Diary of a Crap Housewife

by Jessica Rowe

  Pour mixture into a buttered 10 × 20 cm (4 × 8 inch) loaf pan. Bake for 1 hour.

  Cool on a rack. Remove from pan and slice to serve.

  Success rate

  Four out of four family members love this! It’s also delicious toasted and served with lots of butter. Just be sure to slice it nice and thickly so it pops out of the toaster without getting stuck! I’ve wasted too much time over the years upending toasters to budge stubborn bits of bread!

  9

  Mental Health

  Listen, I wish I could tell you it gets better but it doesn’t get better. You get better.

  JOAN RIVERS

  Holding back my tears each day until I got into the relative privacy of my car after work was a warning sign. Most days I could wait until reaching the relative safety of my jam-packed car—full of my own clothes, a few pairs of work shoes, water bottles, empty takeaway coffee cups and missing blue school jumpers—before I would burst into tears. However, this past week, my tears had begun soon after I left the producer’s office and walked across the open-plan newsroom. Some of my work colleagues saw those tears streaming down my face as I hurried quickly downstairs to the carpark.

  Sure, we all have our bad days, especially when things don’t go our way, but I was frightened about revisiting those terribly dark days that I had experienced when I had postnatal depression. It had been such a struggle to manage my anxiety and panic attacks and I didn’t want to disappear down that hole of despair again. I recognised that what I was now experiencing was different to PND but some of the symptoms of anxiety and depression were making their ugly presence felt once again and I didn’t want to make room for those destructive emotions. Deep in my heart I knew that if I didn’t make some drastic changes to my life, I would fall apart.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  ‘Pussycat, how was the show … ?’ asked Peter, who would always call me at the same time each day, knowing that I’d be off air and in the car driving home.

  ‘Okay …’ I replied in a muffled voice.

  Peter knew that when I said ‘okay’ it actually meant ‘terrible’.

  Other times, I would get weepy talking to my good friend and manager DW, who realised I was also just hanging in there by the tip of my shellac nails. I didn’t like the person I was turning into: someone who complained and blamed everyone else for my exhaustion. Also, it was getting harder to ignore my growing resentment and my increasingly dark moods and tears.

  Other times I’d cry in the dressing-room I shared with Neesy. She would hug me, even though she’s not a hugger, and tell me that no job was ever worth getting that upset about.

  ‘Just fuck them!’ she said, knowing that I wasn’t a fan of swearing but knew that I’d laugh at the flourish with which she said the f word! And she was right; it wasn’t worth risking my mental health or happiness for the sake of an ‘entertaining’ argument on a morning panel show.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  On the outside, I had it all together: a happy family, the dream job that I had finally landed in the media, fabulous friends and our cats. But we all know that nothing is ever what it seems and I was managing to keep up appearances thanks to my morning dose of antidepressants. Despite the medication, I recognised that my daily tears and exhaustion were a sign that I needed to make some big, brave changes. It was time to do more than just fall into a heap every Friday night before then fortifying myself for another week at work. Thankfully, our family had a financial safety net, which meant I had no more excuses for making a sea change. No more procrastinating as I knew I needed to be more present and emotionally consistent with my girls and husband. It was time for me to make that big, bold leap into the deep blue.

