On Post Natal Depression (PND)

6 years after our first child was born, our second one arrived by C-section. Our miracle IVF / ICSI baby was finally here. He was perfect and our family was finally complete. The tears, dreams, broken hearts, disappointments, frustrations, hopes and many many prayers that characterised those intervening years could at last be laid down (well not the prayers; those will always continue). Our eldest prayed regularly for 3 years for a sibling. It was both heartwarming and heartbreaking to watch a 3 yr old learn about persistence in prayer and have to discuss why God, seemingly, answers some prayers and not others.

And so here he was. Our much wanted, hugely loved, long awaited second baby. He was an absolute joy. He ate and slept well; we really couldn’t have asked for more. We had an amazing post natal doula, Gillie who blessed us beyond words. She schlepped over from West London through hideous rush hour traffic, to get to me early. She looked after me and our baby, cooked us incredible meals, helped with our eldest after school and so much more. Gillie is wise, caring, kind, discerning, utterly hilarious and compassionate. She shared some of her own experiences of motherhood, passing on some valuable lessons and I loved spending time with her.

After a few months she thought the time was right to move on. The days were long and the traffic too much. I totally understood. But I panicked and didn’t want to let her go. I felt deeply unsettled, my stomach lurched and my heart started racing. That should have been my first clue that all wasn’t well but I thought it was normal. I had gotten so used Gillie’s company and her help so I felt it was just me being selfish, and guilt made its appearance. We agreed reduced hours and whilst hugely comforting, I was already dreading the day the inevitable would happen. One day she would have to leave. And she did.

The ensuing months passed in a haze of tiredness and busy-ness. We lived off pasta & pesto, a stark contrast to the Gillie months, and regularly ran out of bread, milk and other basics. I just couldn’t keep on top of it. I was finding life so hard, parenting seemed impossible, nothing I did was right, I reacted badly to everything, I lost interest in life, everything was my fault and I was making the family miserable.

I remember I used to sleep and cry a lot (in secret) and in February 2013 my world came crashing down. Our eldest was just shy of 7 and our youngest had just turned 1. It was 10 pm on Sunday night and I was lying on my bed, crying in a darkened room. How come I couldn't do this? Why wasn't I happy? Wasn't this what we'd longed for for so many years? None of it made sense. How come other mums could cope with more children (some even had pets!) and I could barely function? Clearly I was rubbish at motherhood. Not cut out for this. Obviously I'm in the wrong job and who knows what the Lord was doing when He gave us this second baby. I felt utterly wretched and truly believed they would all be better off without me in their lives. They deserved better. My husband deserved a proper wife and the boys a proper mother. There was only one way out of this nightmare.

We were due to go skiing a week later and I already knew that only three people would be going on holiday, not four. In my head, I had written them each a letter explaining why I couldn't go on and apologising for letting them down. I assured them their life would be infinitely better without me in it, that daddy would find a much better person to be with and their new mummy would be amazing. I was then going to go downstairs, tell my husband I was off to buy milk, bread etc but instead go the train station.

And wait for the next train.

And step in front of it.

I was going to do it properly this time. I'd 'failed' at suicide twice before (long before we were ever married) and I wasn't going to get it wrong this time.

In a rare moment of clarity, I realised there was something very very wrong. I was scared at how close I came again to ending it all and in the following moments, secretly, acknowledged I needed help. I then silently cried myself to sleep so as not to draw attention to myself when my husband came to bed, and clung to what shreds of faith I had left, as I had done so many times before.

In the morning I phoned the surgery and two weeks later I was diagnosed with delayed onset PND. I was told it's very common to struggle when you have multiple children under five but I only had one under five. Cue more guilt. Back I went on fluoextine, but I reacted badly. Tried another, reacted badly. Great, now I'm old and reacting against drugs that used to work for me. Cue more self loathing. Finally one type of medication worked.

The following months were still hard. I felt very low. I would still need to sleep a lot; how much was the side effects of the meds and how much was the depression was hard to tell. I saw no point in going out. Didn't want to go for walks, play games, engage with anything or anyone. I could do little more than get through the day really. My husband was exhausted having to work all day and then pick up the pieces when he got home plus more or less take over completely at the weekends. No rest for him. He just knew I wasn't well but didn't understand. How could he? I couldn't communicate what was going on inside of me. I didn't have the words. An impenetrable wall had set itself up between us and we couldn't see over the top nor speak through it. I felt achingly guilty and hated myself for what I was putting him and the boys through.

In all of this, I could talk to very very few people about how I felt. The shame was immense. The distinct feeling that my faith should be enough, that prayer should suffice was enough to make me feel condemned. Something else to add to my never-ending list of failures. In the midst of that darkness, however, deep down, in the innermost part of my being I knew I wasn't alone. Jesus was right there by my side and somehow He was going to pull me through this and out the other side. I just had to hang on in there. One day at a time.

One small whispered prayer at a time.

It took about a year for me to be able to tell someone the truth about what was going on. A dear friend, Tessa who runs parenting courses, walked some of the journey with me generously meeting up over the course of several months and was just there for me. She had faith in and for me, when I had none. Prayed for me, when I couldn't. She was, kind, totally accepting and safe. That season did more to heal my soul than anything else I can remember. I could be me. I could say how things really were and not pretend. I could articulate some very difficult feelings about how motherhood felt without the judgment that I feared from most other people.

Over the next couple of years, the blackness seemed a little less black. I started going out again. Seeing people. I even laughed. My faith was strengthened and my hope slowly returned. Black turned to shades of grey and eventually I saw life in colour again. I found a new joy and purpose in my family. As an added bonus, I discovered two new hobbies which to this day are a part of my life - running and knitting. You've never met a less likely runner and I don't have a creative bone in my body...just goes to show. Three months after starting running I came off medication. You always hear people say exercise helps the mind but when you're in that dark pit, you can't hear it. However, the Lord provided a chink of light; a tiny window opened just at the time that someone uttered those words to me and I was able to give it a go.

More on running another time but for now, all I'll say is I have never looked back.

I am eternally grateful to my husband who never, visibly, faltered. Faithful, strong and long suffering. Patient beyond description. To Tessa who stood by me. But forever, to my heavenly Father who held me then, and forever will, in the palm of His hands and never let me go.

Note: If you have been affected by anything in this article, I would urge you to speak to your GP or someone else that you trust and reach out for help.