Why becoming a mum is the hardest thing I’ve ever done!

When I had postnatal depression I thought I must be the only person who had ever felt that way. Every time I saw someone whilst I cradled my brand new baby, I was met with comments like… “Isn’t it just the most amazing feeling?” How could I possibly have opened up and told them I didn’t feel that way? That it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I remember crying to the midwife when my little boy was three weeks old, telling her that I just wanted to go back to work. I wanted to go back to the life that I knew, where I was happy, where I knew what I was doing, and where everything made sense.

Before I had my son I had a really naive view of mental illness and I think I believed I was immune to it. I had managed a stressful job as a Solicitor for years, how hard could it be to raise a baby?

I loved every minute of being pregnant despite suffering with horrendous morning sickness, and as the last of my friendship group to have a child, considered myself fairly well prepared. When I went into labour I was a little apprehensive, but really excited to meet my baby. However, 46 hours later, I was exhausted and there was still no sign of him.

I was taken to theatre for a forceps delivery and suddenly there he was. He was handed to me, but before I could even register what was happening, they whisked him away to be checked. Everyone went over to my son, including my husband, and I just lay there all alone. No one talked to me about him or told me how he was and I couldn’t even see him from the bed.

So many thoughts and emotions went through my head in that first half hour. I remember being really bothered by the fact that he was my son and I didn’t even know what he looked like. The midwives and my husband knew, they’d seen him — but I didn’t. I felt annoyed that my husband hadn’t even come over to see me, and then berated myself for being selfish — I mean he was with our son for goodness sake.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This was meant to be the happiest moment of my life! And yet, I felt like it had all been ruined. Despite being in a room full of people, I’ve never felt so alone. I felt completely empty but no one asked how I was. And upon reflection, how could I have even tried to explained it when I didn’t even know myself?

The next few weeks were a blur of feeding struggles, a hospital re-admission for sepsis and endless, sleepless nights. Every time I saw a healthcare professional they would talk to me about the baby’s weight and feeding, but never about me and how I was feeling. On occasions when I was talking to a healthcare professional I would be completely inconsolable, but nobody took the time to ask how I was finding things.

I couldn’t understand what was happening, or why I couldn’t just feel the same as everyone else. I did however see one midwife following a hospital discharge when my son was about 5 weeks old, who was really concerned about my mental health. She suggested a referral to the perinatal mental health team, but I knew nothing about mental health services and the idea of it terrified me so I refused.

Eventually things got to the point where I just couldn’t cope with how low I felt, so I agreed at last to the referral going through.

Every time someone would ask me how I was in an offhand way I would tell them what I thought they wanted to hear — I was fine. I would plaster on a smile and go through the motions. We did baby classes with friends and I would post photos on Facebook of me smiling away ‘enjoying’ motherhood. I still didn’t feel like I was able to tell anyone how I really felt.

I would spend the morning out with friends gossiping and laughing as I didn’t want anyone to think anything was wrong with me, but inside I just felt… nothing. Getting out of the house was such an effort, and when I wasn’t out, I’d sit on the sofa staring into space or crying. Even the simple things such as a making a cup of tea or a sandwich felt impossible.

I was receiving weekly support from the perinatal mental health team, but because I wasn’t used to talking about my feelings I struggled to engage with the psychology support. They wanted me to go on antidepressants to try and help lift my mood in the hope this would help me engage in the talking therapies, but I refused.

I had all these stereotypical ideas about antidepressants which made me too scared to take them. I was worried they would change my personality or make me feel ‘drugged up’, and I thought once I was on them I would never come off of them again. I also refused the support of the Psychiatrist and the Community Psychiatric Nurse because the terms seemed so intimidating. Looking back now, my head was in a constant battle between being too scared to engage in the support available, but knowing it was what I needed to get better.

Eventually it got to the stage that I would go to bed dreading having to wake up and live through another day. Sometimes I would wish I wouldn’t wake up or hope that an accident would take the decision out of my hands. By the time my son was 6 months old, the pain was so bad that I just wanted to die. Twice, I was out driving and almost crashed the car on purpose. I would spend hours researching what I needed online and stocked up on medication, determined to end my life. At the time, the only thing which stopped me doing it was the fear of it not working and having to face everyone afterwards with them knowing how I felt.

Looking back it makes me so sad to think I was that ashamed of being unwell and that I let myself get to such a bad place before I felt able to seek support. One day I realised enough was enough and I called the team and broke down — telling them I wanted to die.

Things were immediately put in place to keep me safe and whilst I struggled initially, I did eventually accept the help on offer. With time, support and medication I began to recover. But recovery wasn’t quick — in fact sometimes it was painfully slow. But it did get easier.

If I could have a day where I felt good, I could remind myself on the next low day that the previous day I had felt good and that tomorrow I might feel good again. Sometimes I would have a week where I felt awful all over again, but I would just keep telling myself, “maybe tomorrow will be a good day”.

Eventually the good days were more frequent, until the bad days were far and few between. It took a long while before I didn’t panic whenever I had a rubbish day that the postnatal depression might be returning. I had to frequently remind myself that everyone has down days and that’s completely normal.

By the time my son was a year and a half old, I was discharged from the perinatal mental health team, and by the time he was 2 I had come off all medication. He’s now a bubbly 4 year old and I’m so glad I received the support to help me get better and to be able to enjoy him.

It has not been a smooth journey and I did become unwell again after having my second child, but I want parents to know that no matter what — you will recover. An amazing nurse once said to me that she was ‘holding the hope’ for me until I was able to hold it myself, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard a truer saying. At the time I didn’t believe her, but she was right and one day I found that hope for myself. I took it and ran with it.

So to the mum who puts on a brave face day after day when inside you are falling apart — please seek support. You are amazing and you deserve to be happy. There is fantastic support for parent’s mental health in the perinatal period and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. So many mums feel the same as you and you would be surprised at how many!

I know it feels scary and it won’t be easy, but one day, maybe in a few months time, or maybe a year from now you’ll be hanging out the washing or driving in the car and you’ll suddenly find yourself absentmindedly singing along to the radio. In that moment you will know you have found yourself again. You deserve that moment more than anything.