On the Good Side of Mental Illness

As I sit and watch my daughter dedicatedly remove each strand of pasta from her bowl, place it on the high chair tray beside her bowl, eat a couple of them and then proceed to move them all back into the bowl, I am struck with how far we have come.

It seems inconceivable that this time last year she was not even three months old. Twelve months ago she was not much more than a blob who couldn't even roll over yet and whom we were worried would never be able to lift her head on her own.

Yet here she is now, climbing the steps to the slide, feeding herself - albeit with the spoon upside down for the most part -, speaking words only we can decipher and bit by bit, developing a cheeky yet remarkably serious personality.

If people kept developing at the rate they do in the first year of life, we'd all be either;
1) Giants
2) Geniuses
3) Giant Geniuses

Then I think about where I was this time twelve months ago. I was struggling, but had not yet fallen into the darkest place I was going to go. I had no idea how to get my life back while being a mum. The idea of working was unfathomable. Sleep was almost a foreign concept with baby waking every few hours. I was lost in the new Mum haze, desperately waiting for the magical three month mark I kept being told was when things would get better.

Yet, twelve months on, I am in a place I couldn't have imagined possible in those first few months. Somehow I am living my life again, making things work, doing things I enjoy and finding time for myself in amongst it all. Making sure things don't slip again is hard, but we are better at recognising some warning signs of things going awry as a family now.

I guess that's the good side of mental illness. In order to manage, get well and stay well, we are forced to alter our lifestyles and stick with those changes. If I don't get enough sleep, eat well, find time for myself and do things that make me happy, I get very unwell, very quickly.

As long as our work, life, baby balance is in check, everything will be ok.

Street Harrassment

I feel a need to address the current push for awareness of street harassment.

A lot of people feel like it isn't an issue.

But I'm here to tell you it is.

Growing up in small town NZ you wouldn't think it would be an issue.

But it is.

Most people imagine that it must only happen to girls who somehow ask for it.

But it doesn't.

And sadly, until I started seeing these calls for growing awareness, I actually believed that it is something girls just had to 'deal' with.

At 29 years old, I am suddenly being made aware that perhaps, we don't.

I didn't think I was a 'victim' of sexual harassment. I never thought I had been sexually abused. Sure - I don't feel safe walking alone after dark. I always put my keys between my fingers walking to my car in the dark. I keep my head down and consciously avoid eye contact with men, when I'm forced to walk in an alleyway or through a park. But that's just normal, sensible behaviour.

Right?

Now, I am reconsidering. This campaign is making me remember the countless times I've been cat called, wolf whistled, tailed, bothered and 'harassed'.

I never considered myself a pretty person. I have never thought I look beautiful. I certainly was never been a 'popular' kid, or even felt like I had any shot at being 'cool'.

I was a moody, awkward, acne blessed, fashion faux-pas of a teenager, who never knew what to do with her hair, and would rather wear comfy clothes and read a book than dress up and go drinking.

I know I didn't feel sexy when I was cat-called from a car at just 15 years old while walking to church.

I definitely didn't feel happily complimented when I was followed by a man in a car while biking home from my zucchini packing summer job at 17 years old.

I didn't feel pretty when I hid behind a bush in a driveway and watched that same car drive slowly past - the driver actively looking for where I had gone.

I sure didn't feel loved when at 18 years old I was tailed by a man in Italy whom I tried to ignore  - which quickly became impossible to do, because he got out of his car and proceeded to try and drag me into it.

I didn't feel beautiful when he then grabbed me round the throat and tried to kiss me and grab my ass.

I didn't smile with pride when I was yelled at, abused and sworn at, for not responding to a middle aged man calling me baby while walking to work in the middle of Christchurch at 19 years old.

I'm nobody special. I'm not especially beautiful. I do not dress especially well, and definitely not provocatively. Yet all of these things happened to me.

These are the times that stick in my memory, and make me keep my eyes down, make me put my keys between my fingers and make me afraid to walk alone in cities, side streets, empty streets, parks and alley-ways. There have been countless other times - but I guess they just get blotted out, become a blur because they are so frequent and normalised.

Besides, I should feel happy that these men consider me worthy of attention.

Right?

Ridiculous Things You Say and Do, When You Have Kids - Or, A Day In the Life Of Me

"No Giraffes at breakfast."

"Stop biting the Cat!"

"Sooo, my baby stole my foundation...."

"What do you mean I have to get changed just because my jeans now have pee on them? No one at the mall will know."

"Hang on, just gotta wash this vomit off my collar."

"Why is there poop in my hair?"

"No Giraffes at lunch!"

"Nope, that's not a Duck, that's a Penguin."

"Nope, not a Duck. That's a Dog."

"Well, that does look like a Duck...but it's actually a Seagull."

"Why have you taught her to say Llama?"

"Oh my, she really does say Llama."

"Nope, that isn't a Llama."

"No, that's also not a Llama, that is a Duck."

"Don't put the Giraffe in your mince!"

"I know it's only 5pm, but can we pretend it's 7pm? She'll never know the difference..."

"For goodness sake, she has FIVE Giraffes - they can't All be lost!"

"Why, is there a Giraffe in our Bath Tub?"

Life After Baby - With Baby

For the first time in more than 2 years, I am feeling...

Happy.

I feel normal. I feel like everything is alright.

I am not manic. I am not depressed. I am not anxious.

I am simply, being, me.

It's been a long time between writing, but that is simply, because, I am...

Happy.

Things are going well. I am starting to glimpse a life where I actually can have a life outside of being Mum.

I can feel bits of me returning. Like my soul has figured out how to live my life again. After two years of adjustment and overhaul, the fragments of myself are coming back together.

Daycare has saved my life. Those precious few hours each weekday where I can catch a breath, where I can enter the world of the Adult, and teach a few kids or eager adults some beautiful songs. That blissful Friday afternoon I have managed to keep completely free of work, where I can sleep, or go to a movie. All of this has saved me, and because of that, I can really start to live again.

My new medication is doing its job. I don't feel cloudy, I don't feel suicidal, I don't feel dizzy, or nauseated, over-ambitious, crazy or any more tired than what I should be with a 13 month old running around the house.

My husband encouraged me to audition for Phantom of the Opera, which is coming here next April. I figured why not, but didn't think I had a hope in hell of actually getting in.

But I did.

I am dumbfounded, and excited and nervous about how it will work - but at the same time, this is the first show I will have done in over 2 years, and the thought (stupid and obvious though it may be) that I can do a show whilst being a stay-at-home-mum, is ......

Indescribable.

Decluttering the House to Declutter My Mind

I've been thinking and thinking about this blog, and about what to write about in this post. Each day comes and goes and I think I have something and then the next day arrives and that thing is gone.

