Therapy in repetitiveness

My Mum used to own three acres of land in a town called Old Bar. I spent the last two years of my life as a school student and small town girl on that land. We had just moved to Old Bar from Forster, about 30 minutes away. Which was a lifetime when you lived in Forster and everything was within 5 minutes from each other. There wasn't much to do out there for entertainment. But, the one thing I used to take so much peace from was mowing the lawns. There is something so therapeutic about a repetitive action. One blade of grass at a time, one row after another. Over and over again, all three acres worth of blades. I would get off that mower a relaxed and calmer, albeit sweatier, version of my former self.

Once I left Old Bar and that lawn mower my therapy was in limbo. No blades of grass to stare at. No roaring ride-on to sit on. No repetitive action. Until I got in the pool and I swam, lap after lap. Thinking about nothing other than that black line down the centre and my breathe. One arm over another. The splashing of two fast kicking feet. My body skimming along the surface of the water. Wall. Touch. Spin, turn. Black line and go. I would swim for what felt like eternity. One lap after another until all my thoughts and stresses were... gone. 

Then I moved again, away from a pool and close to the ocean. I found it too ironic to live by the ocean and then pay to use a pool and I was too afraid to swim the length of the beach, so swimming came to a halt. I began to run. Put myself in training to run the Sydney Marathon. I was living on my own at the time, no television and no distractions. I would be in bed by 8pm and up at 4:30 and I would run. One foot after the other, pounding the pavement. Arms swaying swiftly but softly by my side. The wind through my hair and my focus on my breathe. The throbbing sound of my body hitting the hard ground, time after time.

I then met Anthony, fell in love, fell pregnant, had a baby and life got away from me. The only repetitive action I now partake in is the changing of nappies, the washing of clothes, folding, putting away. Cleaning the kitchen, four times a day. Not so therapeutic. Not so calming and most definitely not peaceful.

I have talked about my struggles a lot over the last few months and one of those struggles as been to get myself out of the house and do something that is just for me. I have not known where to go, what to do. Being heavily pregnant with pelvic bones that feel as though they are tearing apart and falling out of my body obviously ruled out a lot of activities. I would become so overwhelmed about leaving the house and once I finally did I would sit in my car and cry because I did not know where to go, who to see or what to do. I would drive for half an hour and then I would come home.

This past week has been a particularly trialling one. I have been dealing with consistent braxton hicks which keep me awake and uncomfortable all night. Restless legs. Fatigue. Irritability. Evelyn's naughty has reached its full capacity. I am tired, drained, exhausted. I want to sleep but I cant. I cry. Every day. Over nothing. Over everything. So I decided to do something for myself, kind of. I asked Anthony to please come down to the ocean pool with me each afternoon so that I could swim. Having him with me made leaving the house a stress free experience, then he would take Evelyn off adventuring and I would have my hour of peace. Back in the water. 

It has truly saved me. Saved my mind. One arm over the other. One kicking foot after the next. Breathe in and breathe out. Up and down. The weight of my body is non existent and the pain in my pelvis, forgotten. I swim, back and forth, in the most beautiful ocean pool. The horizon in front of me and the sun setting on my back. Not focusing on a black line, but focusing on the hermit crabs, the star fish, the sea weed and the sand all swirling around each other beneath me. A whole other world, a world beneath the sea, that for just one hour a day I get to join, one lap at a time. 

Being in that water this week has changed me from a sobbing, heaving, completely inconsolable pregnant woman to a calm, peaceful and smiling girl. I have found my repetitive action once again and in doing so I have found my centre. I will not let the words of others effect me in these last few weeks, I will not allow for life to slow me down. As long as I am in that water there will be no feat I can not tackle. 

One arm after the other. 

Kick, kick, kick.

Spin and turn.

Breathe

Reaching Out

Anxiety is just a feeling. It is not a physical problem. It is an emotional reaction. It is a feeling of worry, unease, fear and nervousness. It is internal and mostly, people don't know that you are suffering it. That is, until it becomes physical. Anxiety is real. It is strong. It effects your entire mental and emotional state and some times, it can become so overwhelmingly strong that it begins to effect your physical state too. Anxiety, and depression, can be caused by all different kinds of factors. It is never truly any one thing and mostly, sufferers are not even certain themselves of why they are feeling the way they are. They just know that they are. 

We suffer in silence. We wake in the middle of the night. We fight for breath. We swallow it down and we try to ignore it. All the while trying to prove that we are okay, that we are super Mum (or mum-to-be), we are strong and capable and coping. The problem is that we are all of those things, even when we feel like we aren't. Motherhood is hard work. It is not perfect, it is not clean, it is not easy and it is not always fun. It is the hardest job that we will ever have to do and it is a job that we will always do. No one expects us to excel at this job every single day. No one expects us to do more than we are capable of doing. No one puts these expectations on us, except for ourselves. So much pressure, so many expectations. Such disappointment and anger when we fall short. It is no wonder anxiety and depression is so common.

