Two Steps Forward...One Leap Back

We moved. To a new city.
A new country.
My husband cut his hours. He started full-time university.
Little miss started a new nursery.
I increased my commute. By three hours a day.


Stress coming from all angles. But I was ready. Hell, this is the kind of thing I used to thrive on. Hand me a challenge, and I was in my element. Exploring the area museums and looking up library times. Finding new running routes. Navigating the area's public transportation.

I multitask with the best of them. I learn new cities quickly. Taking the train to work felt like coming home again. I could do this.

I made running part of my commute. I read books on the train. I budgeted on Saturdays. Slept in on Sundays. My husband did mornings. I did the evenings. It's been busy but we were adjusting.

And then I wasn't.

I've started running because I'm supposed to...not because I want to.
That's if I manage a run at all.

I worry that leaving before my daughter wakes up and getting home after her dinner will scar her for life.

I worry that I will miss the train.
That we will run out of money.
That my daughter will get sick.
That my husband will die.

Worry worry worry worry worry worry worry.

The anxiety is back.

I play the "is it normal" game.

Is it normal to wish for bedtime when it is only 10am?
Is it normal to want to go back to sleep but be too restless to stay in bed?
Is it normal to want to not want to eat?
To want to eat everything?
To want it all to stop?
To be scared of what would happen if it did?

The dark thoughts are returning.

I am a bad mother because I can't provide.
I am a bad mother because I spend all my time working to provide.
I am a bad mother because I didn't enjoy hide and seek today.
I am a bad mother because we played hide and seek instead of practising phonics.

The intrusive thoughts have creeped back in.

I wanted my last post to be one of hope. To show all of you who are battling that there is light at the end of the tunnel. To let all of you who love me know that I was okay. To tell all of you who have shied away that I was me again.

All of that is true. I did get better. But this illness has affected who I am. How I deal. I still try to tackle life head on but this illness doesn't always let me.

With depression comes self doubt. I wonder if I'm making it all up. Whether it's worse in my head than it really needs to be. Whether I just need to work a little harder to pull through.

It isn't that easy. With depression, it will never work that way.

I didn't want to call the doctor, afraid of taxing a system when I was so new to the area. I didn't want to admit I needed help because it felt like admitting defeat. I didn't want to waste their time if I was just having trouble acclimating to change.

These thoughts sound silly when I'm well.

Yet I listened and didn't call.

I met our health visitor on Friday.

It took her five minutes to see what I had been trying so hard to hide.

I saw the look in her eyes and it brought me back to those early days with miss. I cried and said I didn't want to be back at the beginning. That I'm scared that this isn't over.

"You aren't at the beginning. You just need some help getting over some big hurdles. We can give you that help. Let us."

I made the call. I see the doctor this week. My health visitor is visiting again as well.

The depression is trying to tell me I'm at the bottom of that deep dark hole again. I know I'm not.

It is dark but I will get out.

I am well, just not fully healed.

Two steps forward, one leap back....that's still progress.

I Have Survived

with thanks and apologies to Gloria Gaynor 


"At first I was detached
I was sleep deprived
I felt I had no instincts
on how to keep little miss alive
I spent never-ending nights
replaying everything that I'd done wrong..."

It wasn't so much an a-ha moment as glimpses here and there. I found myself reading blogs and #PPDChat, nodding my head in agreement as I remembered how I used to feel that way.  

"...I tried my best to cover up
that sad look upon my face
I wished I could snap out of it
I was sure there was a way
If only I tried hard enough 
I could make PPD just go away..."

I started planning where to get my warrior tattoo. I began thinking about writing this post.

"...I couldn't leave. Just walk out the door.
All the crowds I used to love
Were something I couldn't handle anymore
I was scared she'd skip a nap and couldn't bear for miss to cry
If she did, my mask would crumble
And I was sure she or I would die..."

I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. I look over my shoulder, wondering if relapse is lurking in the shadows. But if I'm worried about relapse, then it's time I acknowledged the truth, which, as silly as it seems, is scary.

"...I used all the strength I had
and still I fell apart
I was incredibly impatient
for the good parts of motherhood to start
It's taken two long years of fighting
trying to take things day by day
Still sometimes I cry
But now there are days I also feel so damned alive
I am still me
Yet somehow new
This illness made me stronger
For all the hell it put me through..."