I am finding myself in a strange state of motivation - one which my therapist says is a 'normal' state. But which might feel very elevated to me after being so down for so long. Either way, I am getting an awful lot done at the moment. I am also not getting much sleep.

Here are some good things -

• The little one is back at preschool (YAY!) 
• She hasn't vomited in exactly 14 days (YAY!)
• Two days ago she finally stood on her own! (multiple times!)
• Unfortunately she was naked at the time - so I can't post the photos here (Not so yay)
• I've started writing again! (YUSS) - although I'm not sure if that's good or not - as I seem to only really write when I'm not doing so well.....but I feel like I'm doing fine, so I will roll with it.
• I've been decluttering. 

Now, my husband says this always happens when The Block is on TV. But I disagree, I declutter when it's spring. When the flowers start to come out. When the air warms up and the seasons start to shift from grey and dead to brand new. 

I also see it as a way to declutter my head. To enact physically what I am trying to do mentally. The less 'junk' around me, the less in my head. The less crap I have to look at daily, the more time I can focus on my sanity.

At least, that's what I think it is - perhaps I am just headed for another crash. Fingers crossed that's not the case!

The First Birthday Which Came and Went

Writing is hard.

Like, really hard.

Not like, 'I-can't-eat-that-gingernut-without-dunking-it-in-a-cup-of-tea-or-I'll-break-my-teeth', hard.

More like, 'why-am-I-still-sitting-here-looking-at-a-blank-page-when-my-sink-is-full-of-dishes-and-I-don't-remember-what-my-bedroom-carpet-looks-like', hard.

I don't know how long it's been since the Little One actually made it through 24 hours without vomiting. It's definitely not a bug, we've been sterilising like mad. Boiling her drinking water. Soaking her bottles, sippy cups and utensils in Milton laced water, which, incidentally smells like hospital, and so, takes me rushing back to the psych ward in my mind, every single time the scent invades my nostrils.

I've now un-enrolled her from preschool because it wasn't making any financial sense to be paying for their services when she wasn't actually able to go. Unfortunately, this has meant that I am starting to go a little bit mental again. I need the daily break. I need to know that that break is coming. Which is why, over the past month, I have found myself staring at this screen, willing myself to write something. Anything. But nothing will come.

Yesterday, I cancelled her first birthday party, hours before it was due to start. Husband was none-to-impressed to say the least, but I didn't feel like I had a choice. My stress levels are on overdrive, we have family coming at us from all angles for her birthday, we are swamped in an ungodly amount of toys, I have vomit bowls placed all over the house, I am trying to make her drink to avoid dehydration, she isn't sleeping, I'm not sleeping, I'm having flashbacks of the birth, I'm terrified I'm losing my mind again, family need hosting, house needs cleaning, She is screaming uncontrollably. On, and On, and On and ON!

I'm about to be discharged from the mothers and babies outpatients unit because Little Miss is now 12 months old and that is their cut off criteria. I'm finding that I don't really care, or perhaps I haven't really thought about it. I haven't really had time to really contemplate it amongst all the madness lately.

I can feel my supports slipping away. I'm supposed to be 'better' by now. I'm supposed to be coping. I'm supposed to be getting on with my life.

I find myself being asked the same two questions over and over;

"When are you going back to work?"

"Are you going to have another one?"

But the thought of going back to work seems impossible, if she is sick all the time, how can I take that amount of time off from a job to care for her? How could I possibly manage the stupid amount of extra hours that come with being a High School Teacher, how could I find time to plan, mark, write reports? Could I find the strength to put on my teaching face every day? Perhaps it would be helpful to return to work though, perhaps it would be what saves me, perhaps it's what I need...

And then there's the second question.

Another one?

Really?

Writing is hard.

Getting Sick

In the past three weeks, my daughter has only made it to daycare on average once every three days. In fact, I've lost count of exactly how many times she's been in, because I'd swear that every time she returns, I get a phone-call mere hours later requesting that I pick her up.

Of course, whenever I see the centre's number on my phone now, I feel my heart skip a beat.

Seeing that number means a 48 hour exclusion.
48 hours before she can return to the centre.
10 hours of paid for childcare we aren't able to use.
2 days and nights of having a frustratingly happy, and healthy baby at home.

And then the weekends come, and she really is sick!

We've had four, maybe five trips to the after hours surgery in the past three weeks. Thank God for free doctors visits for kids. Thank God for healthline, we really should just put them on speed dial.

We've had chest infections, fevers, vomiting, hand-foot-and mouth disease, another stomach bug, a days respite and then straight onto the next round.

I am immune to vomit. And starting to question whether it's worth keeping her enrolled in daycare at all?

Why Depression Needs to be Treated Like Other Life Threatening Illnesses

I know. Another post about suicide in a week filled with posts about suicide. Because one man, close to so many of our hearts, felt so hopeless that he did the 'unthinkable' and ended his life, and suddenly, everyone is talking about it.

This week, all the mental health facebook groups I am part of, have been full of trigger warnings, posts by people being deeply affected by the ignorant status updates, tweets and columns being written by people who have absolutely no idea what they are talking about.

I've had this conversation before. "Suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness" I've been told by professionals in no uncertain terms. "Think of your family. Think of your friends".

I've had this conversation with a fellow colleague in regards to a student who committed suicide, he was angry and kept talking about how 'selfish' the student had been.

I've had this conversation with my husband in regards to my own depressive thoughts. Only to be pushed further into despair because truly, at that time he could not understand.

But they were wrong.

Suicide may be selfish, but those who attempt it, are not being selfish. 

In those moments, days, seconds when you are in that much pain, when you are watching those around you suffer because of your suffering, you do not try to kill yourself because you want out regardless of what it will do to those you love. You do it because you want out because of the relief it will bring them.

You see the pain you are causing them and you no longer want to be their burden but you can't see any other way to make this happen.

You see the toll it is taking on their lives, their spirits, their daily routines and you no longer want to be the one bringing everyone else down with you. But the pain is so great, that you literally feel it in every fibre and you have no idea how to make it stop.

Depression that deep, messes with you in ways that no one can articulate. It is an illness so insidious that most people who get it, will fight it silently for years, over and over again, without anyone knowing.

So next time you see a friend who is 'down', or you are confided in by someone who trusts you enough to tell you that they are feeling so bad they want to kill themselves, don't push them closer to the edge by telling them to think of their friends and family. Don't pull them deeper into despair by telling them how selfish they are being.

When you are well, you can see that taking your own life is not the answer. You can see that there is hope. But until we, as a society, are able to take Depression as seriously as any other life threatening illness, then those who are in need, are going to remain in the shadows.

Because would you admit to being unwell, if you knew you have a high chance of being told to simply 'get over it', or worse, being judged as selfish?