It is more common than you know. Than I know. Especially in young Mothers. In Mothers who are trying to be... everything. We need to loosen the reigns, take a step back, take some time, walk away. We need to learn to look after, not only our children and our families, but ourselves. It is time to take control. It is time to be honest. It is time to understand that anxiety and depression is not a flaw, it is an illness. An illness which can be fixed, if only we would admit to having it. All it takes is a little support, a lot of encouragement and a bucket load of strength. It is time that we reach out, that we speak openly to each other, that we tell our stories! It is time... to get better!

Yesterday I reached out. Yesterday was a big day, huge. Yesterday I made a step towards a better future... a better life. I went to my midwives and I said those very hard and very intimidating and very "disappointing" words. I said to my midwife, I am just not coping. Then I spoke to a counsellor. For over an hour. I cried, I talked, I shook, I smiled and then the best thing of all. I walked away and I survived. I came home and I felt lighter. 

Anthony said to me last night. "I have never heard of prenatal". He wouldn't say any more words than that, but I think his implication was that he has never heard of prenatal depression. Anthony is as supportive as a man who doesn't understand depression, or anxiety, can be. But he truly doesn't understand. Depression does not only occur within Mothers after the baby is born. It can start while you are pregnant. It can start months, even years after your baby is born. It can start when ever it damn well wants to. Because, postnatal depression is depression. Depression does not just show up at a text book time. It shows up whenever it pleases. It comes and it goes. 

The problem with "mental health" in today's society (which has come so very far) is that people cannot understand it. They can not see it. It is an illness of the mind, not of the body and so it can be hidden. How do you understand something you cannot see? How do you understand something that is not talked about? 

It is more common than we know and everyone has a story. Everyone has a story of suffering but they all have a story of surviving. We are survivors. I choose to be a survivor, I refuse to be a victim to this. I choose to talk about my story because I want to encourage you to do the same. The more we talk about it, the more we admit it, the easier it will become for you, or your loved ones, to reach out and take that all elusive first step to recovery.

We Mothers need to band together, we need to be honest and we need to give each other the strength, courage, support and encouragement to reach out!

I reach out to you... Are you okay? 

Anxiety

Being a Mum is single handedly the easiest and yet most difficult role in the world. As I sit down to write this, I am at my worst Mothering moment in my journey as a Mother. I am finding it difficult, more than difficult. I am finding myself to say, more often than not, in this last week that "I am not coping". The love, that part is the easy part. But the pressure is the hard part and I am really feeling the pressure. 

Some people are born Mothers, born with a maternal instinct. They fall into the role with such grace and ease and from the outside looking in, they are just perfect at it. Never have a bad moment, a not coping moment. When Evelyn was born, I thought I was born to be a Mother. It was easy. I loved her with all my might. Every little inch of me and my life became about her and her life. She was breathtakingly beautiful, she was gloriously behaved, she slept well and I was cruising through this life as a Mother. But since becoming pregnant for a second time, the pressure of maintaining that level of Mothering has cracked me. Broken me. 

I remember when Evelyn was 12 months old saying to Anthony, "I just cant ever imagine being angry at her, look at her, she is perfect". But then she learnt how to be naughty and I learnt how to be angry with her. Up until today I had never yelled at her. I have always kept my cool and with each moment that she misbehaved I would sit myself down and hold her by the arms and explain to her why that behaviour is not acceptable. She would hug me and she would kiss me. But today, I yelled at her and she just cried at me. And that cry didn't break me like it normally would. Infact, it infuriated me even more. And now as I sit locked in my bedroom trying to find my cool I feel guilty for being so angry with her. 

Being a Mum is the hardest job in the world. We are relied upon to teach our children right from wrong. Safety and danger. How to crawl, walk, talk, write, read. How to be polite and thankful. Grateful. Social etiquette. Correct speech. Please and thank you. How to eat, what to eat. How to be healthy, how to live healthy. Hygiene, routine, not to be mean. We are the ones who direct them to their futures and influence their beings and my god, that is overwhelming. 

In the last two weeks Evelyn has been testing me and my patience and with every moment that she acts out, with every tantrum my patience is wearing just that little bit more thin. Every time that I find myself grinding my teeth, or tearing up, I feel guilty. Because I am her Mother and I should be calming directing her to the correct path. I should be displaying the correct behaviour for her to learn from. I dont want her to learn that when it gets too hard, cry. But at the moment that is the behaviour I am teaching her, because when it gets too hard, I cry.

