Last month Tom turned one and inevitably I’ve started to look back at the last year. During the most blackest despair of my PND it often felt I couldn’t bear to wake a face another day, week, or month of agony. I so desperately wanted to escape and give up and yet here I am, 12 months later.
I feel a great joy on my sons 1st birthday. Watching my little boy wobble on his little legs, tearing into the wrapping paper, putting his arms up and asking mummy to “up”, he truly does light up my life. It’s been a battle, but we have bonded, the battle was worth it and I’m reassured my son hasn’t been affected by our difficult start.
But that’s not all…….
Then along come photo’s like this;
And my heart breaks. All I want to do is reach into the photo scoop my tiny baby up and hold him. I want to enjoy him, love him and take in every moment, because it’s over too quickly. These are not the feelings I felt when this photo was taken.
By this point I had been admitted to a mother and baby unit. Looking into his cot I would have felt relieved I could walk away and leave him in the care of the staff. Every moment I held him I felt trapped, if he murmured my anxiety would build, he frustrated me, frightened me and I didn’t know how to sooth him. I really thought he would be better off without me.
My sadness is deepened by the fact this is also my experience with my daughter Kate. I am never going to get this time back and I am never going to enjoy my children’s first months. I hate seeing mums with their new baby’s, I am jealous and angry. It sounds childish, but sometimes I just want to scream at the unfairness of it all.
But I am here and I am getting better. I am proud to say I have an amazing bond with both of my children and I would do it all again if it means I get to be their mummy.
I am still here and as my son burrows his snotty nose into my leg for a cuddle and my daughter plays hairdresser by turning my hair into a birds nest, I know I wouldn’t swap this for the world.