All in a Day's Work

Image via Pixabay

I recently started working in a hospital. It's actually a community health center attached to a public hospital, but I have to walk through the main building each shift. There's something very comforting about a hospital. I probably don't need to articulate it. It is simply an environment that levels everything. People are being born, they are unwell, they are tending to loved ones or they are dying. People are working in service of others. On every level; whether they're performing life saving surgery, providing care and support, answering questions at the front desk, making food and coffee or emptying bins and cleaning floors. There is something really special about being a part of that workforce community. I find myself smiling the minute I walk through the doors. I feel myself being extra polite and helpful. I start up conversations with strangers in the lift all the time, AND IT'S RECIPROCATED! 

The other day at work wasn't especially significant. I work two days a week and keep as busy as I can for most of the day. The community health center provides services to children from birth to 18 years of age. There are a range of services provided through the public health system for people living in the local area, ranging from speech and hearing assessments, occupational and physiotherapy, paediatric and developmental services, mental health and child protection. I work in the administration section. There are always children around and it feels familiar, comforting and sometimes soothingly chaotic. I sometimes think about my own children when I'm at work. When I'm distracted and busy, they're out of my thoughts, which has given me a balance and freedom from the constant attention required when looking after young children, that I could feel swallowing me up before I got back into the workforce. Going back to work wasn't easy. It took seven months, more than 60 applications and only a handful of interviews, before I finally hit the jackpot. I found myself over qualified and too old for a job that was only two days a week. Those jobs tend to go to school leavers and 20 year olds that employers can underpay. The jobs I was qualified for required shift availability and flexibility on my part, and this time I was inflexible and unavailable. After a couple of decades of being completely at the mercy of employment, I finally had to put my foot down and wait for a role that was accommodating to me and my family's needs. I know it is temporary and I will someday be able to give more, but that time is not right now. 

When I'm idle at work, or it's a quiet part of the day, I think about and miss the kids. This is healthy. The resentment I used to feel about being at home all the time has melted away. Even when I knew it wasn't going to be forever and I should have been loving every minute of being with my babies, I didn't. Sometimes I fucking hated it to the point of desperation. Every mother does. How could you not? Being a stay at home parent is relentless, exhausting and isolating. Someone once suggested I should "get a real job" instead and I laughed and I laughed. He was right. A real job pays you, gives you a lunch break, unlimited toilet and coffee breaks and you get to clock off and go home at the end of the day. Being at home with little kids doesn't. 

When I hear babies crying at work or a fussy toddler, I smile and think about my kids. I'm empathetic towards the (usually) mothers who are flustered and tired, dragging their kids to the appointments and it makes me feel grateful that my mind is at rest that my kids are at a good daycare, being taken care of, having fun and learning. I wish the workers who have looked after my children were paid better, valued and appreciated more. I wish the care service industry treated its workers with more respect and recognised how vital those services are to a prosperous community. I see pregnant women or new mums at work on a regular basis and my heart remembers that feeling with nostalgia, but also a little bit of relief that it has passed. It was so hard sometimes. Rewarding, but not properly acknowledged or supported and very hard. 

I'm acutely aware that I am also surrounded by illness and death. I see patients hooked up to drips, I walk past the radiotherapy ward and walk through the floor that contains the mortuary. I see sadness on the faces of some of the people that walk past me. Expressions of worry, fear and despair. 

The one thing I have noticed a lot since starting work, is that people look you directly in the eyes at a hospital. More so than say in a shopping center or when you're walking past someone in the street. I have a habit of making eye contact. I have big eyes and I can't help it. I remember someone once saying that it was very disconcerting and it isn't something that you are supposed to do with strangers. I think I complained to him that nobody ever smiled and he told me it was because it was unusual to expect eye contact from a stranger, let alone acknowledgement with a smile. I was honestly taken aback. Why? Why was it unusual to connect with someone even momentarily? I hadn't expected to exchange numbers and become best friends, but you know, an appropriate level of recognition that we were sharing the same space was normal, I thought. I get it now. I'm older and wiser. I don't always feel like making that connection either and must appear aloof or rude sometimes too, and I don't care. Perhaps I was worried about being judged before and smiled at everyone all the time. I don't do that anymore.

