The Beauty of Babyhood

Last Import - 141The baby stage is passing with incredible swiftness. Here are some things I love (shared here and not just privately, who knows):

His big grin when Robert picks him up. Even if he’s crying and feeling crap, he grins when Robert picks him up. Every night, Robert takes him up the stairs to bed and Ois√≠n grins his head off up every step. I stand at the bottom and watch while he does this ūüėÄ I follow slightly behind to watch his grin at a rackish angle, his fluffy fringe.

His cat noise. He sees them every day and is never bored. He gets night terrors and sometimes wakes up crying and completely blank. You just hold him, unrecognising, but then a cat pushes their way in (and they always do when he’s upset) and slowly he comes back to himself and starts giggling through his tears. He has a special sound for them, and a silly, exaggerated crawl, and Girl Cat is especially patient with him.

His total unbridled love. He just loves seeing us and I know it’s not forever. I know it’s uncomplicated by anything. Robert often lets me lie in, because he’s not only a total dote, but a wonderful dad who understands I need a bit of sleep more than most. And when I clamber downstairs, Robert says, “Here’s mummy!” and Ois√≠n’s face lights up with a huge smile, he starts jumping and flapping and wriggling and crawls towards me. Recognition! Of the best parts of you. The loving, warm, uncynical parts of you. There you are. I thought I had lost you (I thought I had lost you). When we’re together, he looks from each of us with total wonderment and reaches his little hand out to our faces and strokes. Waking up at 6am can be shit when you have to go to work, but he’s so happy it’s hard to be too annoyed.

His massive gummy kisses. He swishes his head from side to side when he wants to kiss you, but when you say, “Kiss?”, he opens his big drooly mouth and tries to kiss you. They’re so clumsy and cute.

The way he falls asleep when I sing to him. I stopped singing for years and I’m not even sure why, when I love to sing. Since he’s been born, I’ve been regaining my voice, singing to adverts, to the radio, and to him. Tonight I sang a mix of songs while he groped for my hand, found it, and fell asleep.

The night wakings. He bought us to our knees when he woke up every half an hour. But as long as I get a bit of a lie in (which won’t happen when I’m full time), I like doing the 4am feeds. I volunteer for them. I miss him, he misses us. I’d rather he didn’t wake up (for everyone), but that hour, those hours. Love, love, love. Crawling, silliness, half asleep, a bubble. Quiet, quiet world, and here we are.-

(But you do odd things when half asleep)
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The babble. I can’t wait for them to becomes words, but his babble is adorable. It’s taking form, and tone. We can tell when he’s having a go at us, or when he’s happy, or curious, or being silly.

Trying to make us laugh. When he’d had enough of dinner earlier, I shook his highchair and pretended it was an earthquake, which he laughed his head off at. After that, he started rocking his chair back and forth and hooting, turning to me and giggling, waiting for me to laugh back.

The tininess. Tiny hands, tiny nose, tiny feet, fluff head. All of which I call him. His tiny hands in your big hand. His oversized lashes on tiny eyelids, heavy and lush.

I love his anticipation before Robert blows on his belly. Hands poised, big grin, giggle already forming in his throat, then a big guffaw.

I love his open trustingness (and it also makes me sad that won’t be forever). He has a bit of separation anxiety, but he loves, adores, people. Studies their faces, coos, giggles, chases, babbles. He loves to make friends. When we’re on a bus, he’s either patient and watching out the window, or cooing his head off at a nearby person, smiling.

And I love his reaction to his teddies. He hasn’t got a firm favourite, he cuddles them all. If we hold one out to him (too paranoid about SIDS to put one in his cot), he hoots and giggles and reaches out then bear hugs them. For some, he will run at them and then wrestle them in a cuddle while laughing.

Although it can be boring, I love that he has his favourite books. They always chill him out. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Chu’s Day and Where’s The Cat? are his best ones. He pushes you to read them. Kneels and looks at your face for reactions and laughs. Sits with his downy head against your cheek and hums. Hands turning a piece of hoodie string. Eyes looking. Cupid mouth, and hum. Softness.

I love his good mood even when he’s sick. We’ve both been sick but for Ois√≠n it’s been snuffly, coughing business as usual while I bitch and moan. He’s an example to me.

The privilege of watching someone grow from scratch. And scratch isn’t blank. I recognise aspects of his personality I saw at days old. Straight from the packet. In every aspect, in every way. It is amazing. I know some people find it boring, and I understand that, but to me it’s fascinating. To see a person- a person!- become, be, like, dislike, love, unlove, is amazing. It feels like an honour to be witness to it with someone you love so much, to guide them.

I love that he helps me rediscover things about the world and myself. I was a nature baby, an animal child until I was bitten. I look at the hearts of leaves and the sky again and share in the wonder. Find books and words and songs. And feelings. Stripping off the skin feelings that are often unbearable and a barrel wetness of emotion and anxiety that can be hard to cope with- separation, forever, whenever? It’s terrifying. But my darling.

And a depth of love for Robert I never imagined. Watching someone you know and love know and love, tenderness, endless gentleness, playfulness, humbleness. Love, love, love, everywhere. My love.

And there are more. Many. Much. How can I love someone so completely, utterly, totally? My babe.

 

(Love, love, my season)

 

 

My Drink and Drugs Heck- Being Off Medication, Out of Therapy and Back to Work.

I meant to write my therapy tales as a weekly series, but it ended quite abruptly. Not for any bad reasons, but because my therapist was off to Peru (!) and wanted to finish the sessions before he left- which would involve squeezing a few into a week, which was the week before I went back to work. I would rather have spent time with my son than with the therapist, so we had two more sessions and left it there.

Did I find it helpful? I’m not really sure. There were more talk of trauma but a lot of it was just going through the self-help resource website. And the trauma is a whole other thing, so it picked at those threads a bit and left them dangling. My panic attacks have reduced but they often do when I’m incredibly busy, and I still have my horrible intrusive thoughts, but what can you do? (Except more therapy!)

I’ve also finally gotten off Quetiapine, which means I’m now medication free for the first time in 14 years. Yep, I’ve been on various brain potions since the tender age of my brain still developing, and that thought slightly horrifies me. I literally have no idea who I would be without medication, and I will never have the chance to find out since my brain is most likely permanently altered by them. Hooray! I can pretty much chart my life with various medications- 16: carbamazepine, 17, olanzapine (and becoming huge), 19-22, Lithium and Depakote, with various antidepressants and antipsychotics added, 22-28, on and off Lamictal, 22-30 antidepressants in low periods, Quetiapine. My Drug Heck.

