissed myself when I sneezed, and don't even mention trying to have a poo. I was eating laxatives and figs like they were fruit pastilles to try and make the situation easier. It didn't work.
After a couple of weeks of constant screaming, I took both Tommy and myself to the doctors. The doctor was super helpful and told me to 'ride it out' with Tommy. Yeah, cheers pal.
I told him that I was really struggling, I was getting about 2 hours sleep a night, I was exhausted, and I really felt that there was something wrong as I couldn't seem to get myself out of the hole I was falling deeper into. His advice?
'Try and get some more sleep.'
What an absolute cockwomble. I explained that at that moment all my stress and anxiety was manifested in my hands, and at this present moment they wanted to manifest themselves around his sodding neck.
The second doctor I saw was a female about the same age as me. She also had two young boys, herself, and had rather helpfully taken off her 'mum hat' on the way into work, and changed it for the 'knobhead doctor' hat. When I explained the situation to her, her advice was also very useful -
'Try and ask your partner to be at home a bit more then you can go out'.
Go out? GO OUT??? I hadn't showered in days, I still couldn't walk as the gap the size of the Grand Canyon between my legs had now been replaced by piles so big that had I wanted to buy them by the pound I wouldn't have had much change out of a tenner.
I left the doctors office absolutely heartbroken and dejected.
We are all, not just Mothers, constantly told to reach out and ask for help when we need it. To talk to someone, to seek help from a healthcare professional. Well what if when you do that, the help isn't there?? These medical professionals that are there to help us can be absolutely fucking useless. In a fit of absolute desperation, I turned to the Health Visitors.
Now before I start, I know that not all health visitors are arseholes.
But, all arseholes are health visitors.
I dragged myself to baby clinic every week to get Tommy weighed. It took me a good four or five hours to get us ready to leave the house, as just the thought of it filled me with absolute dread to the point I would have a panic attack. Nevertheless I would arrive at baby clinic and sit on my own in the corner away from the other mums. On one visit I was called into the side room where there were three health visitors sat on chairs like a court jury and two other sets of parents. Bringing anything up in confidence was not an option. Despite this, I mentioned that I wasn't eating, I hadn't slept for days, and that Tommy was wanting feeding literally every hour, and in between feeds he was crying day and night. I looked at the health visitors for their words of comfort, advice, and ideas on what I could do to help the situation. Their response? 'Do you think you're feeding him properly?'
REALLY??? I've just poured my heart out and I'm doing all but scream out for help, and the first thing you can come back with is that I'm not breast feeding properly??!! She asked how I was putting him down to sleep at night. (For the broken couple of hours that he would eventually sleep for) I told them that I put him down on his front because he was more comfortable that way.
Well, you would have thought I had just suggested throwing the child into a cupboard, locking the door and throwing away the key with the way she reacted. 'There is a much higher death rate for babies who sleep on their front!! They are more likely to be victims of cot death than babies that lie on their back!' No they aren't love. I've been an undertaker for nearly 5 years, and in that time I've looked after my fair share of babies. Not one of them has died because they were led on their front.. Now piss off.
By this point I'd had enough. After deliberating whether or not I could knock each one of these women out, get Tommy dressed and out of the surgery before anyone noticed, I decided they were a bunch of arrogant bitches, left, and decided not to go again.
The next few months were hell. Tommy had colic and reflux. Every day was a constant battle between finding the right formula to give him, (I had by now completely given up breast feeding as I felt like my nipples were going to drop off at any given moment); switching between lying him on his front then on his back, winding him, and taking him out for walks in his pram to try and comfort him. Nothing worked. I was losing my shit with Ian on a daily basis, I was short tempered, and was drowning in the absolute sadness that I didn't have a single person contact me to see how I was, I didn't speak to anyone for days on end, and slept about as much as an insomniac hyperactive chimpanzee. What the hell could I do??
With amazing support and encouragement from Ian, I contacted the mental health unit in Preston and begged to see someone. Whilst I was optimistic at first, my hopes were dashed when I was told that an emergency appointment would be in nine months' time. NINE MONTHS. In a state of hysteria, I rang the unit and told them that I was having some rather frightening thoughts, which wasn't a lie. Several times a day I had to prevent myself from putting my head through the wall. Getting into the car was a scary time as I could picture myself driving the damn thing straight through the front of the house. Amazingly, this brought my appointment forward, and I would be seen in two weeks' time.
The psychiatrist came to my house and assessed me and I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar Type 2 Disorder. Praise. The. Lord. I wasn't going mad. I wasn't a shit Mum. I did know what I was doing. But I needed help, I needed medication, and I needed it quick. After being prescribed medication (that to be fair is strong enough to make even the most miserable of shits smile) I started to feel better.
This made Ian feel a little happier too. Gone were the days where he didn't know if he would come home to me hugging him or attacking him with a set of garden shears. Whilst that was a nightmare for him, I found it rather amusing. I still do.
I still have absolutely shit days. I have days where I hate myself and everyone around me. I have days where I don't want to take my meds because I don't think I need them anymore. Then, I look at Alfie and Tommy. These two drive me further to the brink of insanity than I already am; they have ruined my figure, they drive me mad daily, and I still piss myself whenever I laugh or sneeze. But they're cute and they make me laugh, so I suppose it's almost worth it.
I'm so glad I got help. I know a lot of people haven't been as lucky as me, and are sadly no longer with us. Please, please, if you are feeling shit, don't give up at the first hurdle. There is help there, but the fact is it won't come to you, you've got to go and look for it. The mental health service in this country is on its arse, but there are good ones out there.
If you know a new Mum and haven't seen or spoken to her in a while, message her. Phone her. Face Time her. Go round and see her. Reach out - even if offers of coffee dates or days out are constantly declined... Keep asking. It might be the only time she speaks to anyone other than a screaming baby.
To all the Mums, and all the Dads, you rock. We are all winging this shit together; lets help each other, support each other, and if someone you know needs help, HELP THEM GET THAT HELP. It isn't going to come to them.
And finally; if you know a woman who is pregnant and want to get them gifts when the baby is born, sod the baby grows. Three gifts will go down a treat with any new Mother and they will love you forever -
Dry shampoo;
Suppositories;
And Tena Lady. Big fat jumbo ones.
Wishing you all good health, mental health, and the strength to get through this crazy ride in one piece....
Rachelle xx
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