But at work, in the hospital, it feels like the opportunity and the need to do that presents itself more often. And I really like it. It feels good. It's a powerful thing when we connect with others, even for a moment. I always leave work feeling great. Like I contributed something and had meaningful exchanges. It makes me a better person, and not only is it because I work in a hospital, whilst that does add to the significance, it's the power of working in the service industry. I have always worked in a service based industry. Whether it was food service, or community service, or public service. It was those jobs that allowed me to contribute something useful to others and it made me feel good. It motivated me to do good and to value moments when I was in receipt of another person's service. 

We need to put more importance on being of service to others. Not in a self-serving and self-righteous sort of way, but by understanding that altruism is healthy and necessary, that kindness is vital and crucial, and that helping each other is actually our natural state. We too often get roped into thinking that it's every person for themselves and that's the only way to get ahead because nobody would do it for you. That's utter bullshit. Everyone has at one time or another been helped. Help is readily available if we are just willing to find a source, ask for it, and receive it gracefully. Opportunities to give are everywhere and really simple. There is no need for aggrandisement. Slowing down to let someone into your lane in traffic, letting someone with less items in front of you in the supermarket queue, holding a door open, giving up your seat...too easy. When we feel strong and the opportunity presents itself, do good, and pass it on. Guaranteed, it will come back your way when you need it too. Then you start to notice those moments more and the laws of attraction kick in. Maybe it's just a slight shift in awareness, but at work it happens all the time. If I go about my day with a positive attitude, willing to help others, being mindful of the people around me and their feelings and needs, I then notice when my needs are being met. I'm bringing this attitude home to my children the three days I'm with them too. I don't have that feeling of isolation and enclosure anymore. I have more patience and I'm more willing to find the silver lining when things get tough. I still understand the massive discrepancy in society when it comes to women's roles both at home and in the workplace. That inequality is still not resolved and is far from balanced, but I feel like I have struck a balance in my own life that is allowing me to contribute to the lives of others so that they may benefit too.

Most of the time we blend in like the grey umbrellas, but when we can, we can choose to be the yellow one.

Resolutions

Making resolutions is a tricky thing. Big decisions are made, mostly in our own minds, during a rush of emotion, often marked by significant milestones in life. New Year's Day is the most common one. Birthdays too. We feel like we are getting a clean slate. The end of something and the hope for a new beginning. There are other triggers too. Falling in love, a quarrel, losing or starting a new job, having a baby. Sometimes it's simply a matter of waking up with an unexplained surge of energy. After a powerful yoga session, I feel like I can change the world!

The reality though, is that many of these thought processes never see the light of day. We don't manifest many of the thoughts in our mind, because they are simply thoughts. What ifs. Coulda, shoulda, wouldas. That's why we are such suckers for entertainment. Living vicariously through others. Reality TV, a sitcom or soap opera, a film or play, music. We look outside of ourselves and want that feeling within. "I'll have what she's having!"

Finding a balance between dissatisfaction and gratitude is tricky. It's no good simmering in bitterness and unhappiness, but complacency is the killer of dreams. It's tempting to live vividly in our heads and merely survive reality. Or go the other way; mindlessly seeking instant gratification to satiate our endlessly insatiable desires, never making peace with anything we do or have.

Where can we get perspective? In nature? With our loved ones? Through exercise, sex, intoxication? Why not all of them?

Above all else is creativity. I think the answer lies in Art. What is your art? What do you create alone? By yourself and for yourself. Do you garden, cook, paint, write, play music, sing, build, craft, mend or heal?

Sometimes the jumble of thoughts that make us crave change are just a jumble of thoughts making us crave change.

Fizzy, muddled energy that clouds our vision and torments our feelings.

Go make something beautiful. Make it a habit. Share it. Sell it or give it away, display it or collect it for future generations to find. And learn to read what you create. What does it tell you about yourself? What does it make you notice? How does it help you to see? What path is it leading you on? 