Helpful things to do/say instead;

Sometimes you don't need to say anything, sometimes nothing you can say is going to help anyway.

But what will help - and possibly save a life - is just to be there. Whether that's in the same room, or in the same house, having someone around when you are in that deep can really make you feel a lot safer. Sometimes you don't feel like you have control of your own actions, so having someone around to make sure that you don't do 'something stupid', no matter how bad you feel is always a good thing.

If they have told you they feel suicidal, call a psychiatric emergency service, and do a check of their house for potentially threatening items - especially if they are going to be alone for any reason! As I mentioned above, it can feel like you are losing control of your mind, and everyday items suddenly seemed magnified and dangerous. Think about areas of the house they might go to, and what might be useful to remove for the time being. If somehow they do find a way to move from their bed, not having to look at the knives in the kitchen,  or the razor in the shower, or the pills in the cabinet can really make a difference.

Make them a cup of tea/coffee/hot chocolate. Actions speak loud. Real loud. And if someone takes the time to do these little things for you it does get through, sometimes just a tiny bit but perhaps that will be enough.

Make them muffins/food/casserole. Just like you would if they had a bad flu, or a new baby. Having good food they can stick in the microwave and eat without having to actually cook or create is a godsend. When you are depressed, your energy and will power are sapped, you end up eating whatever is at hand, or often, nothing at all because it's just too hard. Having frozen food will actually help keep your loved one healthy and help them get better.

Of course, being there in a non judgemental way is sometimes hard, and if you are having to care for a depressed person alone, you are going to struggle. So make sure you have support for yourself too!


Obligatory 'get help' contact details

• Lifeline: 0800 543 354 - Provides 24 hour telephone counselling
• Youthline: 0800 376 633 or free text 234 - Provides 24 hour telephone and text counselling services for young people
• Samaritans: 0800 726 666 - Provides 24 hour telephone counselling.
• Tautoko: 0508 828 865 - provides support, information and resources to people at risk of suicide, and their family, whānau and friends.
• Alcohol & Drug Helpline 0800 787 797  
• Whatsup: 0800 942 8787 (noon to 11pm)
• Kidsline: 0800 543 754 (4pm - 6pm weekdays)
  

Nappies

A week ago, this happened.

For those of you of the international persuasion, Pams is the non-branded brand of 'things'. They make the cheap versions, and are just one step up from 'Budget' who are the really cheap option.

As you can tell, I was horrified by this. I had horrible visions of the nappies falling apart. Of having to change them hourly. Of nappy rash to rival the black plague. Of having to change the cot linen every single morning!

After days, and days of telling everyone I could find how INHUMAN my husband had become, and exchanging tales of foreboding with everyone from the staff at the preschool to my Mum, I finally finished the bag of beautiful Treasures Nappies, and was forced to use....

...a Pams.

"You're on morning nappy duty." I smugly informed the Husband. Knowing without a doubt that he would instantly regret his thrifty purchase. Revelling in my self righteous wisdom on the superiority of the Treasures.

Morning came, and in typical fashion, the Husband did not 'get around' to changing her nappy before running out the door late as usual, and it was with a sinking heart and an increasing sense of despair that I shuffled half asleep into the nursery.

What I saw, absolutely defied explanation.

The sheets were dry. 

Her pyjamas were dry.

Her nappy was full to exploding, but it was still DRY!!

Well, world. I am forced to eat humble pie, and it is a bitter, bitter taste.

It has been a full week now, and I have not had a nappy fall apart. I haven't had to change her any more often than usual. She has not died of nappy rash. She doesn't wake up wet, and I haven't had to change the cot linen even once.

This week, I was the one who did the groceries. When I made it to the nappy aisle, I found myself reaching for a pack of Pams Nappies.

Because, at half the price, why wouldn't you?

Searching for Faith

For a long time now, I've found myself becoming increasingly jealous of my christian friends.

They always seemed so...happy.

While I was floundering about in a confused daze of 'what the hell is going on in my life', they all seemed to have life sorted, they had 'the big guy' to fall back on, they had faith and they had answers to their questions.

I wanted that too. I wanted the security of knowing that everything had a reason. I wanted to be assured that I was never alone. I wanted to know that someone always had my back.

But I just didn't believe like they did.

I couldn't just 'accept' like they did.

I would ask questions of them, in an attempt to understand a little better what their secret was. Sometimes they answered me as best as they could, sometimes they got defensive, many times even offended by my often relentless inquiry.

How do you know he's real? How do you talk to Him? Do you really hear Him speaking? Can't you see that you have been brainwashed? Why does He let all the bad stuff happen if He is so good? Aren't you just burying your head in the sand, ignoring what is really going on in life?

I would sometimes mention in passing to my Husband - "I think we should become Christian." As if it  could happened, just like that. "We should start going to church again." I would say.

He would ask, why?

I would answer with a shrug, "Because they are so happy. I want that."

But I had too many questions. Too much cynism. Too much fear after watching what my sister went through. How cut off from our family she became. How little we all understood her, feared for her, feared for US if we lost her.

But then I hit my lowest ebb. And, as many of have and will do, I had nowhere left to turn. I was begging for help of a power I did not know.

But something responded. Something spoke back. Something took me to a church, brought my sister to me when I needed her the most. Something showed me that even with the tiny grain of desire for faith that I had, I could find a way through that darkness.

Months on from that fall, I am still trying to find my way. I am going to church and listening to the ministry. I am asking the same questions and searching for the same answers, but now, I am open to hearing the replies.

15 Minutes of Fame and Terror

Stroller update: After my (admittedly excellent) complaint letter I sent them, the company responded in less than 24 hours and picked up, couriered and fixed the stroller all at no cost! Well done, Britax.co.nz!

On a similar note, our pretty cool phil&teds high chair almost killed the child, when the screws became loose in their plastic and the base of the table fell off. I complained on their website repairs request form, and despite not having a proof of purchase (I uploaded a note stating as such in place of the required proof), the company have sent out a replacement chair at no cost. Well done, Phil&Teds NZ!

Now - on with business.

I've been submitting some of my blog posts as articles for different news/current affairs outlets here in NZ recently, in a bid to get a bit more practise writing, a few more things to add to my writers CV, and to gain a bit more exposure in the hope of actually one day getting paid to write (one can hope).

I didn't expect much to come from it, and then, out of the blue (on the one day that our internet decided to crash and leave me without access for 24 WHOLE HOURS(!!), my Mum calls me (which she never does, it's always me doing the calling - just sayin' mum) and practically screams into the phone;

"What on earth have you been up to!"

I had no idea what she was talking about, and responded in kind.

After much to-ing and fro-ing I finally managed to extract from her overexcited self, that my face was apparently plastered all over the nz news website 'stuff'.