  All of us are influenced by our own upbringing; whether we want to emulate our parents, do it totally differently, or use a combination of these approaches when it comes to raising our own family. For me, I wanted to mix the wondrous bravery of my mother, the kindness of my stepfather, the enthusiasm of my father, the pragmatism of my stepmother along with my own energetic, eccentric approach. My own daughters—strong, stubborn souls—were on the cusp of their teenage years and it wouldn’t be long before they wouldn’t want me around cramping their style. It was time for me to more tightly weave those connections of love, self-esteem, confidence and self-worth before the girls took full flight into those risky, rebellious years.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  When my girls were tiny I used to think I had to be ‘happy’ all the time. My constantly cheerful mummy routine had been a reaction to growing up with a mum whose bipolar disorder meant her mood plummeted for months at a time into the howling depths of despair, regardless of what was happening in our lives. Now, as a parent, I found it exhausting having to keep up the constant tap-dancing routine for my children. Over the years I’ve had professional help to deal with how I manage my emotions, which has in turn helped me to be a better parent. What I learnt during these sessions was the value of regulating my emotional behaviour for me and my girls. I discovered it has been much more important to show my girls natural, emotional responses to the vagaries of life. How would my girls learn how to regulate their own emotions if I wasn’t showing them the usual responses to happy, sad, boring, glorious, terrible or just okay situations?

  Sometimes it’s hard not to fall back on those ‘bad’ habits since I’m still working on undoing a lifetime of putting on a brave face. My self-cast role from when I was a little girl was to be ‘Miss Cheerful’. Naively, I had thought that if I remained sunny and upbeat, that would be enough to ‘fix’ my beautiful mother. If I was good enough, happy enough, funny enough and caring enough then this would make her better. One of the first times I realised that Mum wasn’t ‘like other mothers’, I was about ten years old. Her bedroom was right next to mine, the walls not thick enough to muffle the cries that got louder and louder. Frightened, I crept out of my single bed and walked to Mum’s closed bedroom door, staring at the doorknob, wondering if I should open it. Frozen in that position, I was torn between opening the door to comfort her or sneaking back to bed. Eventually, I decided to sit against her door, still and quiet. Each night I couldn’t move from that spot until the anguished sounds on the other side of the door had stopped; only then would I go back to my bed and sleep. I never asked Mum about those noises in the night. The smiling, happy mother I knew in the waking hours was so different to the woman I heard behind her closed door once the stars had come out to brighten the night sky. At the age of ten I was obsessed with ballet and chocolate Monte biscuits, and I had already learnt about putting on a brave face to survive.

  This gift of hiding my emotions became perfect training for my media career where it’s important to be consistent, calm and cheerful regardless of whatever else is happening in your life. This cheerfulness I wore like an armour, which was good professional protection but it did nothing to help me when I was at my most vulnerable. I couldn’t take off that armour to ask for help when I needed it most. And the pressure to keep wearing that ‘happy face’ only increased after realising I had postnatal depression after Allegra’s birth. Incorrectly, I had believed that it was a sign of weakness to admit that I was struggling as a new mum. No one knew how sick I was in those early months of motherhood as I hid the real me from myself, my husband, my mum and my friends.

  Allegra was the only one I would whisper to in the dead of night.

  ‘I love you, my darling, my beauty, my everything. You know how much Mummy loves you. I’m sorry that I can’t breastfeed you properly. I’m sorry that I’m not a good mummy. I’m sorry that I’m so frightened about what will happen to you. I love you, I love you.’

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  During the gruelling IVF process, I’d made a pact with myself never to complain if I was going to be blessed with a baby of my own. How I used to hate overhearing those women in the coffee shop whingeing about how ‘hard’ it was with a new baby, when I thought they should have been rejoicing at their natural ability to be mothers. Th
e cocktail of hormones pumping through my body during each IVF cycle would play havoc with my usually calm mood. Even those happy family stick-figure stickers on the back of cars, mainly four-wheel drives, would set me off. What right did these people have to flaunt their fertility? How dare they brag about the number of children, cats, dogs, skateboards and surfboards they were lucky enough to ‘own’? Quickly, my mood would swing from weepy, resentful anger to a full-blown psychotic rage.

  And now that I had my baby, I was struggling behind this thickening pane of glass between me and the rest of the world. One of my strengths had always been my ability to connect but now all I could feel was numbness and shame. How dare I be so afraid, anxious and wretched when I had everything I had always wanted: my husband, my baby girl, my little family?

  Gazing into my baby girl’s blue eyes, I told her how lucky I was to have her.