Evelyn has not been sleeping before 10pm for the last two weeks. Sometimes staying awake until midnight. She has not be day napping. She has been tired and cranky and badly behaved. I started out calm and understanding. Trying to understand that she is just too tired to function correctly and that this bad behaviour is not truly her, but he exhaustion. But by the end of these two weeks, when I am sleep deprived, me deprived, I have wavered. I am unable to understand. Because my exhaustion is now creating my own bad behaviour. We are two girls, exhausted and run down and now sick and we are not encouraging each other to be better people, we are not teaching each other patience or compassion. 

I feel like I have not had even 5 minutes to myself to be able to recoup. My showers are shared with her. My bed time is stolen by her. My food is thrown by her and my quiet time is interrupted by her. We both need a break and yet we cannot seem to find one. I find it too hard to leave her, I literally cannot leave the house with out her and when I do try, I cry and wonder "where on earth am I to go?". I need to find my centre again because without my centre I am making bad decisions. 

Two nights ago, Evelyn was screaming in my arms as I tried to comfort her to sleep. She had been screaming in my arms like this for 3 hours, on and off. It got to the point where every nerve ending in my body was screaming with her. I ached. I was sweating. I was crying. Every fibre of my body was suffering with anxiety. I just could not hear her scream any longer. And so I put her in her cot and I walked away. I walked outside and I told Anthony that I literally could not hear it anymore and then I got into my car and I drove away. As the rain poured down so did my tears. I felt like I had failed. I had given up. But my body just would not allow another moment of it. 

Today, the water to our suburb has been turned off. As I was outside trying to work out what had happened to the water, Evelyn decided to bring dirt inside and put it on my lounge and then pour her glass of water of the top and then start rubbing. My bird was going crazy, squawking with no relief for an hour. I was beginning to break down, I could feel that anxiety taking over my body. I am came inside to find the dirty mess and I snapped. I yelled, I really yelled at Evelyn and she just stopped and stared and then cried like Ive never seen her cry before. I stormed outside to release the bird, but stopping myself at his cage before it was too late and decided to just yell at him too. I then picked Evelyn up and strapped her into the car and I drove with the music up and the windows down, so as not to hear the screaming. 

I am waking in the middle of the night in the middle of the night in full blown panic attacks. I cannot breathe. My body aches with anger. I am tired. I am exhausted. I am failing and I feel more and more miserable every time I see how much I am letting everyone down. I have tried talking to my midwives and my Obs about my anxiety levels but I am not being heard. It is hard enough saying it once, but to have to push my concerns is just impossible.

I am not coping. I am failing. The loving Evelyn is easy. The forgiving her is easy. The getting up and starting again is easy. Its the pressure of it all. The expectations. The need to succeed. The fear of failing. Its watching yourself fall apart over a little bit of screaming, or some dirt and knowing that you are letting them down. Its the inability to be what she needs from me at all times, because at some times, I need to have a tantrum too. And I have. This week I have tantrumed. I have cried. I have fallen apart. I have let my family down with my inability to hold myself up. And its hard. Its really bloody hard to have to admit that you are not Super Woman, not Super Mum. You cannot be everything, all the time. Its really hard to admit that anxiety is taking a hold of me. 

But every now and then I think we, as Mothers, need to take a step back and accept that we cant be everything. Let the pressure go. Loosen the expectations. I might be failing this week. I might have failed today. But tomorrow I will get back up and I will try again and I will hope that tomorrow I wont fail. Tomorrow I will make a difference. I hope...

Can I have a mental health day... please?

Before I created my own family there were so many preconceptions I had made about the ways in which I would approach the parenting of my own children. You make so many decisions based on your childhood and the ways in which your parents raised you. Things you will take on board and things you would rather forget. I had so many ideas of how to parent, based on watching people around me, my friends upbringings, strangers in the parks, women coming through my check out at the supermarket. Some based on admiration and others, dare I say it, based on judgement.

Coming into Motherhood I had decided that each and every day I would be up, awake and dressed before my child was. I would never spend a day in pyjama's. I would not, ever, use a dummy. I would breastfeed until at least 6 months. I would not yell or scream at my child. I will never smack my child. I will not be a 'No' Mum. I will not bribe my child for good behaviour. I will have my partners business shirts ironed and his lunch packed for him each and every morning. My house would be organised and cleaned. I would make my bed every morning.

Since arriving at Motherhood and being thrown into the depths of baby snuggles, baby slobber, pooey nappies, sleepless nights and screaming toddlers, my preconceptions have since become misconceptions. The truth is, Motherhood is hard. Harder that you can ever prepare yourself for and any preparations you did make, often ended up thrown to the wayside and forgotten about. Because once you are elbow deep in those pooey nappies and toddler tantrums, you do whatever you have to do to survive. 

