The Time I can Never Get Back

We sold the crib, the travel cot, and the stroller today. It triggered something I thought I had addressed and accepted but clearly I still needed to grieve.

I have never been one to go goo-ey and coo-ey when a newborn is in the room.

There has only been one who, once I got over the fear that I might break her, I couldn’t get enough of holding, engaging with, smiling at, watching her during tummy time, or dozing away in her pack and play.  I cheered as I watched her hit her milestones and cried tears of joy the first time she waved to me. I still love to watch videos of her, whether it’s when she was so tiny she’s nothing more than a puffalump on her mother’s knee or when she’s singing her own version of a Christmas carol. This girl has made my heart light up since the very first time I laid eyes on her. Including those newborn days I was luckily enough to share with her.

This little girl is my beautiful, hilarious, spunky little niece. I love her to bits.

I did not get this with my daughter.

When the midwives caught my baby girl and handed her over, I was overcome with emotion and in awe of the miracle of life.  I loved her from the very beginning.

But I still felt nothing.

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“Make the most of every moment, cherish it, and enjoy it, as they’re only this age once and it will be done before you know it,” a stranger said as I was standing in the baby section of a department store, just barely holding myself together. I knew nothing about how to be a mom. I was convinced that I would kill my baby by shear incompetence if not from some subconscious action in an attempt to stop the dark thoughts from flooding through my head. I was hating motherhood, sure I had made a drastic mistake, and absolutely overwhelmed by the fact that I had no other greater responsibility than to make sure I didn’t fuck this baby up, and worried that I might have already done so.

I blinked back tears and focused on the various maternity tights I found myself in front of as the woman continued talking.

“The first two years are the most important….” I switched off.  It was all I could do not to just hand her my baby girl and walk away.  Surely she knew better than I did.  Based on the streams of “You’re so lucky”, “You must be in heaven”,  “Life must seem so wonderful with her around”, “You must be enjoying your time together” I’d been hearing, everyone seemed to know how to do this better than me.  I couldn’t understand if everyone else enjoyed it, why couldn’t I?  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t adjust to the new role like everyone around me had?

So I waited for it to get better. I played the “fake it till you make it” role to the extreme, parenting by the book, hoping that one day I’d get up and I’d do something just because it felt right.  I didn’t feel one iota of mother’s instinct.  If I hadn’t had the Baby Whisperer, I would have been in ruins.

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Those two years have been and gone.  I learned that I had an illness and it wasn’t down to bad mothering. I got help. I took medication. I attended appointments. I wrote. I got better. I continue to heal.  I enjoy my daughter’s company sometimes. (Do normal moms enjoy their kids’ company all the time?)

But the fact remains that my daughter isn’t a baby and never will be again.  I will never ever get that time back.  I hate that I will never hold my little baby girl in my arms and not want to put her down. I won’t know what it feels like to stare at her face for hours and enjoy every minute of it.  My chest never filled with pride the first time she rolled over or sat on her own. The only hope I have is that someday I will look at the millions of pictures we have of her baby days and I will cry the tears of joy I should have when those moments happened. 

I missed my baby. 

That will forever break my heart.

It's Time to Live Again

I am waking up. The fog is clearing.

I laugh naturally. I get songs in my head. I make decisions. But I’ve still got a long way to go.

Small things that I used to take in stride are now hurdles looming large in front of me. I conquer them, but it takes a lot of pep talking and rather than leaping, I claw my way over using thousands of baby steps. This is hard to get used to. I want to be me again.  When I was in the throes of this battle, I knew better than to compare myself to the overachiever I once was. Now that I can see the end is near, I want to find my way back to being that person again.

I know I shouldn’t be in a hurry.  I’ve tried to rush progress before and it brought me to the brink of a relapse. I know it is better to take it one day at a time and, if things are particularly rocky, to take them one moment at a time instead.

If only life slowed down to make this possible.

It doesn’t.

I’m impatient because life is speeding along and flying past me while I continue to move at a snail’s pace.  I have clawed myself back from the deep dark depths of depression but if I don’t step up my game soon, I will find myself crushed by life itself.  I need to be able to plan ahead. I need to regain my self confidence. I need to capture my initiative, reignite my creativity, take chances, move out of my comfort zone, and live again. Surviving is all well and good but there’s no passion behind it.

It is mind numbing. It is soul destroying. 

Above all, I need to find the happy.  I was a romantic. I lived with my heart on my sleeve, following it even when my mind told me to sit still and keep my mouth shut. 

This illness made me apathetic and without fire.  I want to be passionate again.

I get out of bed in the morning because the alarm goes off.  I want to get up for something real.

I am sick of merely surviving, treading water. I am ready to move forward.

I just need to figure out how.

What makes me happy?

I have no idea.

11 Questions (Better late than Never...)

      I was lucky and flatter to be tagged by the lovely Story (Sometimes It's Hard) to answer her 11 questions. The rules of the game are pretty simple. I answer her questions, then pick 11 people to answer 11 questions of my own choosing.  She asked my eons ago but I'm finally getting around to publishing my answers: 

     1. Why do you blog? What inspired you to start? 

The short answer: I blog to share my story. 

