by Jessica Rowe
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Coincidentally, during this time I had been contacted by beyondblue, the support organisation for sufferers of mental illness, asking if I would be prepared to accept a role as patron of its perinatal program. The timing of the call was extraordinary because the organisation’s representative had no idea I was struggling with my sanity. No one did. Mum and I had done a lot of advocacy work for beyondblue over the years and it was ironic that much of this work had involved public speaking, sharing the message that there should be no shame or stigma attached to mental illness. And here I was, burning with that very shame. I confirmed that I would love to help out and asked for some further information.
Here was the checklist of symptoms for postnatal depression (PND) that arrived from beyondblue.
If you have experienced some of the following symptoms for two weeks or more, it’s time to get help:
• low mood and/or feeling numb
• feeling inadequate, like a failure, guilty, ashamed, worthless, hopeless, helpless, empty or sad
• often feeling close to tears
• feeling angry, irritable or resentful (e.g. feeling easily irritated by your other children or your partner)
• fear for the baby and/or fear of being alone with the baby or the baby being unsettled
• fear of being alone or going out
• loss of interest in things that you would normally enjoy
• recurring negative thoughts—‘I’m a failure’, ‘I’m doing a bad job’, ‘My life is terrible’
• insomnia (being unable to fall asleep or get back to sleep after night feeds) or excessive (too much) sleep, having nightmares
• appetite changes (not eating or over-eating)
• feeling unmotivated and unable to cope with a daily routine
• withdrawing from social contact and/or not looking after yourself properly
• having thoughts about harming yourself or your baby, ending your life, or wanting to escape or get away from everything
If you’re having these kinds of thoughts, it’s important to seek support.
I had answered yes to most of these questions but it was hard to accept that this meant I had PND. That soundtrack kept whirring around in my head. What did I have to be miserable about? I was one of the lucky ones. I wasn’t a single mum, or struggling financially. And I had a wardrobe full of fabulous shoes. But none of this made the pane of glass go away. I told myself to get over it. I hid the beyondblue booklet in my top drawer, thinking that would silence the negative thoughts. Close it up, lock it away, shut up. Everything will be alright.
But it wasn’t alright. There was something about the dead of night during that time that still chills me. I used to hate sitting on the couch trying to breastfeed while outside it was pitch-black, not a star in the sky. The only sound I could hear was the ticking of the silver clock, the second hand not moving fast enough to get me away from the scary night-time world. I would wrap my baby girl up into her parcel of love and lay her back into her cot. Such a good girl, she would slip off to sleep quickly. But I would return to bed full of dread, knowing that I would lie there for hours unable to sleep. Every pore of my body would want to drift off into a gentle cottonwool sleep. Instead, my brain would not switch off. I would be high on adrenaline, buzzy and wired and unable to turn off the thoughts whizzing around and around in my head. All I could do was think, think, think. Tick, tick, tick.
Each night I watched the clock hand creep around as I stroked the top of my darling daughter’s head. I would look at that perfectly round clock and ponder about how easily it could smash my daughter’s skull, worrying about how it could slip from the table and the damage it could cause … all while Allegra slept happily and innocently through the night.
Then I would start thinking about the carving knife in the second drawer in the kitchen. It could so easily pierce my daughter’s delicate skin. My mind kept returning to the wooden handle of the knife, its long blade. I was losing my mind. It got to the point where I didn’t want to go through another night with these thoughts and it wasn’t long before they snuck into the daytime too. Tick, tick, tick.
One morning, desperate to delete this frightening loop in my head, I decided to wrap up the knife in old newspaper and throw it away along with the other rubbish in our large garbage bin. I thought getting rid of the knife would quieten the disturbing power of these obsessive thoughts. Creeping out of bed before sunrise, I managed to throw the knife into the bin without making a sound. What had become of me?
But the daylight wasn’t enough to save me. I knew there was something very wrong. Would I have to go to hospital? Would my baby be taken from me? Would the pane of glass pierce my body and make me bleed?