I feel that 'plastered' may be a bit of an exaggeration. As is, 'making it to the front page' as my sister delighted in telling me, those stories are not above the fold after all. But, it was definitely there.

I felt a bit proud about it all, and when I was able to have a look at it, the number of comments and likes and shares was simply staggering.

My first thought was;

"Oh my god my face is on stuff and hundreds of strangers have read my story!" 

Which promptly sent my stomach into somersaulting flips of socially anxious terror. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that everyone would know it was me. Everyone was going to be judging me. I was never going to be able to leave my house again!

I breathed.

I told myself that was ridiculous.

I said "in a week, no one will even remember the article. Let alone, who wrote it."

Then I smiled, realising suddenly, that someone with Social Anxiety Disorder would not be able to do this. That a few years ago I wouldn't have even posted a picture of myself on the internet, or commented on something online, let alone considered sending such a personal story complete with a picture, into NZ's most popular news site. The social anxiety disorder which has plagued me for nearly two decades, and which would have rendered me an absolute panicking wreck had I been in the same position in the past (which would never have happened because I never would have written a public blog ever!), was no longer there. 

Finally, I am taking pride in what I actually love to do, and making a go of it. I shouldn't be ashamed, I should let myself read the comments, surely that many comments can't be all bad. So I took another breath, and I read some of them.

And then I read some more.

And I was amazed, every single comment (103 so far), was either from someone who had been through a similar experience, or from someone who was being supportive. 

1,200 people were moved enough by my writing to actually hit the facebook 'like' button and post it to their page. 

This.
Is.
Insane.

My second thought was;

"Why didn't I include a link to my blog!"

Maybe I'll have to submit another story...

Death of a Stroller

Dear Stroller People,

13 months ago I purchased a strider 3 stroller from an unnamed store in Christchurch Canterbury. It's been a great stroller, it did everything I needed and wanted a stroller to do. 

However, just on 3 months ago, something started clicking in the left wheel. At first we thought nothing of it, we figured out that we simply had to push the break lever up a bit more securely to stop the clicking from happening.

But over the 3 months it has gone from a semi irritating click that we were able to stop from happening, to an unfixable, insanity causing, incessant clicking from which there is simply no escape! 

I finally reached the point last week where I am actually unwilling to take my now 10-month-old out in the stroller, because the clicking from the wheel is absolutely horrendous. I swear you can hear us coming half-way down the road, and there is nothing I can do to fix it.

We took it back to the store - receipt in hand this morning, realising that we had unfortunately just passed the one year date a mere 3 weeks ago, yet hoping nonetheless that perhaps, the store would be able to help us out and either replace it or fix it. Of course, we were out of luck, and so I am writing to you.

This was a $600 stroller. I had intended to use it until my daughter could no longer fit in it. But apparently, that is not going to happen, because I am being aurally tortured every time I use it.

We have only been using it for 10 months. I am thoroughly disappointed that it has rendered itself unusable in such a short amount of time.

Until now, I had been recommending it to all my baby friends, as it is such a fantastic stroller. But now, I just want to through it away.

I don't know what sort of warrantee or guarantee you have as the supplier or manufacturer of this stroller, but if there is anything you can do, that would be eternally appreciated. As a new family who have had to go down to one income, buying a new stroller is not something that is going to affect us lightly.

Sincerely,

A frustrated mum

Hope and Wire - clear headed review

Dear Friends who are of Maori descent,

I am sorry for somehow forgetting about that fact in last nights traumatic unloading! I sat there thinking, hang on, almost every major character is Maori. I live in christchurch, and I don't think I have any maori friends - aren't we 'supposed' to be the 'whitest' city in the country? I scanned through everyone I know and thought - nope, I am a horrible Chch stereotype, I have no indigenous friends. So, lovely maori friends - of which you are surprisingly many - Feel free to smack me with your Taiaha when we next catch up! (I'm joking, please don't).

Hope and Wire was, at best, an attempt at a documentary, trying to make you feel something for the characters and then perhaps feel something for them when the fake-quakes struck.

Unfortunately, those quakes were poorly executed - not enough noise during, not enough silence after, but I guess we shouldn't expect too much from an auckland production.

I was angry at how the (I assume) Merivale or FendAlton family were portrayed, I felt slighted by the extraordinary display of poshness presented by the mother of that family. I think we were supposed to be feeling something for her once her son got hurt, but I didn't. I was just annoyed by her hair.

The best and most believable characters in the show are the little maori family from Bexley. The mum in particular was by far the most relatable and convincing on the show. Her emotions were raw, her trauma and her anxieties spot on. Her character wasn't actually there for the Feb Quake, but it was her character that I felt the most for when it happened.

People are talking about all the focus on the christchurch stereotypes that were rife - anti asian, skin heads, drinking, property tycoons vs the tenants, teenage girls in health clinics and uni students being activists. It didn't make any sense. Who are they trying to reach with these stories?  I feel like they tried to appeal to everyone at once, and in doing so, have completely failed to connect with anyone.

I think it would have been better to focus on one family - the Bexley Family, and to focus on how they survive before, during and after. That would be a programme worth watching. That would do the earthquakes and the people a justice they are otherwise being denied as this programme tries to be both poorly done soap opera, and ground breaking not-quite documentary. No pun intended.

Hope and Wire

As I sit here watching the TV3 dramatisation of the earthquakes, I am wondering why I decided to watch it at all.

I think maybe, I wanted to feel something, relief perhaps. Maybe I wanted to prove that I am over it, that I don't care anymore, that I can actually watch something with earthquake footage in it and be ok.

I was an extra in one scene. I'd auditioned for the show the day I found out I was pregnant, and when I got called up to be in a scene I thought it would be fun. But it wasn't. It was cold, and took 5 hours longer than we were told it would. Plus, they didn't pay a lot of us. I didn't say yes to any other offers of work.

I was impressed that they started in September. It seems like everyone else has forgotten that February wasn't the start of it all. Like it was just one earthquake. All the others not as serious and therefore, not really there.

I thought it was funny, the way they filmed the September Quake, a lot of screaming, camera shaking and a funny scene with a naked property tycoon and his young asian wife. I also thought it was funny how many maori people were playing lead roles, since I hardly know any maori people, and I live in Christchurch - the whitest city in NZ. Then I chastised myself for being so racist.

But then graphic showed up telling us it was now February 22nd, and out of nowhere I felt nervous.

Little graphics started popping up, 10:38, 11:07, 12:35. I was messaging my sister, telling her I was getting nervous. One of the characters was driving, trying to get away from the city for a quake-break, leaving her husband behind for work. Then the clock ticked to 1:07. She turns on the radio to news of the quake and I start to cry as I see her face. I remember making that same face. I remember too much.

