Saturday, August 27, 2011

Hesitation

Six months. Give or take. That's how long it took to convince me that I ought to at least try anti-depressant medication.

What was I afraid of?

Well. Small amounts of the drugs can pass into breast milk and I was worried about the effect these would have on my wee babby. (She was two months old when I was diagnosed with depression.) I later learnt that when the literature says 'small amounts', it really does mean that. According to the studies I've read, only a small proportion actually makes it through to breastmilk. And the baby's system is usually able to deal with that. At least, my baby coped. At introduction, her tummy was unsettled for about 48 hours. After that, I noticed no ill-effects during use, nor when I ceased breastfeeding her four months later, on her first birthday. I did nothing suddenly, and always followed the advice of my GP, maternal and child health nurse, and various other advisors with experience in the area of breastfeeding. [Southern Health  in Melbourne has a phone number you can call to discuss breastfeeding while on medication. Also in Australia, the National Prescribing Service is able to provide over-the-phone information for the cost of a local call.]

I can't give people advice on whether or not it is safe for them to breastfeed while on medication. But I can suggest that you get some good advice, from sources you trust, and find the best compromise for you and your family. And I can beg you not to be as stubborn as I was in thinking that breastfeeding and medication are mutually exclusive. The agonies I went through, thinking that it wasn't an option for me because I so badly wanted to breastfeed my baby, I would happily see others forgo.

Here we see, perhaps, a glimpse of how Post-Natal Depression (PND) is sometimes a little more complicated than some other forms of depression. Ante-Natal Depression (depression during pregnancy) is even more fraught as far as treatments are concerned. But that subject arises much, much later in my story.

What else stopped me from trying out 'happy pills'? Just this: the glib attitude I had that anti-depressants were just plain cheating. Honestly, sometimes I want to rewind and shake some sense into myself. Cheating?! Where did I ever get the idea that using a therapeutic tool was 'cheating', and that I had to tough it out with more 'natural' ways of getting through? Probably from that same place in deluded-brain-land that told me I should never feed my kids in the car, because the crumbs would make a mess.

The plain fact of the matter is, for the first six months of my depression I had no idea how dangerous a condition it can be. Things had to get a lot scarier for me to realise that.


Because I was sleep-deprived, and caring for two kids under two years, I really couldn't think very clearly at all. I didn't realise that the depression was also contributing to the tiredness and the lack of clarity.

But the day I drove home from the library with the girls in the back of the car, and thought about driving in front of a train - that was the day I realised the danger. I was so tired. So despairing. I had tried, like a good mummy, to take the girls to the library and borrow some books. It had been an unmitigated disaster. There were queues, fines, no money to pay them, a screaming baby leaking poo in the pram, a toddler throwing such a tantrum that I was physically struggling to strap her into her seat. It still stands out as The Worst Outing in My History of Motherhood, five years later. Driving home, I just wanted all the struggle and humiliation to end. I did not want to be responsible for these children. I felt that I could not. I was not doing them any good. They were not doing me any good. I wanted to not be here any more. I wanted to drive, very fast, into that train, right there. And my foot actually hesitated over the brake pedal before applying it.

That was my first deathly thought. Not my last. There are many things that have kept me from acting out any of these thoughts. My kids are three of them, and my husband is another. God has held me. Pulled me back. Kept me safe.

Anti-depressants have been a part of that. It took me a few weeks to adjust. There were minor side-effects (an upset stomach, tooth-grinding - but only for the first two days or so). It took the best part of a month to start feeling the effects. But they built steadily after that, reaching full efficacy a couple of months into treatment. I can say, without exaggeration, that anti-depressant medication has made the biggest difference in my treatment. I am embarrassed about that, still. I would like to say that something less clinical was my 'breakthrough'. But I cannot. Biggest difference. Which leads me to think that my depression is heavily brain-chemistry-related.

I'm one of the blessed ones, for whom medication worked, with few side-effects. First time around, my GP hit the nail on the head and prescribed a drug that worked well for me. It just happened that way. I'm glad it did, because having waited six months to start that sort of treatment, I was fairly desperate for something to make the difference. I'd had all sorts of fears lurking around in my head; what if anti-depressants don't do anything? What if they make things worse? (Some anti-depressants can make things worse initially, before they get better.) Have I been hanging out all this time only to find out that drugs don't really make much difference, that this is as good as it's going to get?

Time. You need to take time to get your medication right, with the help of the prescribing doctor. You need to give it time to work. If you manage to get it right, it will make such a difference.

So that's how my journey-on-anties began. And that, too is ongoing.

I'm not cheating. I'm living.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Now, Where Was I?

O yes, stuck in the mud.

Having got a little distracted of late, I thought I'd get back to my own story.

So, I had sorted out my counselling. That took a while, but was worth getting right. Then there was the referral to the PND support group. The best thing about that group was the free childcare. Which sounds bizarre. Ok, well it wasn't the best thing. But it was the easiest. I really appreciated the fact that they thought of that. It made it possible for so many of us to attend, when we otherwise would have been completely distracted looking after very young babies/children. Because we really needed to be able to concentrate. This group ran for eight weeks. There were about ten women, and their children. We met at a local community centre, once a week. Two women organised the group; a social worker and a psychologist. They were warm and personable women, but they also knew how to facilitate a group with perspicacity. (I love that word.) They needed to be able to rein people in when they began to use the sessions for personal counselling. (Believe me, we could tell who was seeing a counsellor and who was not.) They also needed to be able to draw people out (the subject matter didn't always lend itself to immediate gut-spilling), and to keep us to our allotted time. I can imagine groups like this having the potential to be an utter disaster. This group was not. I learnt a lot about myself, and about PND.

