Thieves of My Sanity

In the wake of a windy storm, I gave birth to my second son. The windows of the labour ward rattled against strong gales, letting slithers of cold air breeze through, but despite this, there was stillness and calm inside. I felt like I had completed what I was set out to do, achieved my purpose as a mother of two wonderful boys. Who knew something so tiny and so small could take such a big space in my heart?

Within the hour of giving birth, I was back on my feet tidying up my clothes, putting away tasty snacks and fishing out Anthony's first pair of mittens. I cannot believe I had done this again. All natural with one painkiller and lots (and I really stress on the lots) of gas and air. I was always told growing up that because of my Cerebral Palsy, it would be unlikely that I would ever become a parent, yet here I am. Taking it all in my stride, I felt like I could conquer the world.

But then came the pain. The cramps of after birth, the tension in my legs causing constant spasms. I was so tired, I could sleep for a whole winter, and possibly more. Along with sleep deprivation, I was so hungry, and the headaches were splitting my eyes. I was so desperate to get home, in the comfort of my bed, a nice hot bath and a good cup of tea.

I find hospitals disturbing; I have far too much trauma associated with these places. After spending a large part of my life in one, I avoid them as much as I can. When the midwives told me I had to wait for the all clear from the doctor, which would be another day or two, my heart dropped. I felt like I was being held hostage, more so from my own past than that of the hospital. What kept me sane was that it was all for the health and safety of my baby, so I tried my hardest to keep my wits about me.

Then I got home, and I lost myself. I still hadn't properly rested from birth and my flat was in a state, so I couldn't relax. I just couldn't. My mind wouldn't shut off, even though I was so exhausted from it all. The pain wasn't going, in fact, getting worse. Then it came, milk, hormones and post-natal depression. God, what have I done? Have I made a mistake? I've failed both of my boys already. I can't even get out of bed. Maybe they would be better off if I weren't here?

Every day for the past week, I have sobbed more than my baby or my toddler combined. I kept asking myself these questions again and again, and I would look at both my boys and cry a little more. I don't want to leave my babies. I don't want them to grow up without me, but can I really do my best for them? When I can't get past this? I wanted to die. Sometimes I think I still do. There's no other way of putting it. I was (and still am) in so much agony, I just wanted relief, and the only way I believed I was going to get that was death. Painkillers just weren't cutting it, and then the pressure of finances being stretched to the limit. I just couldn't cope.

I fell (and maybe I am still falling) deeper and deeper into a state of depression. I had a terrible epiphany. I finally understood why Sylvia Plath did what she did. I had always questioned why parent's especially mothers, would take their own lives. How can you just leave your children behind to pick up the pieces? But now I know. Now it makes sense. With these thoughts, I began making an itinerary for my last day. Starting with a collection of hand-written letters, one each for my boys. Then, I realised I was entering a dark and heavy space I had never gone to before. And it was (or maybe is) only a matter of time before I acted on these thoughts and feelings. So I opened up about them to my midwife and the father of my children, and it was very difficult. I could see the pity in their eyes.

A standard for mothers with post-natal depression in the UK is to be referred to a perinatal mental health team, but from my previous experience with my firstborn, they aren't that much help. Having to explain my story and feelings to a stranger over and over and over is tiring. It's not their fault that they cannot help me. It's the cuts and underfunding. They too, are stretched to the limit. I told my midwife that all I need is a good night's sleep, some decent painkillers and not have to worry about the electric, gas, food and other financial worries. I would be okay.

So why have I written this? Because we need to talk about how mothers really feel after birth. The services that are available aren't great, and if we open ourselves up about it, we might just make them better. I think the reason mums don't speak up is that they fear being judged and feel ashamed for feeling the way we do. Sometimes when we find the strength to talk about it, the response is usually met with, 'think about our children.' As if we weren't already thinking about them, and that's why we feel so shit about feeling the way we do in the first place? Things need to change here.

Mental health awareness has come so far in society, even if we still have a long way to go. Yet mothers of all kinds are being left behind. I want to open this difficult conversation up, so we can make these changes, and help mothers who feel like I do so we can be the best version of ourselves for the sake of our children. It starts here. With the little strength we have left, it starts here...

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If anyone reading this is struggling with their mental health, give me a DM on Twitter/X. I may take a while to respond, but eventually I will. Anxiety often holds me back.

There is also my email: [email protected].

And remember: You cannot make the world a better place if you are not in it.

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