And then it was 12.51pm.

They interspersed shots of drama with actual news footage. Shelves shaking. Cars shaking. Cathedral square and Cashel St. Bits of building falling to the ground.

Suddenly it all comes rushing back. The sound of the 'cannot get through' signal on the cell phones. My fear that my husband was dead. That surely the uni had collapsed. The gridlock. The sirens. The immediate and numerous aftershocks. I was shaking so bad I feared I shouldn't be driving. But then I wasn't sure if I was shaking, or the ground was shaking.

Then I am crying, and I can't stop. The most I've cried about the event since it happened. The fear, all rushing back. I'm remembering being sure that my husband was dead. That the university must have collapsed in such a shake. I remember the desperation of pressing redial, redial, redial, and hearing those horrible, lonely trio of 'cant get through' tones. I'm remembering the desperation of parking on the side of the road and running to the university because the roads were stuck. No one could move. The students were evacuating. Everyone was trying to reach everyone else.

I wanted to watch this show to prove I was ok. I haven't watched anything else about the earthquakes until now. But clearly, I am not.

I wonder how long it takes to get over something like that. Or if perhaps, you just don't?

Baby vs Cat

Our cat is Bean's best friend.

At least, that's what she thinks. Our cat has very different ideas on this arrangement.

Bub's see's Bella (our cat) and instantly starts whispering 'Ca...Ta...' under her breath. Her face lights up and her tiny tooth is shown to the world as her eyes grow ever wider.

Bella is instantly on alert. She freezes, watching but not watching - a weird cat ability that I have yet to fully fathom.

Then Baby starts to bounce up and down, the excitement of seeing her bestie far too overwhelming for her to handle!

Sometimes, Bella will let her crawl just close enough to almost be in arms reach, before scooting a few meters away and letting Baby crawl a bit further. Rinse and repeat.

But mostly, she just flees the room, as though some unholy terror is being forced upon her.

Sometimes I think she may actually be smarter than all of us.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

I don't know what to write about. It all seems so fickle.

Who really wants to hear about anything that's going on? It all seems so boring. Shall I recount my day to day routine of get up, feed bub, feed me, play with blocks, attempt to unload the dishwasher, change bub, change me, chase the cat, play with a mirror, morning tea, more blocks...DAYCARE!

I can't wait for the festival to be over this year. I can't wait till I no longer have to think about it. I can't wait till I am no longer responsible for it. No more paperwork, no more funding applications, no more endless emails asking questions, no more apologising because I've stuffed up an invoice in a sleep deprived moment of 'what-am-I-doing', no more unrealistic expectations of a new Mum and an ex teacher.

Sleep has gone out the window again. I can't help but be a little concerned about that, but I don't know what to do about it. At least when I give in an go to sleep on the couch I no longer get grief about it. That's a good thing.

But hubby is falling apart at the seams again. He is working too hard and can no longer get up in the mornings. He says I am fragile. He says he has to look after me. Apparently that means keeping our dire financial status from me.

One income. Joy.

I've started dreaming about being at the hairdresser and panicking because I can't pay for what they are doing to my hair.

I read an article yesterday about a mum who is actually worse off by going back to work. We would be in the same position if I went back to work, I know that much.

If National get voted in again this year I will personally assassinate Key myself.

That was a lie.

I am far to fragile to do something like that.

I must wait till I am stronger.

The Truth About Teething

I feel as if it's been so long since I last wrote anything, that I can barely remember how.

Or perhaps it's not that I can't remember, but more that I am currently trapped in a teething nightmare which saps any kind of creativity from my very soul.

Teething. Yet another thing to add to my ever growing list of things I was oh-so-mistaken about.

I imagined, in my innocent, uncorrupted, pre-baby mind, that teething was merely an event, by which one was kept awake by a crying baby for a one night, and then - Voila! A tooth would appear and happiness would once again ensue.

Ha. Ha. Ha. hahahahahahahahahhahahahahha

No.

Teething is not this beautiful joyous coming-of-age story. In fact, rather than falling into the genre of heartwarming/obstacle-overcoming/chick-flick, it really falls much more neatly into a frankenstein thriller/suspense/far-too-long/horror/slasher/gorey movie mashup.

It's been six days since my husband first noticed that there was a tooth on the way. Each day, it's moving closer and closer to the surface. We can see it through the gum line. Getting whiter, and whiter and 'surely it must be through by now' .... but it isn't. The gum gets redder, her nose gets snottier, she dribbles so badly we are changing bibs hourly. So much misery created by one little (although it does look massive in her mouth) tooth.

Bubs has become clingy in all new ways. She has now started screaming when I leave her at day care. Literally, screaming. Crawling across the floor, tears streaming, screaming.

It is absolutely horrendous. I feel like I am torturing her. In fact, just two days ago, for no reason at all, I was overwhelmed with the feeling that I was letting her down in some unimaginable way. She wasn't even home. I very nearly rang the daycare to check that she was ok.

And so, as the days tick on, she now doesn't want her food and we are back to multiple bottles of formula a day. She won't open her mouth for bonjela, she refuses to bite her teething ring. She cries and screams and squirms and won't let anyone hold her except for me, unless I am not in the room and she can't see or hear me.

Because she won't open her mouth, we have to hold her upside down to see if the tooth is through yet. She does love that, I must admit, she thinks it's great fun. But it does make me feel slightly guilty, that we aren't doing it for her benefit.

So, tooth number one is on it's way.

Only 25 more to go.

Gender Stereotypes Abound

Hubby and I were out on a date (by which I mean, shopping for baby when we finally get a chance to be by ourselves), when we stumbled across this set of books.

At first, I was puzzled.

Surely these couldn't be that bad. Surely, if I purchased one for Bean, she could read them and not be affected by the apparently rampant gender stereotypes.  

But as we proceeded to read through each 'book', my puzzlement quickly morphed into disgust.

Were they really asking the kids in the overtly girly book to smile and shout like princesses and cheerleaders, while asking the boys to shout and count like knights and astronauts?

Is this what little girls are still being told they should grow up to become?

By the time we had 'read' each 'book', my disgust had turned into a righteous fury!

How could this be allowed? WHY, was this allowed? Who was behind publishing such horrendous sexist drivel?

Unfortunately, they got worse. The kids reading the pink book with pictures of girls on every page, were told to pose, wave, smile and do any other manner of things involved with looks, while the blue book with pictures of obviously male characters on every page were told to do things which involved using either physical strength, or smarts (also, a horrendous sweeping generalisation)!

Yes. That really DOES say, POSE LIKE A MODEL.

 My husband had to literally (and I am not exagerating), force me to leave the store as I felt my blood beginning to boil.

These books, are everything that is wrong with the world.