At the first group session, we did the predictable: go around the circle, introduce yourself, tell your story. For all of us, I'm sure, that was daunting. But I found it particularly hard because my story didn't sound very bad. That probably indicates a terribly competitive streak in me. But honestly, what the others had to deal with sounded much worse than my life, even though I was struggling. I very nearly went straight home after the first few stories. Awful home situations, dud partners, traumatic birth stories, colicky babies, unhelpful in-laws, downright destructive or completely absent support networks. Classic PND cases.

And there was me. Stable home, awesome (and observant) husband. Good birth stories, 'normal' babies, helpful family, good friends. What was I doing there?

Well, I did match some criteria. Here is a list of 'risk factors' for PND that Beyond Blue has posted:

  • a past history of depression and/or anxiety
  • a stressful pregnancy
  • depression during the current pregnancy
  • a family history of mental disorders
  • experiencing severe 'baby blues'
  • a prolonged labour and/or delivery complications
  • problems with the baby's health
  • difficulty breastfeeding.
  • a lack of practical, financial and/or emotional support
  • past history of abuse
  • difficulties in close relationships
  • being a single parent
  • having an unsettled baby (i.e. difficulties with feeding and sleeping)
  • having unrealistic expectations about motherhood including:
    • mothers bond with their babies straight away
    • mothers know instinctively what to do
    • motherhood is a time of joy
  • moving house
  • making work adjustments (e.g. stopping or re-starting work).
  • sleep deprivation


I put that last one in underlined and bold. Because it's just about impossible to overestimate the effect of sleep deprivation. (It has oft been mentioned to me that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture.)

I was not an extremely convincing match-up, though. You can imagine why self-doubt, and doubt-of-diagnosis might occur. Not being on medication at that point also made me feel a bit of a 'sham'; if the other women in the group were feeling this bad ON the meds, how bad were they feeling OFF their medication?!

At a certain point, I actually needed to be away from other sufferers of PND. I naturally tend to 'take on' others' pain and anguish, and I had my own to deal with at that point; I couldn't absorb any more. So, when the group finished, I didn't really keep in touch with the others.

A few years later I bumped into a couple of them. One was doing really well. She had worked very, very hard on her strategies to combat the effects of depression. She was off her medication and enjoying being a mum. I was so happy for her. The other was not doing so well. She remained pretty much where she had been in 2005: reliant on medication alone (refusing counselling), struggling to do too much (working as well as trying to complete post-graduate studies), with too little help from an unsupportive husband. It was really hard to watch.

I also caught up with one of the group facilitators in 2009, when I was pregnant with my third bub. She and I set up a Mental Wellness display at a local neighbourhood centre, with information for anyone who might need it. Not just stuff that was available online, either. We tried to make it as local in focus as possible. Tangible help close by. We ran a briefing session so that the volunteers at the centre would be able to point people in the right directions, if they needed help. I really have no idea if it was ever useful to anyone! But it was a tough time in my life, and it was an act of defiance against depression to make the effort to do that display.

The choices we make, the choices that other people support us in, affect our minds, our bodies, our hearts.

I struggled on, fought hard, for six months. Counselling, journaling, the PND group, weekly childcare spots for my eldest (then aged two). These all helped. But then my eldest began to give up her daytime nap, and the added exhaustion sent me down deeper. By this time I had realised how bad things were for me, and I twigged that other people's apparently more difficult realities did not lessen my own struggles.

With Christmas interstate coming up, I knew I needed some extra help. I went back to my GP and asked for anti-depressants.



Sunday, August 14, 2011

Jonquils for Pat

Someone I didn't know very well died last week. She was important to me. She was not famous. But she was faithful, generous, and beautiful. She was Pat.

Decades ago, Pat went to a Billy Graham crusade, and became a Christian.* From the time that Pat decided to follow Jesus, she never gave up doing so. She joined a church. It happens to be the same one you will find me in fairly frequently. Despite difficulties with her health, and her advancing years, Pat was extremely faithful and attentive to that church. She was still attending up until a few weeks ago, at the age of ninety. When I say attentive, I mean to play on the word. Because, while Pat attended church regularly, she was also attentive to the needs of the people she came into contact with through that place.

I didn't know this until today: Pat was a prayer warrior. She prayed often, faithfully. She prayed for people's babies when they were born. She prayed for the children. She prayed for any need that she knew that anyone had. For decades. And because of that she prayed for me, and for my brother.

I'm new in town. I moved here in January. But I've lived here before. My parents and I lived here when I was a toddler. We happened to attend the same church that I've been talking about. And my brother was born here. Pat was here then. I find it staggering, really. Not just that someone would go to the same church for half their life. But that someone would so selflessly, quietly pray for so many people.

Years ago, Pat started praying for more men. Not for herself (!) If you've ever been in an Anglican church, you'll know that the common demographic doesn't include as many men as the general population. Also, most men tend to be older. Pat decided that she would pray for more young men to be involved at her church. She knew how brilliant men's contributions can be - to friendships, acquaintance-ships, families. So she prayed. Looking around the chairs this morning (I was going to say pews, but we've modernised), I could see at a glance how God had answered Pat's prayers in this matter. Lots of lads. Masses of men. Great gobs of grandfather-figures. Awesome.

My brother, who would've been one of the Pat-prayed-for babies, is also an awesome man. I'm not crediting Pat entirely with that. I'm just saying.

