My experience of postnatal depression is just as vivid thirteen years on

My next door neighbour recently became a mum for the first time.

Aware her husband works incredibly long hours, I’ve been trying to pop in as often as I can.

Last week, she opened the door to me with a haunted look in her eyes, but still beckoned me in with her usual smile.

Bouncing her son on my knee, I chatted as usual and she kept up with the conversation before suddenly glancing at the ground and whispering: “I can’t do it anymore.”

Momentarily stricken, I suddenly recognised the despair in her voice and remembered my own voice thirteen years ago after I became a mum for the second time.

My first child’s arrival signalled unbridled celebration and I took to motherhood like a duck to water.

Fussing over Christopher, I relished being a stay-at-home mum, cherished every moment I spent with him no matter how much he cried and couldn’t wait to welcome another child into our family.

And then less than two years later Rebecca arrived and I suddenly couldn’t cope.

Like any mum of a toddler and a newborn can attest, it is far from easy.

Your daily life can seem like an uphill battle, but for most mums there’s little doubt that it’s worth it.

For me, there was a lot of doubt.

Doubt and fear followed me everywhere. In fact, it totally surrounded me.

I spent most of the day in a fog as I went through the motions and tended to my two children.

Feeding them both, I would feel sweat prickle and cool on my back as I forced myself to finish the task without breaking down.

Bathing them, I would be overwhelmed by a desire to crouch on the bathroom floor, lean my head on the cool tiles and cry until I had nothing left.

Tending to them throughout the night, I would long for the flat empty feeling I couldn’t shake off to just disappear so I could properly enjoy Rebecca’s presence and her brother’s reaction to her arrival, but it wouldn’t go away.

It just wouldn’t go away.

No matter how hard I focussed on the positive, I felt crippled by these feelings.

Outwardly, I appeared fine…until I didn’t.

Initially I bore a striking resemblance to a harassed mum of two.

I forgot to brush my hair, I inadvertently wiped stains off other people’s shirts and I had two, happy smiling children at my feet – I was picture perfect, in other words.

Until I wasn’t.

I remember placing Rebecca in her playpen one morning in October while Chris lay sprawled across a couch in the same room.

I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to open the front door and walk until I was out of sight, out of mind and away from the children who deserved a much better mother than me.

Standing between them, I could almost feel my toxic air fill the room and slowly poison them.

With weak legs, I made my way out of the room and watched them from the hallway.

Convincing myself they seemed more content in my absence, I took another couple of steps and found myself in the next room.

Soon I was outside in my dressing gown and standing aimlessly in my front garden.

Unable to make a decision, I stood staring at them through the living room window and nearly buckled under the weight of my own emotions,

Rocking back and forth on my heels, I knew I needed help but didn’t know what to say, who to ask or where to go.

I don’t know how long I stood before a hand was placed on my shoulder and I turned to find my husband staring down at me, a look of fear etched across his face.

Taking my hand, he whispered: “We’ll fix this.”

And, slowly but surely over time, we did.

Recalling that moment thirteen years ago when I realised my existence didn’t have to be shrouded in grey and my life didn’t have to be filled with despair, fear and dread, I took my neighbour’s hand and promised her we could fix this.

We will fix this.