Quetiapine was the last medication standing and the one I’ve found hardest to come off due to being dependent on it for sleep. My psychiatrist has utterly denied it causes a) weight gain and b) sleep dependence. She almost dared me to come off it, saying it didn’t have any withdrawal effects (I’ve almost torn my skin off with itching when trying to get off it before, taken a fork to bed where I’d lay awake for a week), and I can’t resist a dare, so I did. I can’t take Quetiapine if I need to do baby night duty which I would do twice a week so Robert could sleep. One night I just didn’t take it the next one. Instead took some promethazine (an antihistamine) and put on my sound machine app to sleep, and it worked. Promethazine has mitigated the worst withdrawal effects but i’ll need to get off that, too. I had gotten down to 75mg of Quetiapine which is why I think it wasn’t so tough this time. In the past when I’ve withdrawn I’ve gone mental fairly quickly and ended up back on it. But it’s been almost a month now and I haven’t had to call the police because I thought there was someone in my house wanting to kill me, so I call that a success.

I don’t feel hugely different. I tend to get quite down this time of year, and I am a bit. My brain is a bit more buzzy and detuned but I can get out of bed in the morning which is such a difference. My gorgeous human alarm clock helps, but even without his glorious gummy face I think I’d be much better. I haven’t been late to work once since I started back, when I used to be late every day (I’m late to my own time so I can leave by 5pm, but that’s transport rather than me).

As for being back to work- there’s a whole other post in there, about how it feels being a working mother. Lots of emotions, guilt either way, when I am at work and when I’m not. I’m only in for 3 days at the moment because I have a lot of leave to use up, but I’m fairly apprehensive going back full time in the new year because I will pretty much never see him in the week. My awful commute means I often don’t make it home to put him to bed, and I miss him terribly. He’s such a beautiful wee thing, in a lovely stage where he’s a real, proper little person. He’s crawling everywhere, chasing the cats, laughing his head off all the time, babbling (lots of, “mamas”, but I know it’s just babble right now), loving being read to (he brings you a book and puts it in your lap to read)- just an utter, utter joy. ¬†It’s nice to be amongst adults at work, I have some excellent friends at work, and I’m lucky to have a job I love and an understanding workplace. I would probably go mental being a stay at home mum, since I’m an introvert anyway and work forces me out. My social skills totally disintegrated when I was off work for four years. The baby is incredibly sociable, he seeks people out, smiles at everyone, makes friends everywhere he goes, and I’m not great at getting out when that’s what he needs. ¬†And it’s not healthy for him to just be my life, nor I his. I want to set a good example, and I’m glad he’s growing up with his dad being at home, to teach him, well, so many things, but one thing being that women aren’t handmaidens. And I know there is drudgery and frustration (a lot of the latter, since he’s so frustrated himself with being a baby), and it is good to get a respite from that so I¬†don’t mind it so much.

It feels almost unfashionable to say this, to not don my power suit and sing Eye of The Tiger. But I really enjoy being with him, much more than I ever expected to. He’s with his dad, so that’s great (we can’t afford childcare, and Robert quitting work made sense) but I’m always worried about how Robert is coping and feeling, too. I feel a bit like I’m letting everyone down, and I’ve got a case of imposter syndrome going on with work, my confidence is in bits. I’m sure it’ll get better and I’ll settle in, navigate the space between, but I had a bit of a cry at the station earlier after missing my second train, so it had taken me two hours to get home.

To this face. I mean, c’mon. You’d cry too.

(PS, I don’t smoke anymore either. Pass the yoga mat)

Family.

Family.

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Yep, I’m fat, have scarred arms and an incredibly happy son.

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Meeting Sugar the rat!

Meeting Sugar the rat!

He saw an alpaca for the first time.

He saw an alpaca for the first time.

My body comes with a trigger warning – Self harm and stigma

Hello!  I wrote a blog for Mind on self harm,  stigma and conflicting messages.

“Stigma” has two meanings. One is religious- they’re the literal marks on the hands of Christ at the crucifixion, and then bestowed upon those whom were holiest- and by extension, those who suffered the most. The other is social- a mark of disgrace. Self harm is both. It is highly stigmatised in society and within the health system, and it is a mark of suffering.

Suffering only has cache if it’s quiet, or, “dignified”.¬†If you make people uncomfortable with your suffering, then there’s stigma.¬†And therein lies the rub.

How do you combat stigma on something that makes other people uncomfortable?

How do you say people who self harm should be treated with kindness when their bodies are seen as attacks on others, to say that self harm shouldn’t be a problem hidden in the dark, when we do exactly that by not allowing representations of self harm?

I just have scars now. They’re very noticeable but also very faded.

Recently, I had a baby. In the postnatal ward, a midwife wrote that I was sitting on the bed holding my baby, “scars on arms”. That’s six year old self harm scars, as relevant to my medical history as a broken leg, and yet so very present, because they were, on a hot stuffy ward, visible. That’s what I was reduced to- “scars on arms”, the loving arms holding my newborn son, the arms of a new mother, a person, exhausted, elated, and ordinary.

If you’d like to rest the read,¬† it lives here.

Therapy Tales No. Etc- Death and Trauma. Fun.

Therapy is ending soon.

Losses, fears, love- that’s basically it. Losses of things I loved- including animals (I know pets die, but mine in sudden, cruel ways I can’t go into here but which haunt me) and people. They all died lonely, premature, unfair, painful deaths. As soon as I really understood what death really was (which happened when I had another loss- my friend who killed herself when I was 15), I have been completely heartbroken ever since. Of what life is. Of feeling. Of finality. Of memory. I can’t bear it, any of it. That’s when the fear really started. I’d always been afraid of my parents’ death, i obsessed over it. But that was my first big loss, of someone I’d seen so recently, so young, so similar to me. We were all steeped in bullshit pop music mythology, playing with self harm. But she died. Alone. And I was unforgiven for something. I never got to explain or say sorry. And she died. Died. Death. Forever. My first cremation, too.