Tuesday will see our church filled with people celebrating Pat's life. Ninety years of being gorgeous. One of her last requests was for flowers, especially yellow ones. So tomorrow I'm going to raid my garden of every last daffodil and jonquil I can find. I'm also going to prune my just-flowering magnolia. Take down a boot-full of blooms for Pat.

No more pain for Pat. Just meeting her saviour and hearing, "Well done, good and faithful servant".


Monday, August 8, 2011

The Things We Can't Speak Of

Shame can stop us from talking about things. So can guilt. For people like me, who like to talk about almost everything, this can feel awful. Others wouldn't dream of speaking about things close to their hearts, or buried down deep. Shame is not the same as guilt. [A very good book - John Piper's Battling Unbelief - helped me understand the difference.] Misplaced shame is feeling bad about something when we are not actually at fault. Depression is a prime example. I know I initially felt ashamed to be diagnosed with it.

I've never been one to shy away from talking...about pretty much anything. I'm a legend at oversharing, faux pas, feet-in-my-mouth, socially awkward conversations. Sex? Politics? Religion? Yes, I'll talk about all three, at once if you like, with people I have only just met. Well, I'm not quite that bad. But I'm close to it.

I've been upfront about my depression from the time I came to terms with my diagnosis. (I distinctly remember not being able to ring my parents when it first became a possibility that I had Post-Natal Depression (PND). Instead I sent a text message calling it 'mild PND'. Bollocks. It wasn't mild. But I didn't want to scare them, and I didn't want to be 'weak'.) Once I became sure of the diagnosis, and understood it a bit better, I was unsurprised to hear that many people don't talk about their depression. That was red-rag-to-a-bull for me, and I promptly decided I wasn't going to hide it, minimise it, shy away from talking about it. This presented other issues of course. I do need to be a little bit careful who I unburden myself to. Even writing this blog gives me pause at times. Because depression can be depressing! And awkward. Mental illnesses in general are less well understood by the general populace (as compared with physical conditions). They are more confusing for sufferers too. Because mental illnesses change perception, even of themselves.

I'm emerging from the 'mud' these days. I have a bit more experience, and a bit more distance, and consequently clarity. That's why I can write about it. If you had asked me to write this while I was in the thick of it, you would not have wanted to read it. I kept journals. Their raw contents are not fit for publication. I do intend to share some contents. But not yet. To be honest, they are scary to read. They are not me. They are another me.

Which brings us right back to the quandary of sharing. What to share, how to do it, and with whom? I don't have all the answers. I do know that talking about depression is important. And I do know that others have found it helpful to read about it or to talk about it with fellow sufferers.

There is a growing feeling that the media also needs to play a part in removing the stigma of mental illness. There is a chance that media laws may soon change to allow suicides to be reported as such. Currently, the media refrains from reporting suicide, ostensibly for fear that it will encourage more people to attempt it. But this silence is not actually helping. Suicide is still the leading cause of death for young men in Australia.

A new men's mental health campaign has recently started up here (http://softenthefckup.com.au/). I'm still a fence-sitter about its approach (it won't suit many men). But I applaud the message: men need to unburden themselves of stress and despair rather than bottling it up until they can no longer stand it.

I've been reading a very graphic, moving blog lately which chronicles one young Aussie mum's story. Lori's husband committed suicide after suffering a violent psychosis and she is left with their two very young children. She is an advocate of talking. If you are feeling brave, her blog is here. It is not for the faint-hearted. This woman has guts. What she has been through is hideous, and I'm amazed that she can write about it. But she is helping others by doing so. Her message is: speak.

So I do. So we should. Obviously not out of our experience-zone, but definitely, at times, out of our comfort zones. Because when it comes to depression, there is no sense in blaming, or feeling shame. It is what it is. It is complex, and different for everyone, and it is personal. But recovery can be a community effort. And it starts with knowledge, awareness, and talking.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Nothing Personal

"Taking care of your personal appearance can make you feel better about yourself, give you more confidence...a spring in your step, a readiness for anything." Women's magazines (yes, I am going to criticise them in general, even though it is a cheap shot), advice from advertising, marketing, that silly shallow voice in your head. If you just dress nicely and put on a bit of makeup, you'll feel better. Hands up if you've heard it all before.

Well, my hand is thrust skyward like a teacher's pet's. And sometimes, this advice is true. Feel better, look better; look better, feel better. The bone of contention today is this: when you become a mumma, your appearance is not personal anymore. For a while, at least.

My personal appearance? I do beg your pardon, but I'm left barely a moment to myself to even visit the toilet, let alone have a shower, dress in anything resembling an 'outfit', or do any cosmetic-waving whatsoever. Also, these things cost money. Having given up paid work to herd cats raise kids, I don't have quite enough to splash around on this season's faux-minky-doo-blinky-whatsit. I do, however, have this charming (black) long-sleeved t-shirt with snot on it, which I would be quite happy to wear over my jeans that don't quite fit anymore, if I just give it a sponge touch-up. Go shopping? Well, thank you so very much for that sparklingly generous suggestion. Shall I go on a Saturday so that I don't have to drag two or three reluctant maningerers with me? (Yes I did make that word up: it's an amalgam of 'whingers' and 'malingerers', for those with an etymological bent.)

Ok. I'll stop it. I'm just stroppy today because my snotty almost-two-year-old will not nap, and my seven-year-old is home from school early (also snotty) The five-year-old better not get snotty or I'll have conniptions.