Do it. Or not. Sometimes doing nothing is an act of creativity - simply observing, existing, when life is demanding you to do anything but. What art and creativity does achieve is a manifestation of energy, a practice that trains us to make decisions. To choose. It really does. Art, in and of itself, imitates life. It teaches you to think and see efficiently. To make sense of the 'thought mess', the 'feeling chaos' and turn all of that into something beautiful and meaningful. Or at least external. Art pushes out the muck inside and transforms it, makes sense of it. It liberates and lightens. It empties and makes room. Art creates and takes up space simultaneously. It facilitates balance.

This is my resolution for 2018. Also, growing out my eyebrows, but that's another blog post.

I resolve to create. I write. I crochet. I sew. I might draw and paint again. I make every action a work of art. As luminous with beauty or prickly with ugliness as it needs to be, I resolve to notice my ability to create. What other purpose is there? 

Happy New Year.

Why Books are Magic, Especially for Children

When I was a child, my nickname was Booka Book. I repeated the phrase over and over again: "Booka booka booka booka", whenever I wanted a book. My parents gave me books, they let me flip through the pages and absorb them, they read to me. Golden books and Lady Bird books were favourites and I still have many of them, that I have now passed on to my children. 

My kids are at the age, (my eldest is three and a half and the twins are almost two), that they are finally appreciating books. They no longer squirm and lose interest and become distracted when I try to read to them. They will sit together immersed in a pile of books, alone with the pages and the stories inside. Sometimes swapping between themselves, the eldest 'reads' to the siblings, reciting from memory what happens on each page. Sometimes word for word from those stories that rhyme or making up sentences as the pictures come to life in the mind. The twins are transfixed when they listen and jibber away in their own baby language, when they have a book to themselves. 

We have finally nailed down the bedtime story ritual. Whatever happens with books during the day, at bedtime we choose one or two books, sometimes three if it's early, and I sit on their bedroom floor and read to them. For the most part, they listen and join in. They know the last words of a familiar rhyming sentence and we say it together:

"...and his favourite food is roasted....?"
"FOX"

That's from The Gruffalo. It's a favourite in our house. So is The Gruffalo's Child, Room on the Broom, The Paper Dolls, in fact anything written by the incredible Julia Donaldson. 

Another staple in our house is anything by the incomparable Lynley Dodd. Hairy Maclary and his friends visit our place often and they are as familiar as family members.

These days, our children are so lucky. Not only do they get to delve deep into their own imaginations through the magic of these stories, the books come to life in animated reality. Some of their most beloved tales have been made into cartoons that not only bring the pictures and words from the pages to life, they fill the gaps in the stories, highlighting the nuances that can be easily overlooked. Like in Room on the Broom. The dragon flies low and menacingly over a bog filled with a large toad and her babies. As he passes, they fart bubbles into the mud. That isn't in the book!

As fantastic as technology is, and it is, despite how much whining and criticism we hear about how everyone's face is stuck in a screen these days. So what! They once said novels would destroy young people's souls too. As fantastic as technology is, it still doesn't compare to flipping the paper pages of a colourful book. Children slow down. They go places while sitting still. They do it alone and independently and they grow as a result.

Solitude, self sufficiency, a quiet space to let the cogs of your brain turn and link up happens in a special way when you hold that bundle of paper and absorb it, letting it seep into your psyche and do what it needs to without distraction. Because that, to me, is the biggest difference between reading anything on the internet and reading a book. It's the volume of messages and pathways reaching out for your attention all at the same time when you're on an electronic device that makes your brain and your being travel too fast sometimes. That's not always a bad thing. It teaches you to be discerning and efficient. With practice you learn to skim and only take in the stuff that you need, the important information you require and discard the junk. But it's only when you're focused and expert at skimming that this works. Other times all sorts of junk falls through the cracks and derails your thinking. Again, not necessarily a bad thing. Who knows what you might learn by mistake!

A book, on the other hand, well it's a kinder journey. It's a cruise not a speed boat and sometimes the adrenaline flood is best put aside. 

I'm Addicted to Crochet

It might seem like a strange hobby for a young woman. When I say young, I mean 40ish, which isn’t that young really, but I’ve been crocheting for years. I must have been in my late teens when I first learned and completed my first project, a granny blanket.