Memory is important to me. Memory is evasive to me. I have convoluted memories of my own childhood. ¬†Different from my siblings’ because we’re different people. Everything is kind of mixed up, muddy. Then my own brain conspired against me, and I don’t remember a lot of my periods of illness, or the life that existed, inevitably, as life does, within them. And I had my own fractious relationship with the truth when I was young. ¬†When I look back I realise it was because I found it so hard to be living the life I had, so created another, not even one that was easier, but one I felt could justify the pain I was in without ever being honest about what was really causing it (it still feels churlish and trivial, and now I am at the other extreme of exposing honesty). ¬†Other people have memories I don’t, largely negative and embarrassing. My own bad behaviour haunts me not just because it hurt those it was directed to (or caught within), but because I know it has become part of the memory arsenal, that chorus always waiting to be summoned, or to butt in, uninvited, and to hurt. And I hate that. I don’t want to be someone’s bad memories. Maybe if I can be better now, I can replace it or erase it? And all I want is to give my son happy memories. Robert says I’m morbid, which is true. He keeps us in the present- he thinks, “experiences”, I think, “memories”. Already living in the past tense.

Memory is all we have, really. In the end, if we’re lucky, that’s all we have. Since my dad died I have dug deep and cling to the good memories I have of him. Further and further away. It’s hard to remember happiness. It’s not the visceral gut punch of despair, more the balloon in your hand that drifts away, bright and then small and smaller. Physical pain is hard to remember (I couldn’t describe now what my contractions felt like, even though I know they hurt), but emotional pain recalls itself constantly. So I often only remember the bad things clearly (and how bad they were), and it feels like they just happened. How jealous I am of people whose parents weren’t like mine and who they went out to lunch with and they didn’t die like my dad did. Even those who did die but in ways that people had some sympathy for (alcoholics dying, lowest of the low, fuck their children, the way we were treated by the medical staff, my baby brother and sister, fuck them forever and forever for it, for every person afterwards who turned their face away from me), ¬†I have to unfollow people on Facebook posting happy pictures with their parents. Out at lunch! Having drinks! Doing normal things.

Memory is the twoheaded monster. My memories of my dad are awful, Sometimes they engulf me and I feel like tearing my skin off in agony that I can’t go back, can’t change something, can’t intercept this awful image and make it different. That was it. And his memories. I think that’s perhaps worst. HIs life which he didn’t deserve. That he was so desperately unhappy. That he died like he did, and that I knew he was afraid of it. And there are tears pouring down my face as I write this. To be afraid without comfort. Without hope. I wanted to be there when he died to be a hand or a face or a word, and I wasn’t.

Me being there wouldn’t have changed the outcome, he would have died anyway. But I wanted to do something, anything.

My friend Brendan died not long after my dad. He was an alcoholic too, was trying to recover. He died of an accidental overdose and my last communication with him was a voicemail he left on the Monday before he died asking me to meet up, saying he was nearby, just passing, are you in? get in touch, and I was so up my own fucking selfish arse I never did and then he died.

In therapy we talked about safety behaviours and my big one is having my phone on me and being always contactable. I have a three hour commute to and from work and most of it is underground. I went for a rare night out on Tuesday and had a panic attack on the train as I visualised (fear not feelings etc, but it felt like a promotion, it felt like destiny), Robert screaming over our baby, screaming and screaming and I wasn’t there. That if he died I wouldn’t be there. What would his last memory be? Be held, be there, be loved. Not alone.

(Howl)

This is hard to write. I’ll come back to it.

It’s also about fear. I used to have nightmares about my dad dying from his drink. But he did anyway. It happened even worse than I screamed about. So why should I trust my fears aren’t real? That the worst won’t happen? It did. All the worst fears I have (dying myself is a worst fear that will inevitably be true, but I fear dying young, leaving my baby, Robert dying, my baby dying, my mum being unhappy and dying) came true so why not these? It’s hard not to take my anxieties as facts. They happened. ¬†And with Robert and my baby in particular, who are my husband and my son, I love them so fiercely, I think, my love must insulate them from suffering, from death. But it doesn’t and it won’t. How can I ever accept that? I know it’s a childish and possibly a bit narcissistic but there it is. When Robert has the slightest bit of discomfort, my refrain is, “What can I do? How can I fix it?”

We talked about my intrusive thoughts which often take the form of, when I’m speaking to someone, imagining them dead. And realising they have the same expression, that I am just superimposing my dad over everyone’s faces, just reliving it constantly.

We didn’t even get on that well when he was alive. We had some beautiful moments, a lot of understanding, and he was a good person. But I often hated him for what he put us through. I used to fantasise about him falling downstairs and breaking his neck just so he’d shut up. Stop shouting. Stop drinking. Then we’d be free. (I hate this freedom. I hate myself).

So the therapist talked a bit about trauma and how events can be too big for the brain to process so they never become memories. They’re always happening instead. A sort of PTSD. And how if you break them down they can be processed and become memories and stop being so present. I’m skeptical. I have some extra sessions before we quit but feel like we’ve pulled a thread and I want the jumper back. And I don’t want to do the homework. I don’t want to write it all down. I want to keep pushing it all out. I don’t want to break it down. I don’t want to break down.

I cried a fair bit after that session and Robert gave me a lot of hugs when I came home. And then abruptly I just stopped talking about it, as I do, Silly, trivial, depressing.

Yeah.

(Stay with the feelings)

CBT Tales- session 1 and 2

Hello! I promised to update you on my therapy tales. I had my first session 2 weeks ago and it was so uneventfully boring I didn’t really have much to say about it. It was just going over what we’d be doing. He said a few times, “you fit the model so perfectly”, which I gather was meant to be reassuring but irritated me somewhat. I don’t want to fit any models but of course, we all do in varying ways. Especially us mental health bloggers who literally define ourselves by the set of symptoms we fit that all adds up to a few words on a doctor’s monitor and our entire lives.

There was a lot of diagram drawing on how thoughts and feelings and actions all interact. Talk of safety behaviours, and my biggest is keeping busy all the time, mostly by fucking about online, never letting that thought creep in, having my phone glued to my face until the very second I fall asleep. And it doesn’t work, because in the second afterwards, panic creeps in. And I have an awful tendency to use my phone to look up the things that scare me- cancer, death, cot death, death, death, more death.

Session 2 was yesterday. I wrote this for A Day In the Life, a website which gathers the stories of a day in the life of someone with mental health difficulties. You can submit yours too over at A Day In the Life. The stories are anonymous but I don’t mind outing myself for the purposes of this post.

26 August 2015

Today is Therapy Day. I had about three hours sleep, which isn’t good on Therapy Day. In the days before my baby was born, my medication (Quetiapine) would make me sleep for twelve hours straight. Now, with an internal Mum Radar activated, I wake up when he does (multiple times a night), although I’m pretty uselessly doped up from drugs and it’s up to my husband to feed him. The one time I tried I dropped the bottle and spilled milk all over the floor, mumbling dream talk, his crying from the end of a long, dark tunnel. So it’s pointless lack of sleep, but lack of sleep nonetheless. The baby, now five months old, has decided that 6am is a brilliant time to wake up, so I’m up too.