Sometimes, a mother's appearance is actually 'corporate' as opposed to 'personal'. Her man has loved her into a different shape. Her babies have changed her boobies, her toddlers have used her as a climbing-frame. Her older kids have run her a little bit ragged. So let her relax and dag-it-up for a season if she needs to. Soon, those charcoal bags under her eyes will be replaced with crinkles, and she'll be sporting a charcoal handbag instead. (O, gosh, no. Not 'sporting'. Erk.) Ok, she'll be carrying it, with a picnic-face on. (O, no, not 'picnic-face'. That chocolate bar add from a few years ago called the picnic bar 'ugly'; it makes her sound ugly instead of sunny-faced happy.) Ok. She will be looking ALL NICE and with SOMETHING NEW TO WEAR. (That will have to do.)

Right, the advicey-bit is here: if your friend/self/significant other is looking shabbier than usual, remember, in interior decorating: Shabby Chic is great.
"Shabby Chic is a form of interior design where furniture and furnishings are either chosen for their age and signs of wear and tear or new items are distressed to achieve the appearance of an antique. At the same time, a soft, minimalistic, and feminine feel is emphasized to differentiate it from regular vintage decor; hence the "chic" in the name." 
(Yes, I Wikied it. Four years of Uni and now most of the time I use Wikipedia and Google for research.) 


Note the key-words above: age, signs of wear and tear, distressed combined with soft, minimalistic, feminine, chic. And the most important word: chosen. Yes. Chosen. 


I now consider my changed-bits and tired-lines to be 'badges of honour', thanks to a smart suggestion from a friend a few years ago. I'd rather be chosen than selected, soft than hard, distressed than cosseted. If there is one thing I have learnt recently, it is that when things are easy, cooshy, I don't learn very much at all. 

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Looks Like I Hit the Gym...

Years (and years) ago, my brother and I (rather sadly) played a computer golfing game. Our shots would often hit the trees, roll into bunkers, or miss the fairway by half a lunar mile. There was a completely hilarious commentary kept up by two faceless american-accented men. Any time we would hit a tree, one would remark to the other, "Looks like he hit the tree, Jim." Exactly the same words, and tone, each time. We were in fits of hysterics the first few times it happened. So after a while we gave up on trying to sink the little ball in the hole. We just basically tried to whack it at the trees. So much juvenile fun.

This week, when I joined my local gym, I tweeted to my brother, "Looks like I hit the gym, Tree." He was bemused, and everyone else was most likely mystified or hurriedly clicking the 'Unfollow' button. [Ah, no. I followed another loony one.]

Exercise and I have been...estranged... for the last decade or so. Let us list, very quickly, the things that are responsible for this: year12-boyfriend-fiancee-husband-goodfood-studying-sedentaryjobs-threekids-depression-and-not-enough-partridges-or-pear-trees. Got that? I particularly like the way I managed to blame James four times (boyfriend-fiancee-husband-goodfood). No I don't. I hate it. The whole list of excuses annoys me. But the fact of the matter is, there are good reasons sometimes why we don't hit the gym. And sometimes it's because we're actually busy trying to sink a hole-in-one. Other worthy things often take our focus away from good habits.

The link between exercise and good mood has been made many times. Endorphins get bandied about a lot in conversation. For the last few years, during my most depressed times, I have seriously struggled not to hit people who have suggested that all I need is exercise and I'll feel very different. Depression not only disturbs your mood, but also your energy levels, your motivation, your thought-processes, your sleep, and your concentration.

Post-natally, there are also issues for those contemplating exercise. A weirdly-different body, possibly still recovering from major trauma (caesareans, internal injuries, tears), often breastfeeding (where-o-where to find time to be fitted for a good sports bar in size 14Double-Bazillion, or the suitcase of cash to pay for one? Can I get a bra for my other floppy bits too?), perhaps with continence issues, and so, so tired. When a walk doesn't feel like 'enough', people like me think if we can't do exercise 'properly' we won't do it at all. Add to that the predictable pressure of comparison to the strange breed of famous women who 'lose' their 'baby weight' and 'get their body back'. You end up with motivation in the negative. Yes, there are many women who are wonderful and manage to ignore all the pressure, who are not perfectionists and don't hold to the all-or-nothing imperative, and just get on with things. And there are many women who are wonderful, and falter.

I faltered. In some ways, I'm glad. I ate well, and that fuelled three years of breastfeeding (one for each child) very well. Many depressed people go off food and struggle to eat healthily. If I ever go off my food you will know that I'm at death's door. Food and I are good friends (except when I'm in the early stages of pregnancies, of course). Plus, food gives us mums the energy we need for this demanding job.

But exercise has been largely missing from my life. I am now convinced that it is also going to be an important part of my recovery process.

So, I have joined the gym. As a side note, this has coincided with a reduction in my medication. So far, so good. Brilliant, actually. Far from wanting to hit the people who suggest endorphins will help, I now want to high-five them. It's true. How annoying.

Of course, if you know someone is clinically depressed, it's not a good idea to go in all-guns-blazing and tell them exercise will create a smooth path to wellness. They might hit you.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Getting Interactive With It

I have been getting some amazing responses to these posts, mostly via email or facebook. That's fantastic, but if you want to add your comments to the blog, please do!. You can add comments anonymously if you like. This will help people who are reading, because then it's not just oakley-thoughts on the matter.

I am also keen to hear from other people who are suffering from depression, or who have experienced it in the past. If you fit into this category, please consider sending me an email [oakleythoughtso@gmail.com]. I promise to keep all details anonymous. Alternatively, you could write your thoughts anonymously as a comment below this post. I may then use your stories in a future blog-post. Any questions? email me or comment below.