The Little Things

There are moments, as a mum, where you are struck in the face with a heart glow so strong that you think you might die from a joy overdose.

As my little one gets older and more aware of her environment, her personality is starting to really shine through and it is truly delightful to watch.

These are the things I love the most.

• Picking her up from daycare: I love this so much, I actually find myself getting a bit excited to pick her up as the time draws closer. I love walking into the nursery and seeing her doing her thing, unaware that I am there. Then, when I call her name, watching her turn in surprise to find where I am, then when she does, seeing her face light up, her arms flapping in excitement, and then, if I'm really lucky, bending down to pick her up as she either crawls to where I am, or reaches up to me. Also, hearing the daycare teachers exclaim about how excited she is is pretty cool too. I am still her favourite!

• Having her reach out to me when someone else is holding her: This is a little bit of a guilty and inconvenient pleasure. Sure, I feel bad for the person holding her, and at times, I just wish she would give me a few moments of baby free time, but that doesn't diminish the warm fuzzies when I see those chubby arms desperately trying to reach me from someone else's arms!

• Seeing her get stupidly excited by the cat, and seeing the cat get equally stupidly as terrified: This never fails to crack me up. As soon as the cat enters the room, Bean stops whatever she is doing and locks her gaze onto her. Her face is an inexplicable combination of pure joy, awe and amazement that such an animal exists. The cat however, will only ever wait until Bean has managed to crawl almost to arms length away, before quickly removing herself, it's like a torturous game of tag that will never be completed.

• Getting a giggle: This, is hard, hard work. Our little one isn't much of a giggler. She is very smiley however, and very friendly, but getting her to laugh, that takes real effort. When she does laugh though, it brings everyone running to see. You can't help but smile and giggle yourself, and no matter how much of a dick you have to make of yourself to get her to laugh, you will keep doing it until the giggles are exhausted, because hearing her laugh, is just, so, delightful. I think possibly, that's what angels sound like. I'm not even joking.

Family Getaway

At the end of this week, we are going on our second family trip.

The first time was bad enough, travelling for 6 hours through mountain roads to arrive near midnight with a screaming carsick 5 month old was not the most pleasant experience of my life.

I am becoming increasingly anxious about this holiday, perhaps it would be better if we just didn't go. I do believe it would be more relaxing. That's the weird thing though, for me, it will be just another day, it will just be slightly more complicated because I won't have everything she could possibly need at my disposal. But from Husband's point of view, this is a holiday. For him it's some time off work and away from day to day life.

There are so many things to consider now. It's no longer simply  a matter of 'have you packed yet?' "No, but we aren't leaving for an hour, so will do it soon."

It's now become an exercise in military planning. A week out, I am thinking of what will be the best time to leave. Just on bubba's bed time? Or VERY early morning before she is usually awake? Whichever one we chose, it CANNOT be at a time when she would normally be awake. So, instead of our normally leisurely day long drives to the parents, we are thinking of getting up at the ungodly hour of 3am, or alternatively, leaving at her bed time (roughly 7pm) and arriving just after midnight. Neither seems a preferable option.

We also have to negotiate what to pack, and HOW to pack it. Strollers, car seats and travel cots take up an enormous amount of space, so we must endeavour to pack as little as possible for ourselves least we end up having no room for the incredible amount of stuff we must bring for her. Honestly, it's ridiculous. I need a lorazepam just thinking about it.

Which is why I'm not thinking about it.

I should be writing lists, and starting to make sure we have things in place. But instead, I am spending all my time writing a Trust Deed, applying for funding and looking at budgets for the Festival which is running again this year. It's not that I like looking at budgets, it's just that I feel I have some semblance of control over a piece of paper covered in neat numbers and deficits.

Oh the deficits.

I forced myself to write this, because writing helps keep me sane, but I think I have a writers block, my mind is too wired to let the words flow. I am dreading this coming Friday.

Where the Dark Takes Me.

This is where the dark takes me.

To places where I begin to question whether motherhood is really something I can do. Where I start to fantasise about pills and escaping and curling up in a corner and never coming out.

Where life gets too much and all I can see is the pain I'm causing everyone around me. The frustration in their eyes that I'm 'still not better'. The anger when they recount to me that they are doing more than they are capable of to help me, everything that they know of to fix me. But that I'm not stepping up. I'm not responding. What more do I need?

But I don't love her any less.
I don't love him any less.
I still feel a heart glow when she smiles, and when she laughs.
I still try to make a clean house because I know that makes him happy.
I read her stories because I know that makes her happy.
I do my best and sometimes I manage to even look happy.

Sometimes I can laugh. Those are good days. Day's when I manage to do things. When I can get out of bed without thinking about how I am drowning.

I remember before she came along. How excited I was. How happy I imagined life would be.

But I was wrong. Perhaps I am not supposed to be a mother.

But that doesn't mean I regret her for even one instant. Because she is perfect. She is my light. But she is also my darkness and in the darkness I believe she deserves better than I can provide.

That is where the dark takes me.

All The Kings Horses and All The Kings Men

It's a strange feeling, losing control of your own mind.

Having thoughts you wish weren't there, and feelings that defy all logic and belief. Considering things which you would normally turn away from, yet for some reason, seem the only logical solution in that moment, that hour, that day.

It's scary to come out of that alive, knowing how it feels, remembering the terror as you fought against your own mind as it turned against you, and realising that it could all happen again. Suddenly realising how it came to be that way, and how fragile you now are, sitting on a precipice with so little standing between you now, and you then.

You look back and you can see all the warning signs, and worse than that, you can see all the cries for help. But you weren't crying loud enough. You thought you could just keep going. That it would be ok, that you would get through this one, just like all the times before.

But this time you have a baby to look after.

You can't look after yourself the way you did 'all the times before'. You have to get up every day. You have to smile and play and pretend everything is ok. Because those innocent eyes look up to you, and watch you and are learning from you. You are now responsible for another human, and there is no time or space to go back to your old coping habits.

You see it coming. You feel it creeping up on you, but this time, you try to ignore it. You try to make it go away. You hear the voices creeping back in, the irritability crawling across your skin. This time, you ask for help but it's too late.

You suddenly can't look at your baby. You can't handle the chaos, the noise, the life happening around you, and so, you fall apart.

It's a strange feeling, losing control of your mind.

It's terrifying realising you can't pick yourself up this time.

It's soul destroying to realise you have to stop. You have to get of the train and leave your life for a while in order to get better. That you have to give yourself over to others to look after you. To trust that they can help you.

But in the end, it is only you who can really put you back together.

Putting Me Back Together Again

Sleep turned out to be my biggest trigger. Of course, sleep with a baby in the house is almost hypothetical. We now take it in turns to look after her, but that doesn't mean I am able (yet) to sleep through her regular crying. I do look forward to those nights 'off' now, and am trying to rest when I can in the day time.