Despite being up from 6am, I’m still late for therapy. The hours in between are lost in a haze. I eat, too much, to try and muster some energy. A jam bun and some toast. In my sleepiness, I’ve forgotten my homework and worry all the way on the bus that the therapist will be pissed off at me for it. It’s just CBT- I say, “just” because it’s not the kind of therapy that plumbs your heart like a dentists’ drill. It’s functional, rigid, and thus requires concentration I can’t summon on so little sleep.

This is only the second session. The focus is on my anxiety about death. Or, as we find during the session of comparing, “Theory A to Theory B”, the focus is on my anxiety about my anxiety about death. The problem, the therapist says, isn’t that we’re all going to die. That’s true and has always been true. It’s that my anxiety about it is controlling my life. So we go through what happens when I feel anxious. About intrusive thoughts and how we shouldn’t try to control them. The more we try to control them, the more we think them. The aim, he says, is to accept them. To let them intrude.

Towards the end of the session he says we’re going to do something which may make me have a panic attack. It’s to feel where my anxiety is, to hold an image in my head and to focus on it. I try, but all I can focus on is the ticking of the clock coming to the end of our truncated session. I try to hold an image of myself panicking but nothing really happens. He then talks about how the more we look at an image, the more our mind will demonster-fy it. It might become interesting, comical even. I’m not finding this to be true, but I’m left with the instruction that the next time I get an intrusive thought or feel anxious to stay with it, examine it, and not try to suppress it. Good luck, me.

I leave and wander around the shops, thinking of lunch. I’m trying to treat these sessions as little holidays from my life, and take an hour afterwards to drink coffee or eat before I return to the baby, leaving whatever was in therapy scattered along the cafe tables. I get the bus home and exhaustion floors me. I can barely hold my head up and resolve to go to bed when the baby does. We’re all tired today, we forego any attempt at dinner and eat burnt creme br√Ľl√©e that Robert impulsively bought from Tesco. ¬†I take my medication just after I put the baby to bed, and let it drag me into the blackness of sleep by 8pm. He wakes at 10.30 and I do too, stumbling with my pillow into the spare room while my husband feeds him. And then back to sleep. It’s just like the old days- I slept for 12 hours.

Therapy Tales Part 1- So You’re Terrified of Death?

(If you’re wondering where my previous post went, I have made it private as I’ve found this to be true. Thank you for all your comments and encouragement!)

So, I’m starting therapy for death anxiety (my medical diagnosis that led me to it are generalised anxiety disorder and panic disorder but I prefer to think of them as ARGH). ¬†Expect this series of posts to be even more introspective and self obsessed than usual, and for this blog, that’s saying something.

Two years ago (christ), I wrote a post called, “When Fear Becomes Phobia”.¬†It described my ARGH FUCK panic around death and deadness, and how my world was getting smaller and smaller because of it. ¬†Last year, I went to the doctor and asked for help. She was so sympathetic that she made me cry. Saying what an awful thing to carry around with me for 12 years (14, now) and she referred me to therapy. I found out I was pregnant, had an assessment and things didn’t go any further because I was suffering such crippling morning sickness that the 40 minute bus journey to the appointment was 1 hour 30 minutes because I’d have to jump off twice to vomit. Later on in pregnancy, I dispensed with such courtesies and just huffed up all over my lap, or into a friendly plastic bag. ¬†Pregnancy was also pretty distracting- all my anxieties were focused on that, and I didn’t have the mental reserves to panic about death anymore.

My panic has returned, as it does. It’s not constant and strikes at night when I’m trying to sleep (and flip, I need my sleep!) It doesn’t disturb anyone because I sleep in the spare room (Robert does night feeds due to my medication). It means it’s quiet, private, lonely. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows. ¬†It’s probably unsurprising. I had a baby, then I lost my grandmother, and it was my dad’s anniversary. ¬†Catholicism ritualises death in a way that’s both comforting and horrifying. It makes you look at it, it makes an object of it. ¬†She was in a coffin in the sitting room that my dad’s coffin was in, for days, with the same yellow, unnaturally smooth, chillingly cold skin that you have to touch to say goodbye. Their coffins, and every childhood Christmas. These things bring death bubbling back to the surface of your mind. It’s hard to close it out when you’re trudging up a hill behind it. Robert’s grandmother died the month after, and her funeral was like a trip to Argos. Closed, quiet, scripted, burned. I prefer the visceralness of Catholicism, even if it haunts me. It does at least give death, and life, some gravitas.

So, I’ve been referred back to therapy for it. My psychiatrist initially wanted to increase my medication but I refused. This feels existential, albeit obsessive. I’ve often been able to distract myself and try to be less up my own arse, but distraction is tricky and I’m introspective generally. It doesn’t need to be medicated away- that just makes me feel worse.

The assessment happened pretty quickly. A chat over the phone, which gave me a sense of pride that I didn’t have to list a litany of other issues. I haven’t self harmed in six years, my bipolar disorder (if I ever had it) is pretty well controlled. I wasn’t depressed, wasn’t struggling otherwise. I’ve come quite a long way. I knew what they’d recommend- CBT (*spits*) but I’m willing to give it a chance.

The therapist is called Sean, which means the assessment didn’t entail the usual 45 minutes of tuition in how to pronounce my name. It’s high intensity IAPT (Improving Access to Psychological Therapies), so the sessions aren’t at the mental health team (thank bollocks, I used to work at my local one), but in an unassuming house with comfy sofas, pot plants and James Frey books that I had to stop myself openly guffawing at perched proudly on the Ikea shelves.

He asked me what I wanted help with so I explained. I forgot to bring the questionaire they sent me so went through some of it there. My depression score was low, as I knew it would be. People tend to assume I must be suffering from depression if I’m having panic attacks and anxiety.

Au contraire.

Depression is both a mortal enemy and an enemy of mortality. For me, it is ageless, timeless emptiness. It tries to kill me, and it kills the thing inside me that makes me afraid of it doing so. I want to die when I’m depressed.

So when I’m not depressed, I’m scared of that.¬†It’s like being held under water and a peaceful acceptance of what it happening envelopes you, until the final second, and you kick, you convulse in order to be free, to be alive, to throw off the aggressor and then relive over and over at how close you came to drowning.