Please also feel free to weigh in to the discussion even if you haven't had depression personally. 

Beyond Blue (Australia's National Depression Initiative) states: "Depression is one of the most common of all mental health problems. One in five people experience depression at some stage of their lives." I hardly need add - that's a lot of people. Australian Medical Association Queensland president Richard Kidd was quoted recently (July 5, 2011) in the Brisbane Times, saying that in Australia suicide is the biggest killer of those under the age of 25. So depression looms large on the Australian mental landscape. The more we are informed about it, the better equipped we are to survive it, to help others through it, to learn from it. 

Your turn.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Thinking Through Mud: Talking

Depression is hard to get a handle on. It's difficult enough for people who are living through it. It's even harder to understand if you've never had a chemical imbalance of the brain. I've lived with it for half a decade now, and I've learnt a lot. But there are still times when it amazes and humbles me; when I feel like a rookie. That's life in all its richness. 

The other thing that makes depressive illness a little difficult to understand is that it affects people so differently. And there is no true way to quantify it. Yes, there are surveys, and scores, and all that. But many practitioners in the field of mental health are wary of those, and so they are not always utilised. 

So it was with some trepidation that I made an appointment to see my GP. She was wonderful, and offered to put me straight onto anti-depressants. I was concerned on a number of fronts, and asked about other options. I argued that I wanted to continue breastfeeding, and that I didn't want the drugs to be anywhere near my baby. I was under-informed at this point, but my GP recognised a brick wall when she saw one. She referred me for some counselling [and later linked me up with a PND group called "Moving Forward"]. 

Counselling. I was actually quite looking forward to it. Having a chance to air my thoughts with a professional. I went to see one of the Maternity Support Workers who was based at the hospital where I had given birth. She was a former psychiatric nurse. Problem number one: I believe she had seen so many people in terrible psychological states that anyone who could string a sentence together was perceived by her to be 'fine'. She was, therefore, a minimiser. Lesson number one: it doesn't help to downplay the situation, to point out that it's 'not really all that bad'. That just makes a depressed person feel that they are being a malingerer, and should really just pull their socks up and get on with things. (The truth is that they actually can't. If they could 'shake it off' or 'snap out of it', don't you think they would?)

Problem number two: I just didn't like her. Now, I know that sounds petty, but it's actually a key factor in determining how successful counselling will be. Lesson number two: find a counsellor that you respect, and can easily talk to. You don't always need to agree. You don't have to feel an affinity for them as you would a friend. You do need to be able to spill your mind's inner workings. And you do need to be able to stomach what they might say. Some of what a good counsellor will say will be tremendously encouraging and affirming. Some of it will be tough to hear, and even harder to implement. But a good counsellor is paramount to good management of depression. I would go out on a limb and suggest that you cannot reach a good level of mental 'wellness' without some counselling, even if you have no significant traumas to re-hash. The reason I say this is that, especially during early parenthood, it is well nigh impossible to find the time to commit to thinking about all the dross you need to work through, let alone making any sense of it. 

Problem number three: my first counsellor was not all that sure I had depression. She cast doubt after doubt on the diagnosis, which left me feeling confused and even more angry. If it wasn't depression, what was it? Go down that thought-path for too long and all you're left with is the conclusion that there is something very wrong with you. This is a particularly common experience for depressed mothers: "I'm a terrible mum" is a regular self-accusation.

Lesson number three: high-functioning does not necessarily mean that everything is alright. People who have a high capacity to push through immense pain can really look fine, when inwardly they are far from it. Just as people have differing pain thresholds in the realm of physical pain, some people are better at holding things together in the arena of mental anguish. I might venture to add that this is particularly the case with mothers of small children. They are physically forced to attend to their children's needs. They must function. It takes a greater crisis to knock them flat. If they have a breakdown, they appear like a car driving along the road on a couple of blown-out tyres, rather than a smoking, stationery vehicle with its hazard lights blinking. 

Lesson number four: if you see someone struggling, it's quite possibly worse than it looks. Offer help. What is the worst that could happen? That you'll be knocked back? Well, then the ball is in their court. That you'll be asked to do too much? Well, then set some sensible boundaries around what you're willing to do. People - especially mothers of small kids - do need help, and don't like to ask for it. Accepting help is easier. And you know what the best thing is? Offering something specific. Handing over a lasagne is much more helpful than asking, "Is there anything I can do to help?" People who are struggling to survive depression have trouble thinking. It's just so much effort. For me, it was as though my mind was filled with mud. Thinking through this mud was slow, difficult, and required more effort sometimes than I could find the energy for. 

I was blessed, again, with a wonderful GP who took me seriously when I said the counsellor wasn't helpful. She referred me to a fantastic counsellor with a good deal of experience with female mental illness. She became an important helper in my recovery process. 

My final note today is an example of what NOT to look for in a counsellor. 



the story is ongoing


Monday, July 4, 2011

Thinking Through Mud, Part 2

How can you not notice you are depressed? It's fairly easy, for a time.

When you have two children under two, life is very, very tiring. All of the time. For the first year or so. When you're in the thick of that, you don't see the end. You don't know whether things will ever settle down again. The 'now' becomes your life, and you might just lose the ability to believe that things will ever change.

