Helpless. Hopeless. Useless.
I was exhausted. I’d gone back to work when Leo was just 8 weeks old. My business partner at the time had called me while we were on a family weekend away in Hunter Valley with my inlaws and squealed at me.
“Maternity leave’s over, darl! Time to get back to work!” I died a little death that day.
Leo wasn’t sleeping for more than 30 minutes at one time during the day, and I was breastfeeding on demand at night. I was so sleep-deprived, I was delirious.
My mum had been in town for the first six weeks, which had been a great help. Meals were cooked, laundry was done, and I had cuddles and chats a plenty. I had my in-laws in town for a month, too, and they helped in their own way, but in others just added to my stress and self-doubt as they hovered, wanting to help but not wanting to overstep the invisible boundaries and ‘in-law laws’ of engagement.
I’d had a breastfeeding nurse to help me nail the feeding thing, so eventually I’d gotten that down, but the sleep thing was unravelling me. I would put him down for an afternoon nap, knowing that in twenty minutes he would be crying. I would put ear plugs in to block out the noise so I could get some sleep; I hated myself, but I couldn’t stay awake! The sleep deprivation was killing me.
That, on top of performing at night when I went back to work.
I was a wreck.
When he was 4 months old, I enrolled in Karitane on the advice of my GP. Karitane Nurses is an independent nursing service that deal specifically with babies’ sleep patterns. I managed to get on the programme, which involved going to their residential facility with Leo for four days and nights; this allowed them to observe his sleeping and feeding patterns, and it gives new mothers some much-needed support in both areas.
It was a worthwhile experience. Whilst we didn’t nail the daysleeps (he only ever napped), at the end of the four days, we had managed to get him sleeping through the night, which, the nurses reminded me, was the nirvana of baby sleep goals. According to them, I’d hit the jackpot.
I should have gone home happy.
But this euphoric baby bliss I was supposed to be feeling still eluded me.
I became paranoid about leaving Leo with anyone else.
A day came a couple of weeks later when, with a close girlfriend, I was sharing how I was feeling. I confided in her: “I’m afraid of leaving Leo alone with Andy.”
“That’s not normal, babe.”
I knew it wasn’t. And I didn’t want it to be that way, but the joy had been sucked out of me. I had no confidence in me; I had no confidence in Andy. I was terrified. I was regretting that I’d ever done this. I felt like I was being punished for being selfish enough to ever even want a child and ever think that I could be good at it. It was karma. I’d been a bitch by demanding to be allowed to have a baby, and now, being tormented by motherhood would be the price I would have to pay.
A week later, I was sitting with my GP.
“Have you had thoughts about harming Leo?” She was asking the tough questions.
“Not seriously,” I replied.
My thoughts went back to a night when, at 3 a.m., I hadn’t been able to settle him and, in my desperation, I had asked Andy if he thought other new parents sometimes contemplated flushing crying babies down the toilet.
“Have you had thoughts about harming yourself?” my GP asked.
“Hmmmm, that’d be yes,” I admitted.
I did a quick mental audit of wishing I could do away with myself a couple of times, this being thwarted by a deep desire to live a full and happy life.
“But I don’t want to,” I hastily added. “I want to be happy. I want to enjoy being a mum!”
This last statement had been uttered as a plaintive wail through snot and tears.
That day, I was diagnosed with acute Postnatal Depression, and after lengthy consultation and many tissues, I was prescribed anti-depressants and referred to a psychologist.
Five days later, the clouds lifted. Five days. I kid you not, that was how quickly the landscape changed for me.
I looked at my baby, and where previously I had seen something that filled me with fear and dread, I felt joy, excitement, and anticipation. I looked at my husband, and where previously I had seen a person I was disconnected from, who I couldn’t trust with Leo, I now saw the father of my child, a man I loved so much, who was doing his absolute best to look after his new family.
I was still tired and sleep-deprived, and I looked like crap, but I was okay with that. It felt like it was a natural side effect of being a new parent, but not something that could crush me like it had been trying to do before.
I wasn’t high, but compared to where I had been, it kind of felt like it. I was just… happy. I finally believed I had much to be happy about.
And I did.
No more helpless, hopeless, useless.
I found joy in things again. I gained confidence in my ability to parent. I started this treatment when Leo was about 4 ½ months old, and continued on the medication for 12 months, at which time I weaned off them steadily. It was the saving of me.
But it wasn’t all doom and gloom.
After a rocky beginning, Leo and I had our start in life together, and whilst I can’t say it’s all been smooth sailing, my intentions were clear and have always remained so. I love being his Mum. It is the greatest honour and privilege to have stewardship over a life. A responsibility I have never taken lightly, and one that will continue for my lifetime.
Go Back and Fetch It
There is an African term I want to tell you about: Sankofa. It translates to “Go back and fetch it.” Different from the notion of dwelling on or wallowing in the past, it speaks to the value of revisiting our past in order to collect things that will help you build a successful future. It is symbolized by a bird craning its neck behind it to cradle a precious egg.
I’m pretty big on symbology, and this really resonates with me.
At the time my marriage ended, I was 47 years old. Surely, I’d learned some stuff of value and worth in all my years traipsing around the world, which I could draw on to help me build a brighter, bigger, badass future. I was a mum, for starters, and whilst I’d had a pretty rocky start, I reckoned I was doing okay in that department. So, I did a ‘Sankofa’ on myself and dared to look back. In other words, I did an audit of all of my employment (and life) experiences. The good, the bad, and the ridiculous.
My CV as it looked then is just below for your viewing pleasure. (This is abridged by the way – it would make for another book if I laid it out in detail! … Hmmm. Note to self.)
The 70s
Age 13 First J.O.B. Hot Bread Shop Assistant (really good at eating cream buns in less than ten seconds before getting sprung by the boss, and scraping hardened pink icing off glass cabinets)
Age 14-15 McDonalds – Chicken and Fish Girl, then Shakes and Front Counter ‘Team Assistant’ (unofficial record holder of the longest ten minute break – I got to an hour and seven minutes AND got away with