I do sometimes feel depressed because of the panic. I feel frustrated and angry with myself that I have panic attacks. I feel frightened and distressed by some of the intrusive thoughts I have (like when I’m speaking to someone and suddenly an image of them dead flashes into my brain, with hallucinatory vividness) and sometimes they make me feel like I’m going mad. But depression and this panic don’t come together, and that’s a big massive pain in the hole.¬†The panic tends to be the worst during the happier periods of my life. I’m happy, hurrah, and then my mind goes, “This will end it, all of it, everything, and because it will end, this is meaningless, you won’t be here one day, any day, none of them will” and that’s just BLOODY FUCKING GREAT isn’t it. I don’t want to die, ever, because I enjoy my life. I’m essentially a happy person who wants to see what’s going to happen. ¬†I want to be standing at the end of the universe with Robert and Ois√≠n watching supernovas and planets and the sun.

(Rest your head)
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(Close to my heart)

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(Never to part).

Maybe it is partly a coping mechanism, the fear. Like pinching yourself.

He asked me if I had other anxiety- I do, social anxiety, but I’m dealing with that in my own way so I didn’t want any help which he accepted (and I think it’s tied up in this anyway).

Two things were said during the assessment that made me willing to continue. One was something stunningly obvious but that I had genuinely never considered. The therapist said that my kind of anxiety is, “idiosyncratic”. It’s not a common reason people come to therapy. That floored me. “Doesn’t EVERYONE feel this way?” I said. No, apparently not. At least, not to the degree they end up in therapy. So, is it that this is such an ordinary fear we live with it and are in denial, or am I the odd one for being periodically consumed by it?

Another was asking me where I think it came from. Nobody has ever asked me that before, and it’s not something I’ve thought about. The worst of my panic began when I was 15. That’s when it started flinging me screaming across the room. “Is that when your friend committed suicide?” Yes, it was- but the panic attacks started before then. Robert (who I first went out with when I was 14), remembers my panic on the phone, but it was more contained, and I was easier to comfort and distract.

It started well before then, when I was about 7 (?). Both my parents had mental maladies.¬†I felt like they were going to die and I was terrified of it. I became aware they wouldn’t be there one day and I feared all the time it was the day. I used to pad into their room at night to check they were still breathing, then pad back and lie awake in the moon (just like I do now with the baby!). I realised I was going to die too, and sometimes would wake up screaming. ¬†Death felt close, ever present, non abstract. I could only perceive it in my childish way, but I never felt safe, and I never have since.

Of course, that’s just a bit of it- I might be wrong, but I had never connected the two things before. I had a massive resurgence after my dad died, too, which is natural. But it wasn’t so much his death as knowing that he feared it. That kills me, still. I hate that he was afraid. If I could do one thing in my life, one magical thing, it would be to take that fear from him before he died.

He asked me what I wanted to get out of therapy. I don’t know really. Not to have panic attacks anymore. To be able to watch/read/listen to anything again. Not to have to ring in late to work because I’ve disintegrated at a funeral procession. To fall asleep. To be able to think about Ois√≠n’s future. At the moment, I’m too scared to talk about it, think beyond tomorrow, in case he’s not here for it, or that I’m not. I’m petrified of something happening to him, and feel superstitious about it. It’s a loss I know I would never, ever recover from, be able to go on living beyond. ¬†Pregnancy should have taught me the futility of this- when it seemed like there was bad news at the 20 week scan, my anxiety didn’t protect me. It didn’t cushion it, it didn’t make anything easier. ¬†I want to be able to talk to Robert about him riding a bike, or going to school, or falling in love. I want to be here and present in the moment without thinking how it’s going to end. That it is. I want to be able to sleep without hours of panic beforehand. I want to be able to not feel regret about not living if I do die tomorrow. When I’m going through anxious periods I always feel mildly dissociated, not here. I don’t want to feel that way anymore. I don’t want horrible flashes in my brain anymore. I don’t want my coping mechanism for the feelings of helplessness and inevitability to be nihilism, as it means I make unhealthy choices (like smoking, which will actively shorten my life, and thus leads to more panic attacks). I want to be present for myself, for my child. Life is so brief. And it is all.

He said that this will involve some unpleasant feelings, but that it usually helps. He says when it doesn’t, “work”, it’s often because people haven’t done the things long enough (bit of, “blame the patient” here, but I understand what he means as my last assessment person gave me a workbook I barely glanced at). I’m pretty frightened of what this is going to entail, and how hard it’s going to be. I’m aware it might mean it gets worse before it gets better, and I’m feeling pretty apprehensive about that. Shit scared, to be honest.

But I’m doing it. So let’s see where this goes. I’ll keep you updated!

My Birth Story, The Bipolar Birth Plan Was Bullshit and The Stigma Of Mentalist Mums

So, this is a two part blog, covering two different topics. For they are different! This blog will be about how that whole well thought out, “bipolar birth plan” worked out. And the second will be about new parenthood in general and the feeling of your skin being stripped off your body. It’s too much to cover in one blog.

First, thank you again! Always thanking you, you considerate bastards. Thank you for your emails, comments and congratulations. I haven’t responded because I only have one hand these days. My lap is marked Occupied, which makes it very difficult to blog. I do tweet a lot- you can find me over at¬†ms_molly_vog. Twitter, like food, is a one handed affair. Add me!

How did that, “bipolar birth plan” work out? In short, it didn’t.¬† Absolutely nothing went to plan,¬†including the thing I took utterly for granted- my son exited via the sunroof and not my vagina. Lesson 1: Don’t have a plan!

The, “birth story” bit is largely for my benefit and it’s quite long! You can navigate thusly…

Part 2: Why bipolar birth plans are bullshit, breastfeeding woes, and encountering prejudice and stigma from a midwife on the postnatal ward

Part 3: How things are now, 11 weeks on.

Exit via the sunroof

I’d been booked for an induction on Thursday, but was so very unwilling. By that point, I was feeling unexpectedly traumatised from two sweeps. A sweep is when a midwife sticks her hand inside you and sweeps membranes away from your cervix to initiate, or speed up, labour. I had been pretty nervous about giving birth but was so fed up of being pregnant (I went to 41+6 in the end!) that I was sanguine about it. From the first sweep onwards, I found myself sobbing every day. I was so very desperate to go into labour naturally, with a longing that shocked me. I pushed the induction back to the Saturday.

On Thursday I started getting strong braxton hicks, though I didn’t know it then. I thought it was the real deal, and scoffed at the whole, “contractions are like your body being wrenched in half”. This was a piece of piss, but not piss-enough for me to sleep. I didn’t take my medication as I had images of me falling down the stairs in the dead of night and slurring in the back of a taxi, unable to properly understand what was happening.¬† I wanted to be completely present.