After the birth of my second daughter, I was on a complete high for two weeks. I didn't get the usual baby-blues. The labour and birth had gone quite well, really. My recovery was quick. The baby was gorgeous. We had bonded. That seemed to me to be a crucial indicator of how things were going. If you were going to get post-natal depression, you were going to be one of those mothers with a) a difficult baby, b) no support, c) a traumatic delivery to recover from, or d) an inability to form a bond with your baby. None of those boxes was ticked for me. I had: a) a fairly easy-going baby, b) very good support - my husband James took about 5 weeks off work, c) smooth delivery, and d) instantaneous bonding. Even the breastfeeding was going well. (And breastfeeding is NOT a piece of cake.)

I was, however, tired. I'd been mildly anaemic during the pregnancy, and also extremely nauseous. My beloved grandmother had also died very early in the pregnancy. I had had to telephone my parents, who were in Alaska at the time, to tell them. It was 4am their time. It was the most terrible phone call I have ever had to make. Although I went to the funeral, I think the grieving was somewhat muted; my mind and body were busy dealing with the next generation. I did miss my Nana terribly. I still do. But I was comforted by knowing that my lovely Dad had seen her before flying to Alaska, and had told her about the baby I was carrying.

And now that the baby was here, I was tired. Have I mentioned tired? And exhausted? Ok. So I was very tired.

One night my husband put his hands on my shoulders, hoping a hug might ease some of my burden of weariness. I jumped and shrugged him off with terrifying rapidity. It was an unconscious reaction, and one which shocked both of us. For James, it confirmed some suspicions. He brought me a large book, and opened it to the Post-Natal Depression pages. He gently said that he thought I might have PND. I looked at him blankly, furious at I-didn't-know-what. Then I determinedly read the pages he had referred to.

I had read these pages before. Kaz Cooke's KidWrangling is an amusing and enjoyable read. Like all well-prepared mothers, I had read the PND material so that I could be ready to spot any warning signs. But that had been months ago. Now, when I read the checklist, I cried.

Only two tears squeezed themselves out and landed on my cheeks. They didn't even have the momentum to roll downwards. They just stopped there in their tracks. Inside, it felt like I was sobbing. But nothing much was coming out. There was a dam wall of anger and confusion blocking it. James knew, though. The lack of protest on my part was disconcerting for him.

One of the things I'm grateful for is that Kaz Cooke's book had a wide range of possible symptoms of PND in it. It actually made me feel a bit better to realise that there could be something deeper going on than just being desperately tired all the time, and quite possibly a terrible person - or worse: a bad mother. Because, for me, the single biggest symptom of depression was anger. I don't mean hormonal grumpiness, either. I mean full-on rage. Mostly inside my head, but sometimes, dangerously, leaking out into my dealings with my beautiful daughters. And making me shrug off the love of my life.

to be continued...

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Thinking Through Mud, Part 1

What has happened to me is by no means uncommon. My story is not all that simple, although nobody's ever is. At least to me, it was nowhere near predictable. Maybe wiser people saw it coming. but no-one likes to cast doubt, or to wear the doom-sayer's mantle. So there was no real warning that I could hear buzzing on the airwaves.

I'm writing it. I hope it will help others. Sometimes we must learn by doing. At other times, we may dodge a bullet if someone has handed us a little piece of Kevlar just at the right time.

Backstory? Yes. There should be some. At the risk of skimping, I'm going to rush through this bit. I may come back to it later. Just picture me as an idealistic young woman for whom first pregnancy and early motherhood went fairly smoothly. Note the loving, supportive, actively-involved and fully-employed young lawyer who is my husband, standing just next to me. The cute little mini-version of him toddling around is our first daughter. We think she's fairly easy at this stage, because she sleeps fairly well at night. And isn't that what people talk about most?

We buy our first house, just as we embark on 'trying for' another baby. The day we move I don't feel very well. I'm dizzy. A few weeks later we realise we didn't have to try very hard for another baby. We are blessed.

The second pregnancy is nauseating. It is virtually impossible to describe how bad 'morning sickness' (VERY insulting name for it!) can be. You know that queasy feeling when you have gastro? Imagine that not really going away for months on end. That's some kind of approximation anyway.

But I cope. It's hard, because the one-year-old is demanding, and not at all good at daytime naps. (I'm very good at daytime naps. It's my gifting.) We live far away from family, although we have some very good friends. We get there.

I can tell you the exact moment it all began to unravel. I was at my Mums' Group. [Whatever bad press such groups have received, let me tell you that mine was a stellar bunch of completely wonderful, warm, genuine and real friends. We met for six years and still keep in touch.] Ok, so I was at Mums' Group having a cuppa. The toddlers (approaching two years of age) were playing nearby and I was breastfeeding my second daughter; she was a perfect little two-week old.

A friend of the host dropped in, and marvelled that I was 'out and about' by myself with two children under two, a couple of weeks after giving birth. I basked in this admiration. I considered myself a strong person, and able to cope with a lot. This was the kind of affirmation that sustained me, and to some extent contributed to my identity. Not good.

The friend asked about the labour - four and a half hours, I told her. "Yeah, Sal coughs them out!" someone said. I laughed, but a penny dropped. Perhaps my front - the one I wasn't actually aware of until that moment - worked so well that it even persuaded my friends that I was finding all of this easy. People were talking about labour being easy for me. I would concede to 'uncomplicated' and 'relatively short'. But NOT, emphatically NOT EASY.

Nor was having two kids. I'd always imagined that two wasn't many. But when my husband went back to work, I realised I was out-numbered. And that could be dangerous.

