The most important character in this story is my little boy,
David.
I have always maintained that my depression, my illness, was
never anything to do with David. The blackness hit me like a ton of bricks only
a few days after his birth, but deep inside I knew my despondency wasn’t to do
with him. David was the catalyst but not the cause.
People gave me all sorts of advice. They told me I should go back to uni, get a
job, find a hobby, go on vacation, take time out for myself, or (my personal
favourite) give myself a footbath. I know these people meant well, and they
were only trying to help, but I felt like screaming. I knew that even if I were
to put David into full time childcare, get a fantastic job, go on a holiday,
and give myself a footbath every evening the blackness would still be there
waiting for me. It wasn’t circumstantial.
It’s very hard for anyone to understand a non circumstantial
depression. People understand the depression of someone who has lost a family
member or a job, or their health. But how can someone be depressed when they
appear to have everything going for them? I certainly didn’t understand my
depression. I felt I had no right to be depressed. A psychiatrist at the
emergency department of a hospital put it into words once. She asked me “You
have a healthy baby, a loving husband, a roof over your head? Why would you
feel depressed?”. Why indeed.
I was so ashamed of how I felt that I began to try and hide
it. I got up every morning and showered, cleaned my house, returned phone calls,
all the while giving David the utmost care and attention. Depressed people didn’t
get up, didn’t clean their house, and certainly didn’t return phone calls – I had
been there before. Therefore I couldn’t possibly be depressed. Yet at night I soaked
my pillow with tears, and every morning I woke up wondering how I would make it
through the day.
But there comes a point when you can’t fake it anymore. I
stopped cooking, cleaning, doing anything other than the absolute necessary. I
took care of David’s basic needs, he was well fed and always clean, but
afterwards I would stare at him, wondering what I should do, wondering if – in fact
– he was still my baby. At the end, just before my admission, as the psychosis
began, I became convinced that the police were looking for me for being a bad
mother.
But David, my darling David, remained a ray of sunshine in a
dark situation. He warmed my heart with each smile and cuddle he gave me. He
taught me how precious life is, and gave me something to be strong for. David,
ultimately, is the reason why I never attempted to hurt myself.
When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder things started to click into place. I
was told that women with the disorder are at high risk of experiencing manic or
depressive episodes in the postnatal period due to the immense hormonal and
biological changes. Usually these women are treated promptly, but since I was
unaware I had the disorder and was therefore treated for postnatal depression
(which requires an entirely different treatment protocol) things got to the stage
they did.
Sometimes I feel guilty that David endured what
he did. Even though he is too young to understand. I feel sad that he spent two
months of his little life in a psychiatric institution, and I have virtually no
photos of him between 7 and 9 months old. But then I look at the positives.
David and I have an incredibly strong bond now, and I treasure the time we
spend together. I have a WHOLE lot of photos of David from 10 months onward!
David is used to being handled by strangers and is happy to be passed to new
people. But most importantly David has a very happy mum.
There's always a ray of sunshine. My son. My sun.