Crocheting is one of my favourite, if not at the top of the list, pass times. I was taught by my mum and my aunty and it is something passed along from one woman to another in my family, no doubt most families, of women who crochet, knit, stitch, sew. It is one of those oral traditions and practical skills that women just show and teach each other. Although these days, with Pinterest and super crafting websites, the abundance of materials, design and information sharing, it’s no longer just a pass time for old grannies. It’s a global art form ranging from the humble beanie to elaborate creations, like the art works of Shauna Richardson who crochets giant animal sculptures that were featured in the London Olympics. Her work is known as crochetdermy – literally crocheting life size and larger, true to life animals. 

I remember traveling through Europe in my early 30s and being completely enamoured by the lace making traditions in Venice and Malta. Those artisan crafts are at risk of disappearing and they were urging young women to take an interest, to talk to their elders about the craft and perhaps even learn, so they can pass it on to future generations. 

Lace Displays in Venice - Own Photos

Maltese lace making – Image via maltainsideout.com

     

I once attended an exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney that showcased some incredible lace and crochet creations. From wall hangings to garments and jewellery. Even crochet inspired urban fencing! It was truly incredible.

Crocheted Tea Set – Own photo

Wall hanging - Own photo

Garments – Own photo

Jewellery – Own photo 

Crocheted fence – Own photo

I love everything about crocheting. I love buying the yarn. Here I am holidaying in New Zealand in 2010 in a yarn shop. Happy much!!!

I love the feel of the hook traveling through the soft yarn and the rhythmic repetitive knot making, which is all crochet essentially is. Over the years I practiced the basic stitches over and over until I could do it without looking and gradually learned to not only understand the combinations and designs by reading written patterns, I also taught myself to read diagrams, which are much easier and less prone to errors.

It’s easy to learn how to crochet these days. There are YouTube tutorials for everything and the simplicity of crochet, once understood, demonstrates the endless possibilities that you can create and make. From garments to dolls, blankets, homewares, bags and anything else you can come up with. And it doesn’t have to look daggy. Some of the most well known designers like Dolce and Gabbana have released crochet lines. But who would want to spend exorbitant amounts of money on a homophobic and misogynist brand when you can make shit for yourself.   

Crocheting gives me peace of mind. It is incredibly meditative and relaxing, but it isn’t mindless. There is a lot of concentration and problem solving involved. Also mathematics, logic, creativity, ingenuity, patience and generosity. Crochet is a wonderful avenue for gift giving. I love nothing more than to make something for someone else and there are many opportunities to crochet for charity; from blankets for refugees, little pouches for orphaned baby animals and tiny beanies and booties for newborns and premature babies in hospitals.

Crochet as therapy is undeniable for me. It puts me into a meditative state, regulates my breathing and distracts me from negative thoughts. It’s a great time filler and lets me surrender to a productive experience when I’m feeling idle or am procrastinating. Best of all, it keeps my mind active and alert, but at ease. There have been some suggestions that crafts like crocheting can improve the health of the mind, even preventing or delaying the onset of dementia. It can improve memory and trigger recollection of treasured events in one’s life. The book Crochet Saved My Life by Kathryn Vercillo talks about how crochet can help with depression and stress at the very least. There isn’t a lot of scientific evidence to support the health and psychological benefits of crochet. Most of the information tends to be anecdotal and comes from people’s individual experiences. My uncle told me that his mother once had a stroke and the doctors weren’t optimistic about her recovery. She was a champion level crocheter. She invented stitches and patterns in her mind and could make absolutely anything from crochet. She did absolutely beautiful work. He tells me that after her stroke, she resumed crocheting and her facial paralysis improved. In fact, she made a complete recovery and astounded her doctors. It is hard to prove if there was a link between her crocheting and her recovery, but the doctors thought it was possible. It certainly didn’t do her any harm and she lived a healthy and productive life for many more years. 