That very afternoon my toddler ran onto the road while I stood on the footpath helplessly holding my new baby. I was distraught, and overwhelmed suddenly with feelings of failure. The 'what-if's were quite insistent. That morning, my eldest hadn't wanted me to buckle her into her car seat, and suddenly that mattered too, and the feeling of rejection stung. Now I sort of shrivelled up inside a brain of rage. I was all contained within a blanked face. And I didn't really notice.

to be continued

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Cloud Baklava

Baklava is one of the best Greek inventions ever. I have not researched that. So I do apologise if I've just stepped on some cultural toes and insulted whatever other worthy civilisation actually invented it. But you get the point. Whoever thought of putting rosewater-lemon-mint-syrup together with pistachios and pastry is a genius of the highest order. 


And it was this dessert that I was reminded of a few mornings ago as I watched the sunrise from the comfort of my bed...


***


Every flaky pastry layer of cloud was glossed with its own syrup-ribbon of rainbow. All the spectrum colours were shifting and reflecting off the muted but still-gorgeous purplegreyblues of the clouds.


I had been admiring those greys. Looking at how much detail was in them. The light and depth, and the different shades present in even those few colours.


I sat up - I couldn't help it. And for framing, the dark fence of Melaleuca ericifolia was in view. Beneath those tea-trees, a plethora of grasses and marshy wetland plants were obscured by whitey frost. 


And suddenly the close gathered trunks of Melaleuca were lit through with flooding sun, and I wanted to leap out there in my pyjamas and hide away with all the colours. 


Then there was a small triangle of blue sky light in the heavy gold grey clouds. I could almost see the Lorax being lifted up by the seat of his pants.


Porridge and tea arrived, and I realised that I had not even glimpsed the river yet. Unsure how I would survive this surfeit of beauty, I took a sip of tea and ruffled my bed hair for contented contrast.


***

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Tea and other Reckless Pursuits

"One of the things I love about you is your wanton abandon," my husband said. Don't be concerned, I know you're probably thinking this will be the most hideous over-share in the history of blogging. But honestly, I was washing up at the time. James' reaction was ironical, and in response to my suggestion that we have a cup of Earl Grey tea and eat chocolate in front of Doctor Who, "...it being Saturday night and all". 

I get this a lot. I'm sure many many parents of small children do: that sudden realisation that large wads of your life and your character are, well, 'lame'. 

If I were a racehorse, this would mean that I could not run, but I could breed instead. I am not a racehorse, but the difference is minimal. (Excepting that, in actual fact, I may have reached that stage of life that is more like being 'put out to pasture'. That is, I'm not planning on having any more foals.)

And so, to lameness. Our subject for the day. And it is intended to be something of a celebration of all things twee, uncool, lame-ish and even old-hat. Because, let's face it: the concept of 'trending', as Twitter calls it, is repugnant to me. 

I had a wonderful meal recently at an Indian restaurant with two of my girly friends. Without our kids. It was bliss with raita on top. I did the Vindaloo thing just because I could. Across at another table, there was a family accompanied by a bunch of balloons clearly indicating that they were celebrating a 10th birthday. Not having my glasses on at first I had thought it was a 70th. And so proceeded a bit of a discussion about how unusual it was, or was not, to have a 10th birthday party with your family at an Indian restaurant. 

My lovely companions, clearly being cooler than me, reminisced about their birthday parties, and I have to say that "Grease" was mentioned. Dancing, and costumes, and girlishness. 

All I could remember was that I got my first mountain bike when I was ten, and that my mother, throughout my childhood, threw parties for me that were organised, fun, well-attended and....a mystery to me. That's not to say I didn't enjoy them. I did. But partying didn't come naturally to me. As I said to my dinner companions, "I was that girl enjoying eating Indian with my family...that girl reading books in the corner on the weekends, or playing with my siblings in our big, bushy backyard". I went off to primary school in 1986 not knowing who Kylie Minogue was. I thought neighbours were the people next door, and also some assorted Samaritans. I thought grease was what lubricated wheels. I have, in fact, probably dozens of people whom I attended high school with, who can attest to my 'preppiness' or 'dagginess', who liked my anyway. Bless them for that. 

And I haven't really grown out of it. Hence my lovely hubby's comment about my daring plans with tea. (In my defence, it has been rather keeping me awake at nights recently and I do quite like my sleep.)

Which reminds me. Earl Grey turned up on some Twitfeeds recently. I will use letters, not names, so that the gentlemen in question can only claim notoriety if they wish to, but the thread went like this: [I am s, by the way.]

j:  mmmm great start to the morning [pic of his cuppa - it looks like a latte]
w: you have the same latte cups as t?
s: we used to have those coffee cups too. The handles kept falling off.
w: Yes, and then you can put them on upside down. My morning pick me up includes bergamot [another pic of awful looking milky tea]
s: Bergamot = not so manly
w: it's Earl Grey, not Lady Grey
j: isn't the manliness of the tea only related to the cup it's served in?
#mugnotchinaismanly
#chaicanbemanlytoo

As you can see, I also have nerdy friends with occasionally questionable taste in beverages. And their hash-tagging can be a source of bemusement to me. I also note that 't' kept well out of the conversation, from what I can tell, which indicates a decent level of shame related to his choice of mug. What I say to this is, 't', if you like the mugs, stand up and own them. And if, like me, you always hated that kind where the handle falls off, stand up and stomp them into little pieces!

But I digress. 

What I'm trying to get at is quite illusive, really. How do we even decide what we want for ourselves, or what is ok for other people, and what is patently not? What is our yardstick? Do we have a right to lambast other people for their choices? Big questions. I can't answer them all here because my fingers have gone somewhat numb and my Earl Grey has gone cold. 