The slightly longer one: When I was first diagnosed with postpartum depression, I found it immensely hard to believe that anyone else could ever feel the way I was feeling. It was meeting others who had not only been through it, but had managed to recover from it that gave me the courage to fight. I made a promise to myself that, when I was strong enough, I would share my story so that others would realize they weren’t alone. Since starting the blog, I’ve been lucky enough to connect with many other women who are sharing their stories too.  That’s a plus side I hadn’t expected from blogging; that these women have let me know I’m not alone either.

2. What are you proudest of in your life right now?

I’m going through a huge crisis of confidence right now so this is possibly the toughest question I could have been asked.

If I focus on my proudest recent moment, it is organizing a short family trip to London, including spending an afternoon in the city with just my daughter.  Pre-momhood, I wouldn’t give a second thought to planning such a thing, but doing it this time meant tackling the hurdles of indecision, insomnia, anxiety, and self-doubt.

3. What trait do you admire most in others? Why?

Self confidence, for sure. You can conquer almost anything you’ve set out to do if you believe in yourself. And when it doesn’t work out, if you are confident you tried your best, it’s easier to dust yourself off and try again or explore a new direction.  I think self confident people are happy people.

4. If you could meet one "big" or "famous" blogger in real life, who would it be?

Someday I’d like to give Katherine Stone of Postpartumprogress.com a great big hug and thank her for being her awesome self and for everything wonderful about that site. 

5. How do you balance blogging and social media with the rest of your life?

I’m not sure I’d use the word balance, but real life definitely comes first, blogging last.  I connect with family and friends using social media. I couldn’t live so far away from them without using it as regularly as I do. 

I originally joined twitter to give me a place to not think about being a mom. Ironically, the main reason I have continued to use it is for #ppdchat and the #ppdarmy.  That has been a catalyst in my recovering.

I write as a form of therapy but I don’t publish everything I write.  I aim to blog once a week but if it doesn’t happen, that’s okay. Lately I’ve been focussing on getting better so I can be a good wife, mom, and friend so blogging has been put on the backburner. I’ve got a list of topics I plan on covering at some point though.

6. What is the biggest source of support in your life? How did you find it?

My husband.  We’ve been through a lot but somehow he’s still by my side, believing in me (and in us) even when I don’t.

7. When you were a kid, what did you say you wanted to be when you grew up?

I really wanted to be an actress.  Or a Rockette.  I stopped going to dance lessons when I was about eight but continued with theatre for a long time.

8. What would you do for fun or self care, if you could do anything you wanted?

This is a question that should be easy to answer but sadly isn’t. I’ve spent so long doing things I have to do that I no longer know what I want to do.  If money wasn’t an object, I’d travel more. There’s so much more of the world I want to see.  On a more realistic front, I’ve recently re-discovered my love of people watching.  Give me a coffee and a park bench in the middle of the city, and I’m pretty content.

9. If you could bring just one book with you to a desert island, what book would it be?

I absolutely love to read so was a little surprised to come up empty when I first thought about this question.  My taste in books varies from Twilight to Derrida, depending on my mood.  For desert island reading, I’ll choose “It’s Not About the Bike” by Lance Armstrong. I’ve re-read it several times.  It reminds me that overcoming hurdles can make you stronger and that fighting does make you a warrior, no matter the outcome. I can always use that sort of inspiration.

10. Do you prefer cake or pie?

Cake. But don’t put fruit in it.  I say, if I’m choosing a big slice of unhealthy cake goodness, don’t mess it up with jam filling or fruit topping just so you can pretend it’s good for me.

11. What is your favorite word? Why?

Hmmm. Let’s go with “shattered,” though I sound ridiculous saying it.  The English use it to describe being absolutely exhausted. I think it paints the picture well just by enunciation alone.

I've tagged 11 more people. Take part if you want. If you’ve already done it, please leave me a comment with the link because I clearly missed it.  If it’s not your thing, that's absolutely fine. If I haven’t tagged you and you want to have a go at the questions, knock yourself out and comment with that link too.

Michelle from The Days are Long but the Years are Short

Ericka from Mum's the word

Jenna from Made More Beautiful

Grace from Arms Wide Open

Pamela at 2 Much Testosterone

Tammi at 1914 house

Clara at www.iwantmymummy.co.uk

Mammasaurus at www.mamasuarus.co.uk

Yuz at www.notjustaboutwee.com

Helen at Attempted Suicide: An Attempy at Recovery

Erin at Happy Noise

My 11 Questions:

1.  What’s your favourite birthday memory?
2. What is your favourite scar and why?
3. What’s the best thing that has happened today? 
4. Where do you spend most of your “me time?
5. What’s the one thing about motherhood you wish someone had warned you about?
6. What is the one thing about motherhood you’re glad you didn’t know ahead of time?
7. Where is your favourite running route? (I  think almost all of you run, but choose a walking route if you prefer)
8. If they made playgrounds for adults, what apparatus would you like to use most?
9. What’s the last thing that made you laugh out loud?
10. Coffee or tea? (My own little experiment on UK/US stereotypes)
11. And finally, because I may be a mom but I’m still not mature when it comes to farts...

         What’s your most memorable story involving “windy pops?”