Time out. Simple enough, but nearly impossible to achieve in the first few months of Baby's life. Since we have started daycare, I have four hours a day to myself. It's definitely working, because I know for a fact that those four hours, have single handedly saved me from relapsing already. The hardest part is forcing myself to relax, not just clean, clean, clean.

Watching that I eat for nutrition not comfort is vitally important. The worse I get, the worse I eat. So trying to eat right in order to stay sane is another challenge. Again, with a new baby in the house you are often lucky to find time to eat at all, so that didn't help. So I've adopted a strategy - sugar free may! I don't feel restricted, and I can eat lots of mac and cheese. Yum! (Plus I'm already losing weight! BONUS!)

The isolation of new motherhood is also a big contributor. Many people think that becoming a mum means play groups and endless coffee dates. But those people would be mistaken. My husband was managing to go out and see friends, plus he had his daily social interactions with workmates. But somehow, I was letting friends fall through the cracks. I never saw anyone. Taking the time to actually arrange things is a big priority right now.

Sleep. Time Out. Food. Friends.

All these things can be managed. And manage them I shall.
Because I have to. For her sake, for his sake, and for my sake.

• If you need immediate help, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255)(US)  or Lifeline 0800 543 354 (NZ), or contact your local Psychiatric Emergency Services.

• If you are looking for pregnancy or postpartum support and local resources, please call or email us:

Call PSI Warmline (English & Spanish) 1-800-944-4PPD (4773) (note: NZ also has a warmline for each DHB, so please google their number as they are all different)
Email support@postpartum.net

Motherhood vs Feminism - Is It Really A Choice?

Once upon a time, I was a very ambitious young woman.

I excelled at school. I never failed a test. I got a job as soon as I was legally able, and I saved all my money. I travelled the world alone at 18 years old. I sought out education wherever I could. I went to university and got a degree. I studied hard and got a huge student loan. Then I worked even harder to make my degree into a career, and eventually I caught the job I'd studied for.

I believed that women deserved equal pay, equal rights, equal opportunities.
I would instigate fights with my father over the fact that only my brother was allowed in Dad's work-shed when he wasn't at home. I believed my mother was hard done by as a stay at home mum, and so I stood up for her too, when my father demanded to know why the house was so untidy. I would sit in church as a pre-teen, seething as the priest dared preach a pro-life sermon. I started arguments with pastors over a woman's right to become religious leaders.

I believed, 100% that women could, and should be able to do everything.

Absolutely. Everything.

I have been raised in a society which encourages girls to do everything their male counterparts can do. But better. We have to prove ourselves their equal. We have to earn as much. We have to learn as much. But more than that, we have to earn, prove and learn more than they do.

All the while, people are reminding us that our so-called-clocks are ticking. Familiar phrases start to become part of regular catch ups; "Are you thinking of having kids?" "Don't leave it too long." "You really should start a family."

Before too long, those thoughts had embedded themselves in my mind. I believed I could and should have a baby. I believed that a baby was what was missing in my life. I believed that as a woman, it was my right to have a child. I was nearly 30 years old. What was I waiting for?

Now I am a Mother.

But I still hold those feminist ideals. They are ingrained in my soul and I can't let them go.

The job I studied so hard for, and worked even harder to find, was only mine for a mere one and a half years. I gave up my career to do this, and it feels like a crushing defeat. I no longer have my own income, and I feel like I'm stealing from my Husband. Whenever I must state my occupation, I now write 'Stay At Home Mum', and it feels like my years of education and the career I worked so hard for have been stolen from me.

I think back to a time long before I was born and feel nostalgia for it. I feel sad that in this day and age, in the circles I move, being just a Mum, isn't enough. Raising just a child, isn't enough. Keeping just a house, isn't enough. It's not enough for them, and it's not enough for me.

I find myself wishing for a time when being just a Mother was expected and respected.

So, like a lot of Mother's out there, we try to do both. Some Mother's manage to keep their career ticking along, others are forced to find work wherever they can, oftentimes not even using the years of study. In the process, we are working ourselves to the bone, on day and night shifts working what was traditionally (and biologically) women's work and traditionally (and less biologically) men's work, in an effort to be equal to men. Who, in most cases, have not had to meet us half way (stay at home fathers aside "I salute you!").

This Mother's Day, take a moment to think about all the Mum's you know, who are educated, intelligent women. Who have given up their studies and their careers in order to raise a family. Who are perhaps trying to reach the impossible standard now expected of Mum's by society. Who are suffering for it. Who are exhausted, both physically and mentally. Yet are beating themselves up and feeling guilty for doing so. Because the reality is different from what they were led to believe and this isn't what they were taught to do. We can't let go of the notion that we could and should be able to do everything a man does. Even when they can't.

So is it any wonder then, when you really think about it,  that so many Mothers are suffering and afraid to ask for help?

source:http://www.history.com/photos/world-war-ii-posters/photo2

Letter From Bean

Dear Mummy,
I have had to enforce some new rules around mealtimes, as things are getting out of hand, and I think you should know what they are.

Number 1

I WILL hold the spoon, Mummy. I don't care if I don't end up getting food on it just yet. Does it really matter? I mean, I get the food everywhere else, today I even made a special effort and got it on the wall, so I think it only fair for you that I at least keep the spoon clean.

Number 2

I won't drink that water stuff from a bottle or one of those stupid sippy cups, they are for babies. If you could keep giving me water from a cup that would be great. You will have to hold it though, as my hands are usually too slippery from all the food. You are doing an ok job at that, Mummy, but not yesterday. You should be more careful, I can't drink all that at once!

Number 3

Please stop trying to get me to eat that savoury stuff, Mummy. Why can't we just stick with the fruit and the custard? I know you have been mixing the custard with the savoury, and I guess that's fine. I'll accept that as a worthy compromise. But really, Mummy, can't we just do that from the start? It's tiring having to keep my mouth closed so tight for so long. I thought you'd have learnt by now.

Number 4

Why, Mummy, WHY must you wipe my face after EVERY MEAL? It's AWFUL! I don't understand why you do it, Mummy. My face just gets dirty again. It doesn't seem worth the trauma. PLEASE STOP!

Are we clear?
I think it's time for one of those chocolate biscuit things, I saw that there were more in that packet.

Thanks, Mummy,
Bean

Angry At The System

I'll admit it.
I'm angry.

I'm angry at what has happened to me. I'm angry at how it was handled. I'm angry at my diagnoses - or lack thereof. I'm angry at the constant appointments, medications, changes in therapist, lengthy waitlists, and being constantly transferred between units because you no longer fall under 'their criteria'. I'm angry that all of this is considered 'normal' and that my situation was not an exception, but rather, the rule.