But I did hear a wonderful sermon this morning. It was based on 1 Peter 3:15 [find it here, or the larger context, aqui. Don't freak out about this passage. It's not your imagination: it really is chock-full of theological intricacies]. The question asked by the preacher-man, who was in fact my lovely hubby, was, "Whose are you?" Other variations thereon included, "whose opinion do you care about?", "who can make or break your day with their remarks?" and "on whom do you rely for your sense of self?". And the crux, for Christians, is that if we rely on anyone or anything other than Jesus, we have our focus in the wrong place. 

So, in a sense, we don't need to decide what is lame and what is not. If we are lame, we can come to the One who heals the lame. If we have 'got it', we need to see that as just another label that we humans put on ourselves and each other, and get over it. Because, what does 'it' matter? At the end of time, when He returns, all our latte receptacles will mean nothing at all.




Friday, May 27, 2011

Big Tracker is Watching You

A friend, a lovely friend, who blogs here, found my blog yesterday. Being a kind and helpful sort, he recommended that I get all technical and track visitations. (To my blog, that is. Nothing extra-terrestrial going on here.) Will was kind enough to send me a little tutorial via Twitter, so that I could, you know, quickly and easily add the tracker. 


An hour. Blerk. I don't understand HTML at all. I mean, I completely admire it, and I find all those computer-whizzy people quite astounding and interesting. I have one friend who tweets about it, and I don't understand a single syllable, but I enjoy reading his tweets nevertheless. (One likes to feel that one associates with the intelligentsia.)


I began to wonder what it was about the HTML that I didn't like. Was it the <arrows> and strange fragments of not-words? Was it the blank spaces which, as I later discovered, as just as important as the letters? I think it was the feeling of being in a half-familiar world. A world which, given half a day's tutorial, I technically could understand, but which I had no interest in learning about. 


Limits to knowledge annoy me - always have. I can remember vividly learning as a small child that in heaven, when Jesus sets everything to rights, we will understand everything we need to know. "I'm in!" said my soul, and the rest is (complicated) history. 


Limits to understanding also frustrate me. One of my pet hates as a child was being misunderstood. In truth, this is still a problem for me. And I can see that trait in my eldest daughter too. It's linked somewhat to a strong sense of justice. But that's a story for another day.


Several events have thrown me lately. I posted a photo of my childhood teddy on facebook last week. My Dad saw it and corrected the spelling of his name. It seems, for thirty years, I have thought my teddy was Ralphy. In fact, he is named after a dog in Richard Adams' Plague Dogs. And so, it turns out that my teddy is in fact called Rowfy. It's a similar pronunciation. All these years I have just thought my parents didn't really annunciate their 'l's very clearly (sorry Mum and Dad). As I remarked to my sympathetic sister, "I feel almost as if I've found out I'm adopted!" Of course, this is a completely over-the-top remark, but it does tip its hat toward the depth of surprise I was experiencing. 


So, what have we learnt? (Erhgh. That phrase doesn't half give me the shivers!) Several things, which probably could be written out in a little poem, but won't be, because I've other important, cheese-related articles to be writing.

  • Learning is a lifelong and worthy pursuit.
  • Knowlege is wonderful, but until that Great Day, we won't ever have enough for our own liking.
  • When faced with uneasiness, we could perhaps let go of perfectionism, or whatever else is getting in our way, and learn to learn like a child again.
  • To knit.

Let me explain that last one. Knitting is a relatively new sport for me. I learnt as a girl (didn't everyone?) because my lovely Ma had the patience to teach me (along with macrame and several other less trendy crafts). 

Long, long have I struggled with perfectionism. I tend to be an all-or-nothing woman. If I can't do it well, or straight away, or better than someone else I know, I'm terrified of the attempt. But depression has actually assisted me here. (Again, a story for another day; suffice to say that I have been forced to let go of perfectionism for the sake of my mental health.) So when it came to attempting knitting again, I had to be adventurous. Yes, I approached it circuitously, via crochet. But in the end it was just me and two needles and some yarn and a pattern. And slowly, sometimes humbly, othertimes crowingly, I have learnt to knit. I have had to 'frog' (that's knitspeak for ditch) many projects. I have had to fix, 'tink' (that's knit backwards), re-do and fudge many more. But I'm enjoying it. 

The key for me was not to strive to be a knitter immediately, or expertly, or better than someone. But to sit and knit. Like a kid. With perhaps, hopefully, a slightly bigger budget to spend on yarn. 


Thursday, May 26, 2011

Not a big one Mummy

There is a delightful little kids' TV show called Peppa Pig. There's Peppa, there's Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig, and Peppa's little brother, George. In one episode, Peppa has a 'secret password' that Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig must guess. This turns out to be 'Daddy's Big Tummy'.


So this evening, as I was putting the girls to bed, my way was blocked, and I tried 'Daddy's Big Tummy', and it worked. Anyone who knows James will understand the irony of this password in our household. On the way back out of the room my way was blocked by a different daughter, and the password had changed. So, naturally enough I tried 'Mummy's Big Bottom', and it worked.


Middle daughter got the giggles.
"Daddy doesn't have a big tummy!" She said.
"No," I assented, "he doesn't".


There proceeded a longish pause before I added the predictable self-doubting dialogue.
"I notice you didn't say that Mummy doesn't have a big bottom," I said.
"No," assented the Assessor.
"Does this mean you think my bottom is big?" I ventured.
"No," she assured me, "not very big."
I felt relieved. Until she continued thus: "It's not a very, very, very, VERY big one Mummy."


Marvellous.


And this may be why I have a certain fondness for my laptop right now; it lets me choose my own passwords.

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