I have made so many things over the years. For myself, my friends, their babies, my babies, for raffles and for strangers. I’ve photographed most things because I part with most of them. Someday I hope to share this skill with my daughters. They watch me now, mesmerised by my hand movements and the colour of the yarn. Ok, so mostly they play with the balls of yarn like kittens and undo my rows by pulling at it, thinking it's a game, but I do see that glimmer of curiosity and they love trying on their hats and ponchos as I make them. They watch me wear my beanies and scarves and gloves and smile at all the colours of yarn in the big bucket by the lounge. When all else is just too hard, I crochet. I sit quietly and knot and knot. Mostly I make little projects that are easy to complete and give me instant gratification, but there’s nothing more satisfying than finishing a big job like a blanket. The girls have one each and I made all three while carrying them in my belly, those memories woven in every stitch.

My Fling with PND

My fling with PND lasted about an hour. I say fling because it wasn’t a full blown relationship. We met, we checked each other out, we had a bit of a pash and then I realised PND was a complete bastard and wanted nothing to do with it, so I dumped it.

When I had my first baby, I was so thrilled that I’d finally conceived after a year of trying and getting really close to intervention, that I literally threw myself into mothering her. I jumped every time she squawked. I leaped out of bed enthusiastically in the middle of the night to feed and soothe her. I prolonged every phase of her development; mostly because I was too inexperienced to read the signs that she needed to change, but also because I indulged in the established routine and was afraid to alter it. With support and information, we got there in the end. She ate solid food and weaned off the breast easily, she slept through the night, she rolled, crawled and walked, she got teeth, she’s talking and she even sits on the loo every now and then and actually goes. Even when I was tired and frustrated and confused though, I was never really depressed. I never felt utter despair. I didn’t feel rage. I wasn’t confused to the point of sobbing. I was content and happy. For the majority of the time it was me and her in the trenches. Her dad at work during the day and during the night, I insisted he sleep so he could function at work the next day, knowing I could rest when she napped.

When the twins came along she was 18 months old. Again we were thrilled to be having not only another baby; a much wanted sibling for her, but two healthy little girls. Our family was going to be full, abundant; something we dreamed of, but weren’t sure we were going to achieve. Despite everyone’s shocked warnings of how busy we would be and the necessary banter about the chaos that would ensue, we were truly excited and thrilled. We weren’t under any illusions that it was going to be easy, but we felt prepared. Raising our first through that first year was still fresh in our minds and we learned a lot. We knew it wouldn’t be the same though. There were two babies at the same time and a toddler who’s nurturing still needed to be observed and progressed milestone by milestone. We were going to become masters of multi tasking, champions of triage, expert jugglers. Well I was mostly, because let’s face it, I’m the primary carer whether I care to admit it or not. Yes I have support; my husband and parents do their best to help me. However, the majority of care giving for all three children at this early stage is my sole responsibility. It was my choice, my preference and I can do it. I do it pretty well. But it’s bloody hard and sometimes, it doesn’t have to be, but it is. Sometimes there are more obstacles and hurdles to jump than there needs to be.  

