by Jessica Rowe
Peter was travelling again for work and I had organised for my youngest sister, Claudia, to come and stay while he was away. I wondered if I could talk to her? Although she was my baby sister, Claudia always had the wisest words for all of our family. But I didn’t speak up, scared that if I put a voice to my thoughts I would spiral out of control. Instead I tried to focus on the delicious chicken pie and creamy mashed potato she had cooked for me. Comfort food to soothe my soul.
No amount of comfort could get that pane of glass to shatter, however, but somehow I managed to keep smiling behind it. Each day I went through my list of tasks, dutifully noting everything down in my diary; it was my way of trying to stay in control while my mind spun faster and faster. Guilty, bad mother—I had my longed-for baby but I had never felt so wretched before. What right did I have to feel like this? I had plenty of support around me. A caring, extended family who often come around for visits, bringing supplies of good coffee and ready-made meals. We had the money to pay for extra help: Christina, our cleaner, mopped the floors and scrubbed the bathroom so the house was tidy. We were not battling to pay our mortgage or put food on the table. I had it easy, nothing to complain about. This mental soundtrack added an extra layer of guilt to the heaviness of my heart.
The mothercraft nurse, Chris, was still visiting each week. Another of her colleagues, Cheryl, also dropped over to sit with me while I breastfed. She softly suggested it might be time to stop and give myself a break. But I didn’t want to stop trying to breastfeed as I was fixated on doing it ‘properly’. We had a nursery full of cuddly pink teddy bears, drawers of folded flowery jumpsuits and presents wrapped in clear cellophane and tied in pink ribbon still waiting to be opened. But it was not enough to break the glass.
My coping mechanism for dealing with my mother’s bipolar as a child meant I was good at pretending life was perfect. I had already fooled Peter, my sisters and girlfriends that I was revelling in being a mother. It was easy to fool the new clinic nurse during our regular appointments at the baby health clinic, too. She was even feeding me my lines.
‘Oh, you’re very different off the television, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘Um, well, you know about the wonders of make-up and a good blow-dry. At work I have an amazing make-up artist to do my face each day. They put on false eyelashes too,’ I said.
‘What about the clothes that you wear on the television, do you get to keep them?’
‘Most of them. Aren’t I lucky? Not that I’m wearing them much at the moment!’
‘Okay, let’s take a look at this baby of yours. Take off her jumpsuit, and we’ll put her on the scales.’
I stopped with my patter, willing the number on the scales to have increased since I weighed Allegra last night.
‘She’s still underweight. How are you going with the breastfeeding?’
‘Alright, and the nipple shields are helping.’
‘Good work.’
The nurse handed over a form for me to fill out, a checklist for postnatal depression. Known as the Edinburgh test, all new mums have to complete it either in the hospital or at the baby clinic. I returned to my script again, joking about the struggles of collapsing the pram to get it into the boot of the car. With a black felt-tipped pen I circled the ‘correct’ answer to every question.
I have been able to laugh and see the funny side of things
As much as I always could
1 Not quite so much now
2 Definitely not so much now
3 Not at all
I have blamed myself unnecessarily when things went wrong
3 Yes, most of the time
2 Yes, some of the time
Not very often
0 No, never
I have been anxious or worried for no good reason
No, not at all
1 Hardly ever
2 Yes, sometimes
3 Yes, very often
I didn’t miss a beat as I worked my way through the checklist.
I have felt scared or panicky for no very good reason
3 Yes, quite a lot
2 Yes, sometimes
1 No, not much
No, not at all
I have been so unhappy that I have had difficulty sleeping.
3 Yes, most of the time
2 Yes, sometimes
Not very often
0 No, not at all
I was in a serious case of denial because the truth was far too scary, and it would have been a sign of failure and weakness, and that was not me. But it didn’t matter how many ‘correct’ responses I circled, that thick pane of glass still would not shift and in fact became murkier and harder to see through.
Peter was away again, filming a story for 60 Minutes, and I was robotically going through my daily routine. As he was flying through some time zone to meet up with a movie star at the Beverley Wilshire in Los Angeles, I sat in my usual spot on the couch, expressing milk using my brand-new breast pump. Allegra had just gone down for her morning sleep, and I wanted to make sure I was keeping up my breast milk supply. The phone rang, and for once I decided to answer it. On the other end of the line was the head of beyondblue, the support organisation for sufferers of depression, asking if I would be prepared to accept a role as a patron of its perinatal program. The timing of the call was extraordinary, as the organisation’s head had no idea I was struggling with my sanity. No one did. Mum and I had done a lot of advocacy work for beyondblue so I had established a close relationship with it over the years. It was ironic, that much of this work included public speaking, carrying the message that there should be no shame or stigma attached to mental illness. And here I was burning with that very shame I had railed against. I confirmed that I would love to help out, and asked that some information be sent to me about the program.