After another terrible night with these thoughts, I realised that I couldn’t keep going and that I had to ask for help. The first person I turned to was my mother, as I knew she would understand. Mum listened and reassured me that I would get through this but she made me promise her that I would tell Peter and that I would talk to my doctor. And talking to my husband was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
‘You are going so well. I am so proud of you,’ Peter said after we had finished eating our dinner in front of the television.
I had cooked Peter’s favourite meal of schnitzel and mashed potato (but this was long before I discovered panko crumbs). A rocky road chocolate bar was waiting in the fridge for dessert. I knew this was my moment, my time to say something. Tick, tick, tick.
‘I’m not,’ I blurted out. ‘I’m not coping. I’m afraid I have postnatal depression. I am so, so sorry.’ Tears ran down my face.
Peter was silent for a moment then he looked at me, his clear blue eyes filled with worry.
‘You’re not going to hurt yourself, are you?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘You’re not going to hurt Allegra? Promise me you wouldn’t hurt her?’ he said urgently.
‘No. No!’
I knew I would never hurt my baby, but I couldn’t tell Peter about the thoughts in my head just yet.
Peter took me in his arms and held me tight while I buried my face in his shoulder.
‘I know what we’ll do.’
He had already slipped into his fix-it mode.
‘I’ll ring Jan, the obstetrician, tomorrow and you can go in and talk to her. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.’
For the first time in a long time I felt safe. I needed to hear those words of reassurance from my husband. He didn’t judge me or tell me that I was being ridiculous or imagining things. He had heard me and my cry for help that night. And that simple act of telling him took some of the heavy weight off my shoulders.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Once I had asked for help, I was lucky to get the right help straight away. Firstly, I poured my heart out to our obstetrician, who had already organised for me to see a psychiatrist who specialised in PND the very next day. I had finally given voice to my black thoughts and as they bounced against the glass, they lost some of their fierceness.
I had dressed very carefully for my meeting with the psychiatrist, choosing a brown cotton fifties-style dress with a diamond pattern, silver glitter ballet flats and pink lipstick. Once I sat down opposite her, the first thing she told me was that I could ‘stop pretending now’. Some more weight lifted off my shoulders. Then I told her about my worries for Allegra, my problems with breastfeeding, losing my job, Mum’s illness and my scary obsessive thoughts.
‘But that’s normal,’ the doctor replied.
‘Normal—what? It’s normal to have images of clocks and knives going around on a constant loop in your brain?’
‘Yes, it is normal for someone who has postnatal depression,’ she continued. ‘Obsessive, unpleasant thoughts are very common in people with PND.’
‘I would never hurt Allegra.’
‘I know that.’
‘And I would nev
er hurt myself.’
‘I know that.’
‘So why is it happening to me? Where have these thoughts come from?’
‘Because your mind has been working in a panicked and anxious state, normal objects that you deal with every day can start to become sinister,’ she explained. ‘You start misinterpreting things that you have used for a long time without having any problems. Because of the way your brain has been working, such objects start to appear hazardous and dangerous to your baby. The world becomes a very scary place because you want to do everything to protect your child—you are so intent on looking after her and keeping her safe that everywhere you look, there is danger.’
‘So, I’m not a crazy lady?’
‘No, but you do have an illness: postnatal depression.’
Desperate to get better, I had no problems with my psychiatrist’s advice to start on medication combined with regular appointments. On the way home from that first appointment I stopped off at the pharmacy to get the antidepressants. I marked the date down in my diary with a star as I swallowed my first tablet.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
I remember standing on our front lawn just two weeks later and the scent of jasmine in the breeze—the sweet, heady smell of summer—tickled my nose and made me sneeze. Oh how I love this fragrance; it makes me think of sand, sunshine, hot concrete, lemonade icy poles and cool blue water. I hadn’t smelt that sweet scent in such a long time, even though the vines had been flowering along our back fence since I had brought Allegra home from the hospital.