On Friday, the real deal happened. Contractions, which, it turns out, are indeed pretty fucking painful. All day, on and off, then suddenly they ramped up in the night (I like to say triggered by my friend’s funny tweet. I told him it had made me go into labour and he didn’t believe me). Excitement, and relief! It was happening naturally! Soon I’d be in the labour ward huffing and puffing and purple and beautific and then waaah a scream and there we go, job’s a good ‘un. Of course it didn’t happen like that.

Last bump picture. Bye bump!

Last bump picture. Bye bump!

As I mentioned before, I was with a team who care for women who are having home births, and also women with mental health conditions. Gold star service, and I can’t thank them enough. You get a pager number to call when you’re in labour. All I was having at the time were contractions- no dramatic, The Shining-esque gush, a pitiful bloody show (more a fecking matinee). But they were pretty bad, and we were timing them. Lots of dashing around, packing, tea-making, laughing (me), swearing (both). When they were 2 minutes apart, we tried the pager number. And tried. And tried. And it wouldn’t connect. (This is thanks to giffgaff, not hospital). ¬†Rang the labour ward and they caught one of the Brierley midwives on shift, and she made her way over, an excruciating hour wait. She arrived, examined me (1 of ELEVEN exams to come)- 1cm dilated! Did some breathing exercises with me, which helped. Lots of arse-in-air, head-on-hands. Had a shower (ace).. I couldn’t go to the labour ward until I was 4cm, so¬†off she went apologetically¬†and I stayed at home. Had a glass of wine, attempted to watch Wayne’s World on Netflix. Had a bath (useless) with Robert rubbing my back, tried (ahaha) to sleep, while Robert slept soundly next to me, my rage at him mounting with the pain. SLEEPING BASTARD.

Day 2 of no sleep.

Saturday morning, the day of my scheduled induction, and I’d been having frequent contractions for about 18 hours. I couldn’t take any more. I rang the labour ward and told them I was coming. I knew I wasn’t dilated enough. I couldn’t phone a taxi, I felt horrifically vulnerable. I was mooing, sweaty, smelly. The thought of trying to hold myself together in the back of a strange man’s car made me weep.¬†In desperation I asked Robert to call my friend Ellie who had a car and to beg her to take me to hospital, Thankfully, she was free, and she did. At 10am, a shock of pain over every bump, staring out the window, past Norwood, Tulse Hill, finally Herne Hill, the crawl towards the hospital. Two hefty suitcases- one for the baby, and one for me, since we were booked in for a long stay. Trying to find somewhere to park, a good luck wave and we were in. Robert in his good luck Word Up t-shirt. (Incidentally, Word Up by Cameo is a song we listened to a lot when Ois√≠n¬†was in the womb. Consequently, it’s one of the only things that is guaranteed to make him stop crying. Proof:


)

Thankfully, Kate was on the morning shift (after being on call the night before and coming out at 2am! Trooper) and congratulated me on holding out for so long and asked if I wanted an epidural. FUCK YES. Always say this to this. I think I would have been more hardy had I not slept for now more than 2 days and she was fully aware of that. I also didn’t take any medication in this time, worrying I’d be out of it for labour (and they said later they don’t think I could have given informed consent to a c-section- something to think about, mental friends). Until then, though, I had gas and air. Gas and air is a beautiful thing. I huffed more than I really needed, giggling my arse off while the room was set up. Music on (we had a birth playlist- that didn’t work out, either), snacks out, and Kate went to change into her scrubs.

Once the epidural was in, I put make up. I seriously thought I'd give birth with this face. Ahaha. No.

Once the epidural was in, I put make up. I seriously thought I’d give birth with this face. Ahaha. No.

The epidural was pretty frightening. I was giggling (part gas and air, part euphoria as I’d waited an hour and half for it). Siting the needle was quite scary. I was too afraid to move but still making quips, until the anaesthesia went in. It’s a feeling I can’t describe, as though half your body is being chalked out of existence.¬† A wave of panic swept over me, a feeling that I was losing control. I held onto Robert’s arm, pleading eyes and I knew that was pretty difficult for him. Once it was in, though, it was great.

Then became the second of FUCKING ELEVEN vaginal examinations, each more hideous than the last. You can refuse them, by the way, but there was no reason for me to. I sensed I wasn’t really progressing, and my waters hadn’t broken yet. But the baby was fine. I was on continuous monitoring so I could see that.

To speed things up, they decided to break my waters. They use a little hook, and the first attempt didn’t work. The second did, and from there things became simultaneously frightening and really boring.

They broke, not in a gush but a trickle onto the giant maternity pad I was lying on. Clear, so that was good. Things weren’t so good with us, though. The baby’s (baby? There was really a baby in there, all along?!) heart rate became to drop on and off.¬† My temperature and pulse were soaring- my pulse was so high they were having trouble telling if it was his heartrate or mine. I start to feel pretty unwell and my catheter is tested, there’s protein in my wee. I had various blood tests- my veins are terrible, so this was more painful than the contraction I was no longer feeling. Many, many, each making me more hysterical than the last. I was losing my good humour as they stuck a needle into my thigh in the end. Off the test goes for pre-eclampsia. It was negative- I had an infection and so now did my baby.¬† It might have¬†sneaked in when my waters were broken. It’s called chorioamnionitis- an infection of the amniotic fluid, but infuriatingly they never told me what it was infected with.

Another IV- this time, antibiotics. They put me on a Picotin drip to speed up the contractions to get the Bean out. Hours and hours pass. More and more examinations. I am progressing though- in the end, I actually made it up to 10cm, but there was a cervical lip in the way, and Oisin was twisting and turning inside, going from his perfect LOA position to who the fuck knows.¬† But he’s getting distressed. His heart rate plummets and I find myself flat on my back, surrounded by doctors, crash button hit, preparing to be taken for general anaesthetic for a category 1 section. Robert is in scrubs, and I am sobbing. But it recovers. Calm comes back.

C-section chic.

C-section chic.

I’m not allowed to eat or drink in case I need an emergency section.¬† Robert puts a mattress down in the bathroom and goes to sleep. I can’t sleep- my utter, ridiculous dependency on my medication fucks me again- so I try to watch a film on my laptop and chat to the midwife- the second one- Alex. More doctors come and look up my vagina. At this point I’d kick them in the balls if I could just move my deadweight legs. But I’m not in pain, except for the odd breakthrough where I use gas and air (and I was huffing it anyway to amuse myself- Robert took a sneaky few puffs when the midwife left the room).