  ‘You have always been my wish upon a star. Although you are here now, you have always been here in my heart. I’m doing my best, my baby girl.’

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  I had been looking forward to going to Mothers’ Group and connecting with some like-minded new mums. I remember being the last one to arrive at the baby clinic. Struggling to push open the door, I tried to balance Allegra in her baby capsule on one arm and lug a huge bag on the other, crammed full of wipes, dummies, disposable nappies, a leopard-print change mat, spare clothes for Allegra and breast pads. The breast pads were an optimistic addition, as I had struggled to breastfeed properly since Allegra was born and my nipples were cracked and bleeding!

  Sighing noisily as I came into the room, I glanced at the other mothers already in the group. None of them looked flustered or sweaty and I was betting they’d had no problems getting their baby capsules into the car. They were all sitting in a circle, blissfully breastfeeding and snuggling their babies. I found the last chair in the circle at the back of the room and placed Allegra at my feet in her capsule, happily sucking on her pink dummy.

  ‘You’re not using that, are you?’ said the nurse running the group.

  ‘Yes, it’s helping me with settling Allegra. And she really likes it.’

  ‘No, no, that’s no good. She won’t be able to latch on properly for feeding. You can’t rely on that.’

  I looked around the group of women, holding back my tears. A few of their babies had dummies as well. Surely it wasn’t that bad?

  ‘Isn’t this the best thing you’ve ever done?’ asked one mother.

  ‘It just gets better and better,’ replied another.

  Christ. Next, I’ll hear that they orgasm while breastfeeding.

  ‘Oh, and I just love breastfeeding.’

  I stayed silent. No, this is not the best thing I have ever done, I thought. It is the worst thing I have ever done. I didn’t know what I was doing. I loved my baby girl but it was excruciatingly painful to breastfeed. I couldn’t collapse the pram. I was using dummies, formulas and bottles. And it wasn’t getting better, it was getting worse. I couldn’t sleep even though I had never been so dog-tired in my life. I felt out of control, scared and overwhelmed. And I shouldn’t have been feeling like this. I had wanted to have this glorious, golden baby for such a long time and now it was such a struggle to have her. It should have been the happiest time of my life and I should have been grateful. All the women in this group looked calm and capable—not like me. But I kept my chirpy veneer in place, nodded my head and smiled. I would not be coming back to this meeting. I’m sure that on the surface I looked like I was coping and, in hindsight, there would have been some other mums in that group who, like me, were drowning—floating adrift, desperate to be thrown a lifeline.

  I had never been more alone. Somehow I had fantasised that I would find my girl gang at this meeting. Surely I wasn’t the only mother who was struggling? What was wrong with me? I had been too scared to open up in front of these women, who seemed to wear their motherhood like a badge of honour in a competition they were winning. I had always been so in control of my life and believed that by working hard at something it would turn out the right way. But I had never worked harder at anything and been so powerless over the outcome. I was not winning this mothering caper. And I couldn’t tell anyone.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  My PND crept up on me, along with a combination of factors that created the perfect storm for my mental illness. I was a perfectionist, I had struggled to conceive, I couldn’t breastfeed, I got sacked from my job and I had a long family history of mental illness. Now I cannot point to just one of these factors as being more significant than another, but looking at that list, it makes absolute sense that I had postnatal depression.

  What does PND look like? I’m not a medical expert but what I’ll do is describe what the illness was like for me and how it affected my life. Soon after Allegra was born I had a sense that my anxiety about what might happen to her was way out of whack with the normal level of worries that you would expect to have as a new mother. An example of this was the way I fixated on my failure to breastfeed my newborn daughter. I had equated those difficulties (and I persisted for far too long with trying to breastfeed properly) with being a terrible mother who would starve her daughter because she couldn’t even manage the supposedly easy job of breastfeeding! I had been brainwashed in the maternity hospital that ‘breast was best’ and I had convinced myself that I would never be able to do the best for my daughter.

