oakleythoughtso

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.

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".

"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. 

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...