I'm angry that I had my first panic attack over 14 years ago and I'm still dealing with them today. I'm angry that the words "bipolar disorder" were first mentioned 12 years ago, are still being mentioned today and have yet to be either set in stone or thrown aside. I'm angry that I have seen so many different people meant to help that I can't even remember most of their names let alone tell you how many there have been. I'm angry that I was put in an inpatient unit for nearly three weeks, and didn't see a psychologist or a psychiatrist even once in that whole time.

And that's just the tip of the ice-berg.

I have lost my faith in the system. I have lost my trust in my psychologist. I no longer believe they have my best interests at heart. I feel like I'm just part of one big clinical drug and therapy trial.

source:http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog

Here, try this pill. Not feeling any different?

Ok, let's increase it.

Too many side effects? Let's change it. 

Still not working? What about this drug? 

Your feet feel weird? That's normal, nothing to worry about. 

Feeling nauseas? Wait it out. 

Dizzy? How dizzy? That's a safe level of dizziness.

Continue with what we prescribed.

What about therapy?

Sigmund Freud

 Cognitive behavioural therapy

metacognitive therapy

                             group therapy

                            individual therapy 

compassion based therapy

 mindfulness

               talking therapy

                                psychotherapy

 Trust me, I've had it all 'tried' on me.

I discovered all this anger at my most recent therapeutic session, and the feelings have yet to abate.

I am angry that my discharge papers list my diagnosis as 'Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety', yet seem to have neglected mentioning any kind of mood disorder. While some people would be thrilled that they don't have 'anything else', I am just frustrated by its admission. Because as far as I'm concerned, I clearly don't just have depression. Plus, I feel like I've actually overcome a lot of my anxiety issues (and worked really hard to do so). So to see this written down makes me feel like I'm wasting my time in the mental health system. Like they are not seeing the bigger picture.

I am tired of trusting in a system which constantly fails those it's supposed to help. I'm tired of trying so hard and falling so far. I know there are plenty of individuals who work tirelessly within this system, with the best of intentions and the belief that they can help. Unfortunately the system is so broken, there is little they can really do. There isn't enough funding to support their endeavours. The waiting lists are too long to help those who need it when they actually need it. It is too easy to prescribe a pill and send us on our way. Psychologists and Psychiatrists are too expensive for the average person to visit. There are too many people needing too much help, from a system straining at the edges and unable to do anything about it. Pills are only part of the solution, but the other part is not easily accessible, nor easy to give.

I'm sure somewhere someone must have, at some point, been helped properly, been cured even. But I don't know that person.

The mental health system is an ambulance at the bottom of the cliff for most of its patients. And believe me, that is a very big cliff.

The Best Mum vs The Sane Mum

Last week I went home on leave, with no intention to go back.

Today - four days later I am officially discharged. Again, with no intention of going back.

But something had to give. Something had to change. Something had to drastically alter in my life in order to make that happen.

I couldn't keep pretending I could be The Perfect Mum and remain any kind of sane.

To live up to that ideal was, and IS impossible. 

I was determined to be the breastfeeding mum

source:http://nefhealthystart.org/20-actions-in-20-days-promotion-campaign/

When Bubs was born, I expected that I would and should destroy myself in order to breastfeed. Breast was best, at all costs. And it cost me big time. Physically, I was exhausted. Physically, I was damaged. Literally drained by expectation.

After I came to terms with the fact that breastfeeding wasn't going to work, and I wasn't going to be that perfect breastfeeding mum, I found another way to be that best mum.

I became the cloth nappy mummy.

source: http://www.teeheebaby.co.uk/

I was so proud at the end of my first complete cloth nappy day. It was easy. I felt like I was doing the earth a favour. I may not have been able to breast feed, but dammit, I was using cloth nappies, and that was a worthy alternative! And bonus, financially it made up for the cost of the formula we were now buying. So really, I'd caused our new family no financial hardship by my failure. 

But it cost me in other ways.

The washing doubled. I was constantly refilling buckets, and frantically trying to get liners dry on pouring wet days. She needed changing every hour or more, because these nappies weren't as waterproof as the disposables, and with each nappy change, she also needed a new outfit.

But I kept going, because I couldn't fail at breastfeeding, and then be ok with adding another $20 a week to our grocery bill by NOT using cloth nappies. 

So as time went on, I got the routine down. I got up each morning and by 11am, I had put through two loads of washing, hung out last nights cycle. I was exhausted. But it didn't matter. I had to be that mum.

But still I felt like I was letting my family down. Like all that wasn't enough. I was home all day, and Husband shouldn't have to come home to mess.

So I became the clean mum. 

source: http://www.muminthemadhouse.com/2012/11/08/how-to-clean-a-house-a-mum-knows-best/

I made the kitchen sparkle, and the bathroom shine. There was always toilet paper in the toilet, and the dishwasher was always emptied, the vacuuming always done. 

But by now the cracks were showing.

post natal depression: J. C. D'Ath

 I had nothing left for my husband. When he got home I was the snappy wife.  The tearful wife. The wife who wasn't sleeping. The wife who was starting to self harm. The mum who could no longer keep up any kind of facade that she was ok in front of her daughter.

Expectation, both real and imagined, destroyed me in every way.

It wasn't just 'something' that had to give. 

Everything gave way.

A lot of people worked very hard to bring me through the past two months alive. In one piece. To put me back together. And I must be put back together anew. Because the old me wasn't working anymore. 

I write this as my daughter is half way through her first afternoon at daycare. A compromise which I am struggling with, but know I must accept. Because, right now, I can't be the perfect 'stay at home with my baby all day' mum. I have to step back from everything, and start again.

I may not be a breastfeeding mum.

I may not be a cloth nappy mum.

 But now I am not even a 'never put my baby in daycare' mum!

So, what kind of mum am I going to be, when I finally do make it out the other side of this illness? When I am put back together, and intact again, who will I be? 

When I was in high school, they taught us about this model of health. We learnt that all four 'walls' of this model had to be strong, if you were to be truly healthy. 

source:http://sallyhart72.wordpress.com/tag/bi-cultural-partnerships/

I have completely neglected the spiritual wall for years. My emotional wall has been dodgy and bending for a decade or more now. So, is it any surprise that all it took was for Bubs to come along, and for me to abandon my own physical needs, for EVERYTHING to come apart in a way I have never before experienced - and pray I never do again.

I am determined to build all four walls back up to be stronger than they have ever been. That includes eating right, taking time for me, taking time for my family, and (for me) finding god in my everyday. I went to church on Sunday, and something inside me shifted. I felt relieved and like perhaps I may finally be on the right path. 

Because at the end of all this madness, I will finally be a Sane Mum, and then, finally, I can be, the Best Mum.