There are a lot of big changes on the horizon for me right now. There have been days when the insomnia returns, the bad eating habits creep in, the anxiety sky rockets. I use the tools I've learned to work through the bad moment but wonder if the triggers will get the best of me. But right now? It's time for me to say it. And Savour it.


"...and I know that I
I have survived
Thanks to all the ones who showed me love
I am here and feel alive
I remember how to live
And I've got tons of love to give.
I have survived
I have survived."

Dear friends and family, in real life, and in blog and twitter land, I couldn't have made it through this journey without you. I believe a lot of my recovery came down to time, and there were times when it seemed like it would never end. You helped me take it day by day, and when I couldn't, you helped me through the darkness. I can't say it enough. I love you and thank you all.  xx

So We Meet Again: Reconnecting after Postpartum Depression

It’s January and my husband and I have had yet another argument. They have been coming fast in furious for several months and this has been one for the books. One that starts with snide comments from both parties, escalating to insults and accusations. One with an intermission where he swears under his breath as he picks up his phone, I stomp out of the room and cry.  One where by the end we hugging each other, apologizing for our hurtful words, emotionally and physically exhausted, feeling absolutely no relief from airing our grievances. We have figured out the problem.

We just have no idea how to fix it. 

Postpartum depression has been hell. It has messed with my husband’s world as much as it has mine.  As he put it, the day we came home with our newborn baby, I returned with a stranger. He returned with two.

Imagine it. 

You find someone to spend your life with. It isn’t always perfect, you don’t always see eye to eye, but you get each other. You decide to have a baby together. You go into it knowing it’s going to be hard work but you are ready because you’ll be doing it together.

But this mom is not your partner in crime. She looks the same, but only if you look past the slouched posture, the empty eyes, the plastic smile.  She almost sounds the same, but her intonation has been replaced with emotionless monotone. You look hard to find her in there but she just isn’t the person you entered into this with.

You discover it’s an illness and feel almost relieved. There’s a reason for this change and there is a way to recover. So you do everything in your power to make sure she can concentrate on getting better.

She can’t bring herself to cook more than ramen noodles and cup a soup…

So you do the meal planning, the grocery shopping, and the cooking.

Thinking about money practically cripples her with panic…

So you take over the budget and paying the bills.

She is too anxious to even think about leaving the house…

So you decline friends’ invitations and stay at home with her.

She needs to live moment by moment…

So you accept it and do the required planning ahead.

She needs to work through how she is feeling.

You listen to as much as you can handle before you tell her you’ll give her the space and time it takes, but that she must tell someone else.

You are heartbroken, angry, and confused. You are scared and frustrated but you can’t tell the one person you usually turn to. So you seal your feelings off and continue to work.

You continue to do.

You keep busy.

You move forward.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, she seems like herself again. Each day, a little more of her comes back. She makes jokes that make you laugh and her smiles reach her eyes.

She plans the weekend away without begging you to make the final decisions.

She gets pissed off when you plan something without consulting her. Then gets even more furious when you do it again. She wants to know about the things that you’d grown accustomed to doing alone because, for so long, she wasn’t healthy enough to handle it.

She is hurt that you come home and busy yourself on the computer, the phone, or the TV. She wonders why you are so insular.

This is about the point when the big one started. He lost it and shouted. “Because you have been shut off for more than two years.”

He wasn’t wrong. I fought back the urge to apologise and he stopped me as I began to utter “I’m sorry.” We both know it’s PPD that made me detached and anxious.

But it still sucked. For both of us. We did what we could to get through it. We weathered the storm in the best way we knew how. 

Now that I’m feeling again, I don’t want him to live as though he is on his own. Now that he sees me reaching out, he is unsure how to let down his guard.

I am finally finding the old me again but he isn’t the old him anymore. He’s been through this battle too. Only he’s been through it wide awake, without the fog of depression to fade his memories or cloud his days.

We both want to get back to being as close as we used to be but it has been tremendously hard work.

We are not there yet.

It cuts me to the core to write that.

In my heart of hearts I know it’s a testament to the strength of our relationship that has got us through this hell and not a sign of weakness that we have pieces to pick up. We have fun together and even managed it some in the midst of my depression. But in the moments when we run out of things to say to each other, the hurt comes flooding in. 

In those hard moments I remind myself how much we have been through and that healing takes time.

I know that impatience won’t speed up this process but will only cause heartache while we are working through it. I do my best to remember that we love each other, even if PPD did its damndest to rip us apart.

We are trying and we will get there.

In order to survive this illness, we had to live as individuals but we will be that strong team again.