With that scent came a flickering deep inside of me, like a butterfly beating its wings. What was it? It felt like hope. A change in the wind, a chance to breathe out and exhale just a little more. And as I took a breath, I felt like I was returning to myself again. The dead of night was frightening me less and less. My obsessive thoughts started to fade to grey, until they totally disappeared. And I kissed the top of Allegra’s soft, sweet head, inhaling her very essence.
My recovery from PND wasn’t instantaneous; it took time, patience with myself, medication and the love of my family and tight tribe of friends. And I realised that I was at a higher risk of having it again once I was pregnant with our second child. But the next time around I was determined to be gentler on myself and ask for help sooner if I needed it. Through my second pregnancy, I saw my psychiatrist on a regular basis and we talked about not putting so much pressure on myself. I organised hands-on help for when I brought Giselle home and I wasn’t going to let myself be bullied into breastfeeding. There were no anxiety or panic attacks but what did appear again was that familiar, stubborn pane of glass, still separating me from the sunshine and the rest of the world. But I didn’t ignore it and restarted my medication, which made that glass disappear.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Having PND had been a hard lesson, but it taught me about bravery and courage; that it’s a sign of strength and not weakness to ask for help. I got better because I asked for help. And that is what resonates with me in the wise-cracking words of comedian Joan Rivers. Here was a woman who had her fair share of sadness, struggle and chutzpah in her life. Having a mental illness has also taught me that perfection is impossible, and our flaws are what make us beautiful and human. It has also shown me the power of connecting through our stories, and since sharing my story of PND I have been humbled by the number of women who have also told me about their own struggles. Each and every one of us wears a mask or armour but I’ve learnt that since dropping my armour, I’ve been able to embrace and revel in my imperfection and vulnerability. I love being flawed and fabulous. And we’re all still works in progress.
The experience also taught me to look after my own mental health, which doesn’t always have to be as extreme as quitting your job. There are also less drastic ways to stay on track and for me, that includes getting enough sleep, exercise and mindfulness. I’ve never been a fitness fanatic and I don’t believe the words ‘fun’ and ‘run’ should ever go together. Over the years I’ve dabbled in weight training, which was perfect for both my mental fitness and keeping my core super strong before, during and after my pregnancies. But more recently I’ve been doing Pilates, which stretches my body and mind and the best part is that I go along with my friend Pip. The pair of us laugh, trying not to disrupt the rest of the class, and because we go together we’re more likely to turn up. However, I’m still desperately trying not to fart in my activewear while I bounce off the jump board trying to work out if I’m squeezing the right muscles or not! My instructor has told me to imagine I’m drinking a cocktail through a straw up my bottom! I laugh, trying to visualise drinking an Aperol Spritz like that—and that is another reason why I love Pilates.
Mindfulness is another technique I use for keeping my head together. For a long time this buzz word annoyed me as I pushed back against the new age-ness of it. My mind was never still enough for yoga and, stupidly, I used to lump sugar-free, chakras and coconut oil in with mindfulness. However, the breakthrough for me was comedian Ruby Wax’s book: Sane New World. Her humour, honesty and simple tips about how to simplify your life and deal with that negative loop in your head were game changers. Now I never walk through a doorway without realising that I’m walking through a door!
I talk to my own daughters about times when I’ve been deeply sad or struggled to manage my emotions. I speak to them about my dark times when they were tiny but I keep telling them that although Mummy’s brain was sad, they never, ever made me sad and it was their light that kept me fighting to get back into the sunshine. I teach them that it’s okay to sometimes be sad and those feelings only sweep through us and don’t remain stuck inside. But if it does feel like they’re stuck, let’s talk about ways we can get those feelings out. And I tell them that one way I manage my emotions is by taking tablets for ‘my brain’. However, Allegra is more concerned that I keep taking the pill ‘that stops you from having any more babies, Mummy’. She’s not keen on having any more sisters or a brother …
CHICKEN PIE
This recipe is from the genius 4 Ingredients: One Pot, One Bowl cookbook. I’m a huge fan of Kim McCosker’s no-fuss, ‘so simple even a crap housewife can make it’ approach to cooking.