Good shit.

Good shit.

Midwife number three comes on shift. My exhaustion is beginning to flatten me, on day 3 of no sleep- she prepares cold towels for me and rubs my arm and chats to me in the low light of the labour suite. I switch positions often- my left side being best for labour but worse for me due to the drips and epidural, which I am terrified of coming out. I can feel the tightening of contractions, know there is a black world of pain beyond the epidural. I play with the bed controls to try and sit up and feel pressure down below- hoping, hopes dashed- that I’d need to push soon. I hadn’t eaten or drank in 15 hours and felt shaky from hunger. Fluids were being pumped into me and I could sip water but lack of sugar coupled with intense tiredness was killing me. ¬†I’d started to vomit at about 8cm so that added to the fun.

They got the baby on an ultrasound and he was back to back (was nice to see him one last time on the ultrasound- I can’t believe it was him in there, all along). The last little bit wasn’t going to come away, and his heart rate was dipping, up, and down, from stress and sickness. The consultant came in and told me we had to do an emergency cesarean. I cried, and snapped at him when he started talking about, “normal birth”. One third of women have these, it’s normal. I felt weighed down by failure and utter terror. Robert was petrified too, kissing me, apologising for all the wrong things he’s done, for not being perfect, thinking, and me too, that I’d die, and our baby would die. I signed some paper work outlining all the risks, each one I felt certain would happen to me. And then I was wheeled to theatre.

It was a bit of shock, the white white lights away from the timeless darkness of the labour suite, the busyness of the place compared to the intimacy of before. I saw it all flat on my back. They put my arms in a crucifix position and topped up the epidural. They tested it by seeing if I could feel the coldness on my abdomen. They described what was going to happen, but I was gibbering from terror. I’d had few of the warned side effects from the epidural up until this point- a mild headache, that was it- but the top up made me shiver uncontrollably. I think I was in shock, too, thinking that this can’t be happening. Robert was next to me, holding my hand, telling me he loved me.

They asked me if it was okay to have the radio on- it was, I can’t remember what was playing, something cheerful. The screen was raised so I couldn’t see (I kind of wish I could have! I watched a video of another c-section on Youtube to see what had happened) and away they went.

This was Sunday morning. I tried talking to Robert but, well, it’s hard not to be distracted by someone opening up your insides. Tugging, pressure, but no pain. Then he was out- I didn’t see him, which I regret. No cry, not for a minute or so. He was whisked away and then he cried. Relief! He was born on 1st March at 11.24am, 25 hours after I’d gone into the hospital. ¬†7lbs 12oz of loveliness.

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I couldn’t move, obviously, so Robert up to see him. He said he kind of looked at him, like he knew who he was. After a minute or two they bought him over to me. And I wish I remember what I felt the first time I saw him, but I don’t. I don’t remember these photos being taken. I look happy- I’m sure I was. I was just so exhausted by this point.

They stitched me up and then we were taking our separate ways. No immediate skin to skin or breastfeeding, which even now makes me want to cry.  But he had to go to SCBU- we were still suffering from an infection and he needed antiobiotics. Robert went with him, and, so soon, already, we were separated. Off to the recovery ward I went, feeling overwhelmed and a bit confused. I had a baby.

Postnatal- why bipolar birth plans are bullshit, and encountering prejudice on the postnatal ward

So, I’m in the recovery ward feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus. They told me to rest (3 nights, 4 days without sleep now), which I didn’t. After about an hour, they bought¬†Ois√≠n¬†back. With some help from midwife Sue, we breastfeed and had a bit of a cuddle, and it was lovely.

The bipolar birth plan had specified some key things, remember. Thing 1: private room. Thing 2: Robert to stay with me. Thing 3: I get some rest. Thing 4: Minimum 3 day stay.

There’s a fundamental flaw in the whole plan- you’re never alone, and you’re not allowed to either leave the ward nor take the baby off it.

Thing 1 we got. It was a tiny side room at the end of the (huge) postnatal ward. But there was nowhere for Robert to sleep, not even a blanket for him. I don’t expect hospitals to be hotels, but this was in our plan, we were being forced into this. So Robert called his brother for help (and this is why I mention it- what if we’d had no family, no friends to help?), and he came with an inflatable bed and a blanket for him. I sat paralysed, bleeding and cathaterted up, and not in the mood for visitors (who I banned totally from the hospital). Ois√≠n was in a plastic cot in wheels, like a chicken in an incubator. Twice a day, he’d be wheeled up to SCBU for his IV dose of antibiotics. We’d be staying until he was clear of infection, which could be up to 10 days.

The first night as parents was hell. People kept commenting on Facebook how amazing the first night must be, when we were both in tears and feeling as though we were going mad. We were interrupted CONSTANTLY by staff, for various reasons. Checks, OBs, intrusions. The whole, “stay here to get rest” part of the plan was dreadfully ill thought out. Because a) we were always having someone knock at the door and I was woken up often and b) two people in the room are still in a room with a crying baby, and it’ll wake both of us up. ¬†None of us got any rest. I ended up, even with my medication, getting only four hours of sleep after now 5 days without any. Robert was exhausted, too. ¬†Nobody ever knocked, including the cleaning staff and food people, while I lay on bed, tearful, with my breasts hanging out struggling to breastfeed. I was confused every time the baby cried, a totally alien sound to me. I kept forgetting I had a baby, and I was paralysed from the epidural and couldn’t get up to help him. It took me a few days to comfortably lift him from the cot.

Perinatal psychiatry discharged me after the second night on the ward, with no concerns. They were bollocked by me and Robert, who told them we couldn’t understand how they thought that trapping someone on a ward, in a room, with constant intrusions, was in any way going to let them rest. There was a bit of back and forth, but basically, the psychiatrist admitted it wasn’t the best plan. Once I left, my nurse would come to see me weekly (now fortnightly).

I couldn’t leave anyway- we had to stay until Oisin was free of infection. I was on fairly heavy duty myself- a regime of antibiotics, nightly clexane injections and diamorphine for the pain. ¬†The pain was fine, as long as I kept on top of it. On the second day, I bounced around like Willy Wonka and sorely (so very sorely) paid for it by being immobilised the next day.

I had reasoned with myself that the plus side of being on the postnatal ward so long was that I could get lots of breastfeeding support. Hooray! But the support was crap. Hooroo.

The first time we breastfed was, as I mentioned, in the recovery ward, after being separated for more than an hour. A midwife in the breastfeeding cafe later said this might be a reason we had problems, which made me cry. But that time wasn’t too difficult, and it felt lovely. It made me feel spacey and relaxed. I chased that ease and feeling for the next three weeks, before giving up.