Two days later a parcel arrived in the letterbox, and inside there was a checklist of symptoms for postnatal depression (PND).
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, or feeling 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
• insomnia (being unable to fall asleep or get back to sleep after night feeds) or sleeping excessively, having nightmares
• appetite changes (not eating or over-eating)
• feeling unmotivated and unable to cope with the daily routine
• withdrawing from social contact and/or not looking after yourself properly
• decreased energy and feeling exhausted
• having trouble thinking clearly or making decisions, lack of concentration and poor memory
• having thoughts about harming yourself or the baby, ending your life, or wanting to escape or get away from everything.
I answered yes to most of these questions—but I couldn’t have PND, could I? That soundtrack kept whirring around in my head. What did I have to be miserable about? I had a supportive husband, a wonderful family … I was one of the lucky ones. I wasn’t a single mum, or struggling financially. I was middle class with nothing to whinge about, and I had a wardrobe full of fabulous shoes. But none of that made the pane of glass go away. I told myself to get over it. I hid the beyondblue booklet away in my top bedside drawer, thinking that would silence the negative thoughts. Close it up, lock it away, shut up. Everything will be alright.
There is something about the dead of night that conjures up feelings of dread inside me. I hated sitting on the couch trying to breastfeed while outside it was pitch-black, not a star i
n the sky. Quiet, oh so quiet. The only sound I could hear was the ticking of the silver clock, the second hand not moving fast enough to get me out of the scary night-time world. I wrapped my baby girl up into her parcel of love and lay her back in her cot. Such a good girl, she slipped off to sleep quickly. But I went back to bed full of dread, knowing I would lie there for hours, unable to sleep. Exhausted, every pore of my being wanted to drift off into a gentle cottonwool sleep. Instead I was high on adrenaline, buzzy and wired, unable to turn off the thoughts whizzing around and around in my head. My brain would not switch off. I was scared. I had never felt so tired, but still I could not sleep. All I could do was think, think, think. Tick, tick, tick.
At last I could see flecks of mauve and pink light burning away the night sky. The kookaburras mocked me with their easy laughter. I had survived another night and during the daylight hours I could push the crazy thoughts away. The beyondblue booklet remained tucked away at the back of my top drawer, and I would ignore it for another day. Instead I distracted myself with a walk around the neighbourhood, pushing the immaculate pram with my beautiful baby. My props were my clothes, my smile and my sunglasses.
But when night came around again there was no protection, and I was unmasked by the darkness. There was nowhere for me to hide from my thoughts. The silver hand on the clock ticked relentlessly. I watched it creep around as I stroked the top of my darling daughter’s head. I looked at that perfectly round clock and pondered how easily it could smash my daughter’s skull, worrying at how it could slip from the table and the damage it could cause. I lay in bed and thought about that silver Tiffany clock while Allegra slept happily and innocently through the night.
Then I started 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, the long blade. I was losing my mind, I was turning into my mother. I hated the nights, and it got to the point where I didn’t want to go through another night with these thoughts. I could get through the day, but I couldn’t get through the night. It wasn’t long before those obsessive thoughts snuck into the daylight too. Tick, tick, tick.
I remember as a teenager when Mum and I would sit together under the flame tree in the hospital grounds, a small patch of green to escape the endless grey corridors of the psychiatric ward. I worried Mum would never leave this place, both this place of nothingness in her mind and the grimy room just next to the nurses’ station at the top of the stairs. Mum told me that she too was frightened she would never get out of here. She didn’t ever tell me she would kill herself, but when I left her in the cool shade of the tree one afternoon, one of her closest friends suggested to me that it might be easier for her if we could just let her go. I was shocked by the suggestion. I was never going to let her give up: she couldn’t give up on us, she couldn’t give up on herself.
The next day when I came to visit after school I found Mum lying on her bed, face turned to the wall. She wouldn’t turn to look at me when I arrived, couldn’t string a sentence together. The electroconvulsive treatment was playing havoc with her memory and she couldn’t remember who I was. I sat on the edge of her unmade bed and gently stroked her hair. It seemed neither of us had words, but I wanted her to know that I was there and wasn’t going anywhere.
And now that I was a mother I had truly lost my words. I didn’t know how to speak up and get help and I feared that I might give up. Would the dread of the dark sweep me away? The more I tried to push the thoughts away, the harder it became. The daylight wasn’t enough to save me. I knew there was something very wrong with me. 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?