  There was a gradually thickening pane of glass between me and the rest of the world, and initially I thought I could ignore it and simply blame it on exhaustion. However the world kept living, breathing and laughing without me in it. I had been tempted to confide in my sisters, my mum and Peter but I was fearful about giving my anxieties oxygen. I hadn’t been ready to admit my fears to myself and I wrongly believed that if they stayed in my head, perhaps my thoughts would disappear. Putting a voice to my anxieties might make them appear all too real and I didn’t know how I would manage that. Adrift, my mind started to stray further and further from the reality and routine of my days. And the days were never-ending; the time between dusk and dawn and dawn and dusk seemed endless. I stumbled through, dividing my day into two- and three-hourly feeding slots as well as changing, snuggling and settling Allegra back to sleep.

  During this time, Peter had been travelling overseas a lot for his job as a reporter for 60 Minutes so that made it easier for me to hide my growing anxiety. I couldn’t admit to him I was a failure, and that I was letting him, our baby and our brand-new family down. How could I tell him what I was feeling? I was ashamed and drowning in guilt. How could I confess that I was falling apart when I had finally achieved my fairy-tale ending? I started to have panic attacks for the first time in my life and I fixated more and more on my inability to breastfeed. And I also started to isolate myself, finding it easier to hide my fears behind my closed front door.

  # CRAPHOUSEWIFE

  The only thing I kept doing during this time was walking the streets with my sister Harriet, the pair of us pushing our babies in their prams. Somehow I thought this would keep me connected with the outside world and I could walk my way through the fear, pretence and anxiety. Some days when the sunlight warmed my face and brought colour to my cheeks, I believed I had managed to keep the vampires from the door. I grabbed those moments, hoping they would lengthen into an hour or two. But once I closed the door, no light came through. I was stuck, trapped, observing the world without me taking part in it.

  I had seen what had happened to my mother when it was all too much, and certainly some part of me was fearful that I might end up in a psychiatric ward. My mind was making all sorts of catastrophic leaps and I was terrified about where it would end. The skill set and default mechanism that had got me through my 36 years wasn’t working anymore. What I really needed to do was ask for help but instead, I kept up my award-winning performance as the perfect mother with the perfect baby.

  It was getting harder and harder to keep up my daylight performance. When the ph
one rang, I didn’t want to pick it up, detesting the false cheeriness in my voice when I answered. After a while I stopped returning calls from my girlfriends. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so it was easier to let the phone keep ringing. I kept writing down ‘useful’ information in a large diary. There was so much to remember, so much to write down, because I had to make sure I was doing everything the ‘right’ way. I had to get it all down on paper before I could get any sleep. What side had I finished feeding Allegra on? Was my breast drained of milk? And if it wasn’t properly drained, would I get mastitis again? Did Allegra have a wet or dry nappy? How long had she slept for? Was it time to wake her up yet? How did I know how long to feed her for? I remembered that one of the midwives at the hospital had told me I should feed for at least fifteen minutes on each breast.

  I would gaze at the silver Tiffany clock on the side table and watch the second hand go tick, tick, tick. Time slowed down, dragging its silver hand through pain, blood and tears. Why didn’t Allegra open her mouth wide enough so I could feed her? How could I get her to attach properly? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I do it? Both my mother and the paediatrician had encouraged me to use formula as a way to make sure that Allegra was putting on enough weight. I did start to use formula to ‘top up’ the breastfeeding; however, I thought this was yet another sign of how I was a failure.

  The relentless soundtrack of ‘guilty, bad mother’ kept whirling around and around in my head. What right did I have to feel like this? I had plenty of support around me. A caring, extended family who often came around for visits, bringing supplies of good coffee and ready-made meals. Christina mopped the floors and scrubbed the bathroom so the house was tidy. We weren’t battling to pay the mortgage or put food on the table. I had it easy—nothing to complain about.