I first flirted with PND shortly after settling back at home from hospital with the twins. I’d had another caesarean and was in a fair bit of pain, but luckily the hospital sent me home with a small supply of Endone. I have a lot of feelings and rationalisations about both my caesarean birthing experiences. Bottom line is I did not give birth vaginally. I say vaginally not naturally because that implies that it’s a competition between natural and artificial birth simply defined by which part of your body the baby came out of. And people are too shy and uptight to say the word vaginally....vagina. It is so much more complicated than that. Yes, a caesarean operation is medicalised and involves a lot of artificial intervention for want of better words, but vaginal births are rarely without assistance too. I am completely in awe of women who go into labour naturally and give birth without any drugs and no intervention like episiotomy, forceps, vacuums, tearing and no assistance to the baby afterwards either. Heaps of women do it and have done throughout history. More women are aiming for that these days and when everything aligns and there is a perfectly healthy, low risk pregnancy, strong supportive networks around the pregnant woman, intelligent and woman focused midwifery and doula services, progressive medical systems to fall back on, education, money, comfort, time, peace of mind – so many factors; when all those circumstances combine and harmonise, it is definitely more possible and desirable for a completely natural birth to happen. When it doesn’t go completely perfectly, we are lucky enough to live in a country where medical birthing support is available and accessible and whether a woman needs a little help or a lot, her birthing experience can still be positive with the desired end result that everyone aims for; a healthy, safe AND HAPPY mum and baby. I needed a lot of medical support both times. The first time I wasn’t prepared for it, the second time with the twins I was, but still needed more than I thought I would. I was in excellent hands. I was surrounded by incredibly kind and capable people at both hospitals; one was public the other private and I learned a massive lesson; that so many expectations are placed on birthing women, so many false assumptions are promoted and there is a lot of misinformation out there. We as a species are still evolving biologically, emotionally, psychologically and culturally and all these factors contribute to our birthing experience. It is the single most important and profound human experience there is; perpetuation of our species and next to death and physical illness or injury the hardest thing a human will have to endure. Really. What else is harder or more profound? Don’t get me wrong. In saying that, I am not saying that a choice or otherwise not to experience that leaves you lacking; there are other human endeavours that are just as challenging in other ways, but giving birth and raising a child is intense and unique. We need to honour that better as a species and acknowledge what is necessary in a collective way to ensure that the experience has the best possible outcome for everyone. At the moment we don’t do that all the time. This is reflected in so many aspects of society. The administration of medical support to pregnant women to facilitate self determination in their birthing experience, the gender inequality women experience in the workplace and in society generally, how public spaces cater to parents, children and families and how we address issues surrounding depression and mental illness to name a few. We don’t look after our planet either, we don’t look after each other. We need a Revolution. Right now I’m reading Russell Brand’s book by the same name. It says everything I am trying to say so much more concisely. 

So the drugs ran out, I was making sense of my birthing experience; mine and the whole idea of birth generally and at the same time trying to fall into a new routine with two newborns and a toddler. When I say I was thinking about it generally, I was thinking how lucky I was, even though I felt obligated to explain or defend my experience of a very medicalised birth to many people. When you have a caesarean you have to explain what went wrong. It is not how I experienced it. Everything went right. I didn’t die and neither did my babies. I was surrounded by kindness and made comfortable in every possible way and I was surrounded by the love of the closest people in my life at all times. What more did I want? What more did I have to do to demonstrate and prove to people that although I would have liked to have given birth vaginally both times and everything I came across – people and information – preparing me for birth was telling me that was the proper way to do it, I actually had no control over how my body behaved and could only trust that the intervention I received would ensure a good outcome? I thought about women who have none of that. They may give birth vaginally and drug free, euphorically and safely, but they may have no other choice and if something goes wrong, it goes terribly wrong. They may be living in a remote community or in a war zone or a refugee camp. They may have no family or medical experts to cajole them through the pain and terror and have to muster the strength through their own self determination and survive the consequences no matter what happens. I started to think about birth on a global scale and this was magnified with every little experience I confronted. Whenever I found myself lamenting over a particular aspect of my experience, I imagined the alternatives. I found gratitude. I reasoned that it could be worse and how can I make it better for myself and for others. This story helped me immensely.

 

I took the babies and continued to take the toddler to the health clinic for their periodical check ups. At the end you do a little tick a box quiz, which I love and have absolutely no cynicism about how leading they are (eye roll) and I always scored pretty well. I always answered completely honestly, because I am up for the discussion with the nurse and ready to rant about how I feel about the label Post Natal Depression. Again, it’s not that I don’t believe it exists. I am certain it does and that there is a spectrum. However I understand where I’m at on that spectrum and my critical analysis is that you can’t put a woman in a pressure cooker and expect her to remain cool as a cucumber in a crisper all the time. That’s just madness. I always answered the questions truthfully and I especially loved the one about the sense of humour. That is my measure for my state of mind. Can I still laugh at things? Am I still able to find the comedy? The answer is almost always yes. The other good ones are about crying and raging. Do I cry and rage often? Not like the normal amount that is expected when you are elbow deep in shit most days, when you are exhausted from broken sleep and waking through the night sometimes hourly, when your body is being ravaged by breastfeeding and mastitis – I’m on my sixth bout and this time the site of infection was right behind the nipple and one of the twins has teeth…..yep excruciating. When you are alone with three babies most days and you’re doing most of the feeding, lifting, napping (them not me), changing, cleaning, singing, entertaining, routine monitoring, cooking and food preparation, thinking and planning and observing….what do they call that these days? Hypervigilance. 

