PND: A Fiction

Although this blog entry uses some examples from my personal experience I just wanted to let any readers (hello) know that it is mostly a work of fiction with a bit of pop culture melodrama thrown in.  I had PND for the first 7 or so months but am now off my medication (under the advice of a doctor) and feeling a lot more myself. I have had a few messages from kind friends with support but also letting me know that I'm not alone.  This entry isn't meant to be upsetting. 

I remember the health visitor dutifully mentioning post-natal depression during the first antenatal check. I shrugged it off.  After having bouts of depression during my adolescence I was determined not to let it get its grubby mits on motherhood.  I'd been through enough rounds of cognitive behavioural therapy to spot the warning signs.  I was 'aware'.

'Any history of mental illness?' my midwife with the Pat Butcher makeup asked.  That is not meant as an insult. I really liked her a lot. Pale blue eye-shadow carefully and expertly marked her lids all the way upto the thin, arched eyebrows.  Her voice didn't match.  She had the gentle sensible lull of the woman from Peep Show with the brown eyes. Olivia Coleman.

I was truthful and reeled out the usual spiel of it happening a few years ago during the hazy 'teenage years' as if that made it seem more distant; the relegation to 'teenage years' I hoped insinuated short lived rebellion as if it was some undesirable ex boyfriend corrupting me.  A relationship never to be repeated. 

My Olivia/Pat amalgamation scribbled something in my medical notes.  I'd check what it was later. 
'Can you tell me a bit more?' She smiled apologetically.  I threw in the savvy buzz word 'self harm' just to be done with it.  Her eyes were still on me, expecting more.  No point drudging it up.  It was dead. Leave it.  After what felt like a millennia she smiled again, rubbed the nail on her thumb and said 'Because of your past experience with depression it increases the chance of you  getting post-natal depression.   But of course, it isn't a given!'
Exchange over.  She smiled sweetly and asked me my blood type.  A negative.  I think. 

Depression has affected me on and off during adolescence; rearing its ugly head during the start of secondary school before submerging itself and resurfacing during GCSE's and the illness of my dad.  It came and went during periods of teenage heartbreak and those dramatic but inevitable arguments with friends but it was far easier to write it off as a phase or even better, to belittle it as a teenage angst thing. 

The pregnancy went surprisingly well despite spending the majority of the time googling any uncomfortable symptoms and convincing myself the baby was going to die. At 12 weeks the threat of miscarriage is miniscule, another 12 weeks and if baby decided to pop out for a hidey-hi then it would be considered 'viable'. One of those defiant, amazing 'premie babies' that refuse to give up and go on to live normal lives, get married and drive a car to and from work.  32 weeks in my head was deemed, 'pretty much born already'. 

My point is that during my pregnancy I never remember getting that warm, mellow slightly smug feeling that some women just seem to radiate.  I became obsessed with readying myself for a health professional to tell me my baby was dead.  I was fortunate enough to be met with welcome answers such as 'healthy heartbeat' and 'good weight gain' but every scan seemed like an escaped opportunity for my heart to be irrevocably broken. Trapped by these painful thoughts and what at times felt like premonitions I was unable to tell anyone because that would jinx it and my baby would die. Everyday chores began to be regarded as obstacles to be completed to the best of my ability; or else.  If I didn't hang my clothes in the right way then my baby would die, if I folded up the bathroom towels in a shoddy way; dead baby, if I didn't close my underwear drawer properly.. my baby dead. You get the jist.  I have no idea why the life or death of my baby was dictated by my laundry but it was.  You'd think that this would flash up warning signs, maybe something akin to 'what the fuck is wrong with you..?' At the time it didn't seem exactly normal; but these rituals were private and I couldn't risk stopping them.  The thought of having any type of depression once baby was here terrified me.  I can fuck up my GCSEs, I can fuck up a doomed relationship, I can fuck up a friendship that would have faded out but I can't fuck up motherhood. I cannot fail at this.  This is it.

The lights from the studio shine into my eyes as I stare mesmerised by the sea of faces in front of me.  All expectant, close-mouthed and waiting for me to crumble. And so it begins.