Ingredients
2 sheets puff pastry
1 barbecue chicken
1 can condensed cream of chicken soup (or you can use condensed cream of mushroom soup)
500 g frozen mixed vegetables (sometimes I’ll leave the veggies out as my youngest daughter won’t eat them!)
Method
Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius. Defrost the 2 puff pastry sheets. Line pie dish with baking paper and 1 sheet of pastry.
Remove all the chicken meat from the barbecue chook.
Next, in a bowl, combine the soup, chicken and veggies (cook the frozen veggies before you add them to the mix so they won’t go soggy during the baking process).
Pour mixture into the pie dish and then cover with the other piece of pastry. Squish the edges of the pastry together so it looks neat and tidy! Cut some slits in the pie lid. You could also whisk an egg and paint it over the top of the pastry sheet to help the pastry become nice and golden during the cooking process. I also like to use any leftover pastry to make the outline of a heart or my girls’ initials to put on top of the pie.
Bake it in the oven for 30–35 minutes. Once it’s golden brown—voila!
You could serve the pie with mashed potatoes or a salad.
Success rate
Perfect score! Four out of four family members eat this.
10
Mothering
My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.
MARK TWAIN
‘Mumma, sing me a song. Sing what you sang to me when I was a baby’, said Giselle, as I stretched across her to switch off her pink bedside lamp. We’d just finished reading a chapter of her latest book from the school library.
‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Mumma’s going to buy
you a mocking bird! If that mocking bird don’t sing, Mumma’s going to buy you a diamond ring. If that diamond ring don’t sparkle, Mumma’s going to buy you a horse and, um, cart-el …’ I sang hesitantly.
‘That’s random. Sparkle doesn’t rhyme with horse and cart, Mumma,’ said Giselle, quick as a flash.
The pair of us laughed as I told my daughter I had no idea what the correct words were for this lullaby. We decided to stick with ‘Incy Wincy Spider’, as those words I did remember!
Only a few years earlier I had known all of the words to these lullabies but as my eldest daughter starts to grow taller than me, and Giselle’s not far behind, those days of when she and her sister were small seem like a lifetime ago. I used to inwardly groan when older, more knowing (smug) parents would advise me: ‘Don’t miss a moment. It goes in the blink of an eye.’ These comments would sting, especially after a tricky day when I had wanted to disappear in the blink of an eye! Surely there’s nothing wrong with that and besides, I’m still on the lookout for my own fast-forward button.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
There is so much I still don’t know about being a mother. But what I’ve learnt is that there is not a one-size-fits-all way of being a good-enough mum. For me, I’m now so much gentler on myself compared to when my girls were babies. My youngest daughter has ‘missed out’ on going to the playgrounds where I would have taken her big sister. I had been going brain dead at the park and the thought of spending any more time in grotty sandpits than was necessary filled me with dread. However, as my confidence grew, I realised I didn’t have to keep going to the playground! Who was I trying to impress? Instead, I found more joy choosing to do things that were fun for me too; like doing dress-ups, colouring in, listening to the birdsongs of our local magpies, pointing out the rainbow lorikeets as well as the tailless lizards who had managed to escape from our cats.
The breastfeeding that had been part of my downfall in the early days of motherhood came much easier the second time around. I had learnt to speak up and wasn’t going to allow myself to be pushed around in the hospital by the bossy but well-meaning midwives. This time I wasn’t going to go home with bleeding and cracked nipples. Each day, I threw back the curtains in my hospital room to stay connected with the wider world. And I also asked sooner for help from family and friends once I got home with my baby girl. I was learning that asking for help was a sign of strength. No one can—or should—do it on their own.