Believing I can write

I was very flattered a few weeks ago when I was asked to write a piece for the Kiwi Families website. I have wanted to do more writing for a long time but have struggled with self confidence and time to actually do it. I have had so much positive feedback from people about my blog and my writing and I also love doing it. But it always falls the bottom of the list and there never seems to be enough space for it.

But writing this piece has made me really think about the fact that if I love this so much then I actually have to make space in my life for it. There are always reasons not to do something. I can think of a list a mile long. But even before and chaos and craziness of have kids, I still didn't make the time.

I read a lot of blogs. Mummy bloggers I guess. But many of these Mums who write see themselves as "writers". Their writing is not a hobby. It is there vocation. They aim to make a difference in the world through their words. I see their lives through the filter of what they choose to reveal and it is easy to idolise or assume they inhabit some alternate universe where the normal limits and obstacles do not apply. But these writing women also tend to be pretty vulnerable and honest and you can also see that writing for them is a choice and a discipline. A sacrifice of other things to make space for their hearts and passion for writing. And it is a battle to overcome self doubt and pride and ego to write things worthy of the pixels and paper they take up. You cannot deny the practical realities of life, such as the fact that I have to work, that I still have one preschooler who I need and want to spend quality time with. But there are no rules of how often or how much. There are no strict deadlines or goals to achieve. I just need to make space to do what I love.

Bumping along the bottom

I am sure you have heard the phrase "a bottom feeder". It is a metaphor for someone who feeds off the lowest and seediest parts of life. I am not that. But I am recognising that it is possible to be stuck at the bottom in life. Imagine a bottom feeding fish, swimming around in the almost dark and murky waters. All this fish sees is the mud a few centimeters in front of it's face. It is oblivious to the amazing wonders just a few metres above, where the sun's light reveals more and encourages life to thrive and grow.

In this sense I have been a bottom feeder. And the worst thing about it is you don't really know you are. You actually start to believe that all there is is mud. You lose faith that there could be anything else. Mud becomes normal.

For the last 6 months I have been on a new medication.  It is an SNRI and works to make my brain more sensitive to both seratonin and noradrenaline.   Gradually I have been increasing my dose, with the support of my very caring doctor. I didn't want to be on more medication than I needed. This new medication goes up in very small increments but the maximum dose is very high in pure grams than my previous medication. But what I am learning is you cannot compare dosages between medications. It would be like comparing 500g of beef mince with 500g of ground black pepper.  One is a good family meal, the other could be used as a form of torture.  Anyway, after multiple increases between January and March, I was feeling better.

I wasn't in that horrible blackness and having the awful self hatred or thoughts of self harm, ( the shame of sharing that I struggle with that level of depression and those thoughts is so huge). And since it had been that bad, things seemed so much better. Unfortunately with this type of medication, a positive response to an increased dose just confirms it was necessary.  But if the dosage is still inadequate, the positive side effects will gradually wear off. Slowly the water gets murkier and you sink millimeter by millimeter down into the mud.

I would think to myself as I woke up with dread in the morning, that is was just tired. As I became more and more overwhelmed I told myself that my kids weren't sleeping well and my hours at work had changed. It was understandable. And then I started thinking it was probably my fault. That right there is the powerful deception of depression. The mud and murkiness is my fault. If I just exercised more, or was stronger or calmer or like those mums over there...until I forgot that maybe it was just that my brain was broken. And not my fault at all.

I am so grateful for more objective measures of my mental wellbeing such as the Edinburgh scale. I can go it online and it gives me an indication of whether I am ok. If I am aware enough I can catch a slide downhill before it gets to crisis point. And this time I did. And two weeks after another dosage increase , the sun is out and I am swimming to the surface again. I ask myself "why did I let myself suffer for so long?" The sad answer is that if you are used to suffering from the very lonely pain of depression it is easy to put up with things being not ok for a very long time before thinking "I deserve better and I remember the light".

So now I am hoping and praying that if this increase is not enough, that I will realise and not drift down to the bottom again.

Rewriting history and creating regret

Over the last few weeks I have been thinking a lot about Ella's birth. I think it is part of the natural process of healing and coming to terms with all I have been through in the last year. I find myself remembering a lot more about the details of the birth and questioning whether I made the right decisions. For me, having a C section made the beginning of being a Mum very tough and certainly didn't help me with developing postnatal depression. So I have been thinking about whether it could have been avoided. Did I go to the hospital too soon? Should I have fought more to avoid all the interventions?
In hindsight Ella was perfectly fine and did not seem to be in any distress once she was born, however, during the labour there were some indications that she was stressed. And at the time that was all we had to go by in making our decisions.

I have also been thinking about the last few weeks of the pregnancy and how the information I had caused me a lot of worry and fear. To be honest, I was scared during the whole pregnancy. I never really believed that we would hold our precious girl and get to take her home. I actually would lie awake at night preparing myself for losing her and having to have a funeral. I know that may seem strange but that is the only end to pregnancy which I had experienced and it seemed almost impossible to experience anything else, despite the ever present kicks and movements and healthy growth which promised she was fine. When I added higher blood pressure and posterior position to that mix of fear and grief it isn't really suprising that all I wanted was a healthy baby and I wanted to avoid any risk.

But now, on the other side it is easy for me to rewrite history and blame myself for the outcome of the labour. I do wish things had gone differently but I have to remember that Ella was fine and at the time that was the most important thing. I didn't know how hard my time in hospital and afterwards was going to be and you can only make decisions with the knowledge you have at the time.

What I have really learned or am learning, is that you cannot ignore your true emotions, not matter how uncomfortable and inconvenient they are. If I had acknowledged my fears to myself and others maybe I would have been in a better place during labour. Things may not have gone differently but there is nothing more awful than feeling disconnected from yourself at such a momentous time. I struggle to be truly honest about how I feel, especially when the feelings are negative but I need to be otherwise they do come out whether you like it or not and often in the worst of ways.

So no regrets about the birth, but hopefully some wisdom gained. And I want to thank all the mamas I know who inspire me to trust that my body, which God created and used to create and nourish Ella, is capable of doing what it is designed to do.