What kind of mother would abandon her own daughter?' 
We didn't actually know where you'd be a boy or girl.  Your father argued that it would be one of the few unadulterated surprises left in life. I sighed, feigning disappointment but was secretly pleased that he held such strong views that I knew I could not backtrack out of.

I turn to my right, your long hair dangled protectively around you.  Shielding one side of your face.  I could tell you were trying to contain a cry because your shoulders shook.  When the midwife whisked you away from us so suddenly without saying a word.  I couldn't breathe.  I looked at your father.  Being firm and forthright wouldn't help now.  A different midwife, maybe a student returned after what felt like a lifetime to tell us that your shoulders were wide and combined with my efforts you got stuck.  Everything became nothing.  The student panicked and came over to the bed words muddling together.  Key ones standing out like sunshine beams. 'Fine, Back, Soon. Good pair. Haha. Of lungs'.  I breathed and looked at your father, smiling.

You finally look at me, hold my gaze for a second, snort and then turn away. Choked. The talk show host still standing tall, puts his hand on your shoulder; you look up at him.  The perfect camera angle to show a neglected girl seeking comfort and guidance from the Father of ITV and ITV2 Daytime. It was perfect.

Sitting in the headmaster's office I begin to feel edgy and run my thumb along the edge of my handbag.  I panic when he tells me that you are perceived as 'closed off' and 'being uncomfortable during social situations'.  I shudder. Suddenly the word 'autism' is suggested.  A few weeks later you are forever entwined with the label 'Asperger's Syndrome'.  I try to hug you after another of my 'down days' and you wince. I cling to the tagline 'Aspergers Syndrome' like a snail clings onto its shell.  It wasn't my fault.

I detect a glint in his eye as he takes in your vulnerability, lapping it up.  'You've got a beautiful kid'.  He tears his eyes from you back to me.  Briefly I am thankful.  He removes his hand from your shoulder and walks slowly towards me, 'She's got her head screwed on right. No thanks to you'.  He narrows his eyes.  I look at my palms nestled on my lap and take deep, long breaths. Faint but entirely recognisable scars on my wrist bounce back at me.  I turn my hands over.  'Not always' I whisper.

The talk show host looks visibly confused.  A cough emits from the audience of faces. Garett growls into his mouthpiece 'Fucking sort it'. He can sort it.  He was born to do this.  Fuck Garett and fuck every scumbag watching this show.  They should be at work.  He touches his earpiece and turns to the audience scoffing a laugh and raises his killer eyebrows.   The audience titter alongside, comforted at last by someone who truly gets them.  Someone who says it like it is.  One of them. 

It's all under control now; I've told your school and the health visitor that I am feeling much better and it won't happen again.  I slipped up.  This time I shouted at you to give me peace otherwise I would kill myself.  You were eight, maybe nine.  Your eyes went wide and your bottom lip started to wobble.  I couldn't stand it, the crying anymore.  I rang your father.  He couldn't leave now. They had jobs to get out for a client and it had to be done today.  Ever the pragmatist he suggested going to the park to let off some steam and added that you'd probably appreciate a trip to the local fastfood chain.  Chicken nuggets don't work on you anymore. I agreed to the plan just to satisfy him and put the phone down.  Just you and me now.

'So you agree that you could have done more?' a voice niggles at me from nowhere.  He saunters into view.  'I mean, to be honest love, we've all been in a bad place... physically..spiritually..emotionally..mentally, but, believe me when I tell you this; I've been there, I've fought my demons and if I can do it so can you.  Don't do it for her or him or them. Not even for me.  Do it. For You'. 

Someone, somewhere starts to clap and it joins into a crescendo of hands smacking together like an army of seals. He crouches down in front of me and I look into his blue eyes. I am barely past what was left of his crow's feet before he motions the audience to cease.  He turns back to me and smiles, one that could easily be misconstrued as knowing and wise, the kind of smile elicited from a man who has 'emotional baggage' but has overcome it, against all the odds.  But, I can see it for what it is; satisfaction.  He kneels in front of me and everything sounds slow and drawn out 'But unlike you, I would have walked through burning deserts and hot coal just to see my kids.  I would have made it my life's work'. 

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.  It's too late.  He walks away with his back turned with the confidence of a man that knew without a doubt that the shell that he had left behind on the chair poses no threat; whatsoever.  The camera stops rolling and the door slams shut.