My supply was fine, great, in fact. The problems we were having were that it was hard to get him to latch, and I was in a lot of pain from the surgery and struggled to find a comfortable position. What I should have done, and what nobody ever told me I could do or helped me to do, was to basically stay in bed naked and do skin and skin a lot, to let him find his way, and to express and feed him that. Instead it was a few hellish, uncomfortable days of increasingly feeling like a complete failure and giving him formula in begged bottles.

I asked for a lot of help on the postnatal ward, which mostly consisted of people shoving my breasts into his screaming mouth. ¬†The last time I asked for help was on our last night there. I’ve found out in my notes (which I got in my “traumatic birth” debrief) what happened behind the scenes.

The night shift midwife came on and I asked if we could have a bit of support breastfeeding. I wanted one last good go at it before we were leaving. She said to set an alarm for the baby’s next feed, which was in 45 minutes, ¬†so I did. 45 minutes passed, the alarm went off and I wandered out to let them know. Over the next hour or so I tried again and again, while the baby got increasingly hysterical from hunger. They kept telling me someone would be with me, and an hour later, they came in. ¬†They told me they’d been on holiday so didn’t know these “new” positions (I’d asked about rugby hold, which was the comfiest position we’d tried) and only knew “cradle hold”. Which we tried, but it was futile because he was screaming his head off, and then started kicking me in the scar. I was fairly pissed off and exhausted and said to leave us alone. ¬†One of the worst feelings in the world is trying to feed your baby, and not being able to. ¬†I was a bit rude, but no more than any new, exhausted mum.

The next day, without warning, while I was quietly sitting on the bed with the baby, reading magazines, my perinatal nurse walked in. ¬†She said the midwife (who hadn’t once approached me herself) had rang them to tell her to come straight away because I was, “hyperactive, chaotic and abrupt”. It should be said that previous night I’d slept better than any other- I was asleep by 1am, after I’d made a cup of tea.¬†I guess, though, because I have bipolar disorder, that was, “hyperactive and chaotic”. As for abrupt- I’d barely slept for 10 days. Robert was pretty abrupt, too, but because he’s a man without a diagnosis, I guess he was just “forthright” instead.

I have my maternity notes, as I’d had a traumatic birth debrief. I’d thought the reason the midwife had called the perinatal team was because of my “abrupt” manner towards the (useless, rude) maternity assistant. Possibly, as they’d written down that I was very angry and “not being patient” (waiting for an hour more than your baby needs while he screams will make one impatient)- but what was more significant is that she’d noted- twice- that I had self harm scars. SIX YEAR OLD self harm scars- CLEARLY not new, and most clearly not new since the last fecking time she’d noted them. One of her notes was that I wasg with the baby with self harm scars. A new mother, holding her baby! I wore a cardigan anytime I left my room, but was wearing a vest top in my room, as it was roasting.

It’s clear what’s inferred, and it’s clear why she called my perinatal nurse. It’s that she didn’t trust me with my baby, because I had a diagnosis and scars, and because if you have those things, no matter what you do, your behaviour will be pathologised.

The perinatal nurse was, thankfully, bemused. I was so clearly fine- tired, grumpy and desperate to go home- but fine. She asked Robert if he was worried and if I’d been okay. Because you can’t trust mental people to tell the truth. Nor women. Robert said I was fine but that he was angry about the constant interruptions and had been going mad himself, and that we just wanted to go home now. But what if he hadn’t been there? Would I be on my way to the Mother and Baby Unit? (One of my midwife team agreed with my perspective on this, and said sadly, I was always going to face these issues from ignorant people).

The nurse had no concerns. And I have to emphasise here for anyone going, “but, but, but” that I was geniunely not acting in unusual way at all- I was tired, but, apart from to the maternity assistant- in good humour and polite. There was no reason for them to call. The experience shook me and I felt very upset. I felt like I’d been doing really well and realised that, forever, I was going to be judged upon having scars and diagnosis and that this midwife won’t be the last person to think I was a danger to my child. I place part of the blame for why I failed with breastfeeding at that midwife’s feet. After that, I was worried about showing any sort of annoyance or impatience in case they thought I was mad and called the perinatal team on me again. And ultimately, I did fail. I was with the midwives postnatally for 4 weeks and on the third, getting help every time but not cracking it, the baby hungry and me exhausted, and sick, sick, sick of being touched, I said, enough. Stop. I had only intermittently managed it with him and was expressing every hour. I’d had it. ¬†I still feel like an utter failure for it, I still grieve for not breastfeeding, but I was beginning to dread every time he woke up. It hasn’t affected my bond with at all- I don’t think I could be more bonded with him if I put him back in my uterus. I adore him.

But me and baby both infection free meant we were discharged later that day, hooray! We played him this and both cried:

Now

Robert’s brother drove us home- it was a full moon that night.

So, eleven weeks in and I’m good. I’m still trying to make my peace with failing to breastfeed, but he’s thriving, which helps. He’s amazing- I’ve become one of those boring bastards who Facebooks their child’s every fart, but they are such lovely farts. He’s a smiley, happy, beautiful little thing.

(Despite having to attend 2 funerals before he’s even 2 months old- the first of my granny, the second of Robert’s. From 3 great-grannies to 1, within 2 weeks).

Mentally, I’m okay. I’ve been having a bit of resurgence of my anxiety. ¬†I worry about things happening to him and get some frightening intrusive thoughts. My death anxiety has come back, because a baby makes you even more acutely aware of your own mortality than before. I’m coping with it, though. I’m struggling a lot with my medication and wish I was off it but my team don’t support that in the slightest right now, and I’m worried about doing anything, “wrong”. Robert does all the night feeds, as I’m too drowsy. I did try, and dropped the bottle, and him. I feel quite useless sometimes, but coming off it will entail brutal insomnia so I guess now isn’t the right time. I see my perinatal nurse every fortnight and she’s been hugely encouraging and supportive. I’m glad she’s been there. The midwives who were with me pre, during and postnatally were also amazing, and I’m making them a nice card (because I’m 5).

And c section recovery wasn’t too bad. Pain and stiffness and weird bladder numbness but mostly fine now.

I have a whole ‘nother blog about parenthood, so I’ll end this one now at- fuck me, 4500 words! I bet your screenreader is steaming. Here’s some cute baby pics as a reward for sticking with it!

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Today!

Today!

Today!

Today!

Today!

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