So at around the babies’ 6 month check, which was really at 8 months because we were delayed after one of them had a minor cleft operation at 4 months; it was at this appointment that I answered truthfully; I hadn’t had a good belly laugh in ages. I cry more than normal – when the babies refuse to sleep, when I am in pain, when I feel unfit and frumpy, when I haven’t got time to write or crochet, when I’m bored of the same three rooms and I despair at a world that is cruel to women and girls and I am raising three. I rage more often than I used to. I nag my husband and my toddler; I pick fights with them and my parents. I get the shits with the general public (OK I did this most of my adult life, but now it’s for different reasons like why are they taking up the pram parking when they don’t have children, why is their trolley abandoned in the middle of the isle, why is the neighbour continually slamming doors or using power tools beneath my bedroom window, why do people have to mow lawns so often, why are people so impolite, rude, indifferent, conceited, incompetent, complacent….why am I so angry all the time.)

The baby health nurse listened to me and validated my feelings. She said everything I was going through was understandable. I’m in the thick of it and she recognised that I am very self aware. I made a commitment to take some time out and go back to looking after my body and mind through yoga. I have now bought a ten class pass and started classes.

When the teacher asked at the first class if there was anything in particular we wanted to address at the session I had to bite my tongue. People said their lower backs and neck hurt, some wanted a good stretch – I wanted to address my deep seeded rage and existential confusion; I didn’t say it out loud. At one part of the class we were lying on our backs and he asked us to take a deep breath and release it with a loud sigh; I fought the urge to scream out MOTHERFUCKER.

It’s a start. I’m trying to do one or two sessions a week and I’m already seeing the benefits. For some people who are experiencing Post Natal Depression it is much more serious and complicated than that. Maybe they don’t have the tools to critically analyse and understand what they are experiencing and only see the symptoms independent of the causes. For me it isn’t like that. I can’t control feeling like crap; crying and getting angry, feeling overwhelmed and confused, feeling lonely and isolated and desperate that everything is bleak and hopeless. But when the moment passes I can make sense of it and I understand that I feel those things not because of something inside me that is dysfunctional or broken, but instead I see it as a very normal response to what I am experiencing being a stay at home mum to three babies under the age of two. I think that if mums didn’t respond with the emotional and psychological behaviours that we associate with depression after making a human or two or more in their bodies, having given birth and being suddenly bombarded with the immense responsibility of taking care of babies; if they were all calm and positive and well groomed and happy all the time; that would be psychotic. That would be dysfunctional and not a normal response to the stimuli. 

For some women, medication is absolutely appropriate. I am afraid to take anti depressants because I think I will like them too much. I recognised something very sinister in myself when the Endone ran out and I faced the prospect of having no more pain killers. I felt a bit like a junky that needed their next fix and was not going to be able to score. I have an indulgent and addictive streak that I need to keep an eye on. I am very good at utilising tools like wine for example, to self medicate and keep me calm. This hasn’t been an option until recently because I don’t like to drink at all while I’m breastfeeding, but the babies have cut back on feeds and I’ve been allowing a glass or two each night and it has made an immense difference. I can get a good buzz on with just a small amount and it is helping me get through the nights. The babies still don’t sleep through and I think the nights are the hardest for people who experience depression. On second thought, the nights are hard on most normal human people who are engaged with the nature of existing and have a mind and emotions. The nights are dark and silent and the self and the mind are alone to dwell and reflect. The self is awake to dance up a storm of despair and uncertainty that the day time can easily mute and hide in the light. If it was legal, I’d smoke a joint once in a while.

I guess my point is this. PND is very real and very debilitating for some women, but it isn’t a flaw in them. It isn’t a condition that is inherent in their nature. It is a response to a situation that will push any normal person to their absolute limit. Women all deal with this pressure differently and we all make choices and sometimes have no control over how we experience pregnancy, child birth and parenting.

I’ll end with one of my favourite quotes.