I was one of the lucky ones.
You know the mums who absolutely love being a new mama, with the perfect baby who never cries, who breezes through their leaps and sleeps through the night by 6 weeks. A husband who adores you and your baby, who’s so hands on, he doesn’t let you do any night feeds. That was us, That IS us. A perfect family unit, the lucky ones.
I had the perfect baby, the perfect husband, and the perfect home.
Unfortunately, Postpartum Depression doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t give a shit if your baby is an angel, if your home is a haven of love and unicorns. It doesn’t.
My son was 6 months old when I started to feel really low, 7 months when the panic attacks started and 9 months when I finally told someone about it.
I struggled with accepting that I was depressed, mostly because logically I thought there were plenty other people in the world who don’t even know where their next meal was coming from while I was eating uber eats 5 days out of 7. People who just had it far worse than I did.
I thought, “no my life is amazing, I can’t be depressed” what the fuck do I have to be sad about?
I was one of the lucky ones.
But postpartum depression is not a thing of logic, and like I said, she doesn’t discriminate.
Like any other person suffering from baby blues, some days were good and some days were dreadful. But every day my baby needed me, the best of me.
My “lows” were getting more frequent, the panic attacks went from being slightly annoying to completely debilitating. It wasn’t until I was in the middle of bath time and a real bitch of a panic attack set in, I couldn’t move, I had to call David to take son while I just sat on the bed motionless. Crying, waiting for the wave of pure fear and agony to pass.
The panic attack wasn’t what scared me, it was after. When I couldn’t even look at my baby, the light of my life. I couldn’t be in the same room as him because I was so scared seeing him would set off another panic attack.
This shook me to my core. Because anyone who knows me, knows. I live for this little boy. He’s the sun my world orbits around 24 hours of the day. But this day? I lost an hour.
1 whole hour I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t cuddle him or rock him to sleep.
That’s when I decided enough was enough, I finally reached out to my family and friends. My husband and my GP. Because now? I was mad. Depression had gone and pissed me right off.
Because depression is a thief, a thief of joy, of time and it had stolen an hour from me. Call me dramatic but if I’m going to spend an hour away from my child, let it be drinking a tall glass of pink gordons, or reading, or talking shit with Hanelle. Getting some dubs on fortnite with my little brother.
Not fighting demons on my bedroom floor LOL.
My aunty Lisa told me early on in my new mama journey “You can’t pour from an empty cup” and now I feel this more than ever.
For months I was too busy being in denial about my mental health to realise how bad it had gotten.
Today I speak openly about my mental health journey I’m on, it’s still very much a work in progress but I’ve passed the first barrier, of acceptance.
I have been diagnosed with Postpartum Depression and am seeking the help I need.
If you’re reading this, and are on the same journey. I see you, I feel you, we got this mama. One day at a time. Talk to your village, reach out when you need to. We’ve heard this all before I know, but it’s true.
Because, you can’t pour from an empty cup mama!
Even though, every day is a battle, I know I am loved, so loved.
By a little boy who thinks I hung the stars and his dad who knows I didn’t, but loves me anyway.
I’m one of the lucky ones.