There were no stars out tonight. Usually I could look up at the summer night sky and feel anchored by the pinpricks of silver reaching out to me, but what had happened to the fistful of stars I could hang my wishes on? This evening there was no light, just a vast black sky that left me feeling icy cold. Unless I could find that silver lining again I would suffocate. I could no longer fight away the terrifying thoughts on my own. I wanted my mummy because I knew she would understand.
The next morning I called Mum on the phone, unable to reveal my fears to her face to face. But I knew I had to talk to her as I couldn’t face another night like that. I counted the rings, half hoping it would go straight through to her voicemail. If it did I could put on my chirpy voice and put off this conversation for a little longer. However, once I heard Mum’s warm voice I realised there was no room for small talk. I had done enough of that and for too long. I needed to jump straight in before I lost my nerve.
‘Mum, remember how you told me when I was a baby that you used to wonder what would happen if you let go of my head when you were giving me a bath?
‘Oh yes, I remember. But why are you asking?’ she said.
‘Mummy, I’m so afraid. I can’t do this anymore …’
‘Do what?’
‘I’m having bad thoughts,’ I stammered.
‘Like what?’ she persisted, with concern now creeping into her voice.
‘I keep thinking about the silver clock.’ I knew I wasn’t making sense, but I wasn’t brave enough to tell her the whole story, or about the knife.
But somehow Mum knew what I was saying. ‘Jessica, you do know that I didn’t want to let you go in the bath, don’t you? I would never let you go! I just worried about what would happen if I did and couldn’t push the idea away. So I stopped giving you a bath and used a face washer to freshen you up. But the more I told myself not to think these hideous thoughts, the more they obsessed me.’
‘My thoughts won’t go away,’ I whispered, while my throat filled with tears. ‘I keep thinking about what the clock could do to Allegra. It might slip from the table while I’m breastfeeding and smash her head.’ I couldn’t hold it together any longer. I started to weep.
‘They’re only thoughts, Jessica. You know you would never do anything to harm yourself or Allegra. Why don’t you give me the clock? It might be a way to stop giving it so much power. But you do need to tell Peter, and you must talk to your doctor too. Promise me you’ll do that.’
‘I promise. I love you, Mum.’
‘Not as much as I love you, my darling.’
Mum came around straight after the phone call. She hugged me while I breathed in her familiar smell, then she stroked my head as I lay down in her lap. While my mother comforted me, my baby girl slept in her cot. I don’t know how long we stayed on the couch. We didn’t speak, we didn’t need words. All I needed was the safety of Mum’s understanding. Before she left I gave her the clock, which she slipped into her handbag. She made me promise again to talk to my doctor and to tell Peter as she would be checking up on me the next day.
That night, while the house slept, I wrapped the carving knife in old newspaper and threw it into the green wheelie bin. The garbage was being collected that morning, and soon the knife would be compacted in the back of the truck. But hiding the evidence didn’t make me feel any better, instead I just felt ashamed. I was a crazy lady, a mad, bad mother. The obsessive thoughts kept running on a loop through my mind. I worried about what might happen to Allegra. I worried that the world was not a safe place for her, that I wouldn’t be able to protect her. The pane of glass between me and everyone else was stuck fast.
‘Pussycat, where’s that silver clock?’ asked Peter.
‘What clock?’
‘You know, the one we got as a present at Nicole’s wedding. I haven’t seen it on the bookshelf for a while.’
‘No idea.’
‘Can you look for it?’
I knew I had to confide in Peter about my despair, but I was afraid to tell him about the clock and the knife. It had been five days since Mum had taken the clock and she had been coming around each day to keep me company while Peter was at work. In the deepest part of myself, I knew they were just thoughts, only thoughts, and
that I would never hurt Allegra or myself. But I didn’t understand where these obsessive thoughts had come from and what they meant for me and my future. I was truly afraid that I now had a lifetime struggle with mental illness ahead of me. I had watched my whip smart mother reduced to a shadow of herself during episodes of her illness. I did not want that life. I had always thought my stubborn, strong-willed personality and permanent optimism would protect me. Instead my emotion-proof armour was now my undoing. I was on my knees, wondering if I would ever get up again.
‘You are going so well. I am so proud of you,’ Peter said cheerily after we had finished eating dinner in front of the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Each night we watched an episode from the boxed DVD set of the series, a routine that had started soon after we brought Allegra home from the hospital. I had cooked Peter’s favourite meal of schnitzel and mashed potato. 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 had to finally put a voice to what was whirring around in my head.
‘I’m not,’ I blurted out. ‘I’m not coping. I’m afraid that 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 was terrified of the thoughts in my head. I could not tell Peter about those yet. I doubted I could ever confess them to anyone.
Peter took me in his arms and held me tight while I buried my face in his shoulder. ‘I know what we’ll do.’ My darling husband had already slipped into his fix-it mode. It was just what I needed to hear. ‘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,’ he said.