I love my Daughter, with every last inch of my being. There is absolutely no doubt about that. But she is erratic, she is unpredictable, she is strong and she is a test on my patience. My Daughter is slowly coming of age, leaving her baby days behind her and entering the world of toddler. The world of independence and and stubbornness. She is learning so much about our world and about her capabilities that she wants to be apart of it all day, every day. She doesn't want to miss out on a single moment. Goodbye day time naps and hello tired tantrums! She has learnt that she is able to feed herself, so goodbye fast, easy and efficient meal times and hello mess and frustration (because the spoon just wont work the right way and so she must use her hands). She is learning to speak, but not speak fast enough. So now we become frustrated at Mum if Mum doesnt understand what her grunt, groan or moan means straight.a.way!

The truth is, these last few weeks, I have been struggling with the attitude that seems to be sneaking into my household. My Daughter is still the kind, gentle loving baby that I have talked about in many posts before. But at this point in time, she is not showing that side as often and is showing me her frustrations. She is taking out her struggles on me and I am having to learn how to approach these new tantrums in a way that I am comfortable with.

All those preconceptions that I have had, they have all been forgotten about. I am very rarely out of bed before Evelyn wakes me. I did resort to using the dummy as it is the only way she will fall asleep. I was unable to breastfeed. I have yelled at my Daughter. I have said No. If she would understand a bribe, I would have bribed her. I have never ironed a business shirt in my life and Anthony is lucky if there is bread in the house. My bed is made just before I climb into it and my house is no where near organised.

Once you are in the throws of parenting and Mother hood, you deal with each situation as they come. And dealing with my Daughters tantrums and lack of sleep and lack of eating is my focus, for the mean time. The rest of those things, I just don't care for. What I care for, is raising a loving, gentle woman who is well mannered and balanced. I care for teaching my Daughter about the world and I care for her. And most of all, I care for surviving the next few years of toddlerhood with my sanity and my relationship in tact. 

One of the things I am finding the hardest about Motherhood, is that on a bad day, I don't get to come home and say "What a shit day". I don't get to complain about bad behaviour or ill-treatment. I am unable to talk about unfair conditions. We, as Mother's, have to teach our children that these behaviours are unacceptable and we have to teach them how to behave the correct way and at the end of the day we have to sweep our own hurt or disappointment aside and move on to cleaning the dishes. 

Maybe I can ask the boss if I can take a mental health day?

At the risk of sounding melodramatic...

The year 2011 was an ordinary year for us.

On New Years Eve I wished upon the first star I saw, I made a resolution and at midnight my hopes were that the year 2012 would be better. Much like most of us do, I wanted to build on the year that was, learn from lessons made, laugh more, live greater, love harder, make more friends, lose weight, save money, learn to bake, clean more, be more organised and just have a year without dramas. A year without loss, without financial concerns, without illness, without pain. The year that we all strive for. The year that, come December, we all start to plan and map out.

The year 2012 has been even less than ordinary. 

It has had many great moments to it, we had a trip to Bali, we finally fell pregnant, we have moved into a family home that we adore. But the day to day drone has been less than enjoyable. At the risk of sounding pessimistic and melodramatic let me tell you a little bit about our life since March this year.

We had the most beautiful family holiday in Bali to celebrate Anthony's 40th birthday, celebrate being a family and to just enjoy being together as us. It was some of the most fantastic 15 days that we have had together. We walked onto the plane to make our travels home, ready to concur the world with fresh and rested minds. We were to take a further week holiday in our favourite little fishing town, Hat Head, with our favourite friends. We arrived home in Sydney at 7am on a Saturday morning and we drove the 5 hour drive to Hat Head that afternoon. On the drive up I was overcome with the most intense pain in my upper back, I whinged to Anthony that the minute I get back in the car, that awful pain comes back. We made it safely to Hat Head and we put ourselves to bed. At 1am that morning I was woken by that pain, it was intense, it was relentless, it was nauseating, it was faint inducing. After an hour or two I found relief by laying on my back and pushing down. The pain stopped. For five minutes. Then it transferred to my abdomen. And it was worse, so much worse. I found myself crawling to the bathroom, vomiting and losing consciousness on the way. The pain didn't go away until 6am that morning. 

I went about my daily business trying to forget the night that was. Until 1am the next morning, it started again. And again, the next night. Until on day four Anthony and I rushed ourselves to the nearest hospital. On my holiday. An hour and a half away. I was admitted. I was stuck with needles. I was doped up on morphine. I was given an ultrasound. Then I was given some news that I could barely believe. My gallbladder is two, thirds full of gall stones. At age 25. I was discharged with orders and well wishes.

I went back to my holiday and I suffered each and every night in silence. Then when we went home I saw my Dr, who referred me to a specialist, but not before telling me to press pause on our baby making plans. Great. So I took myself off to see the specialist and was told there was only one option. To have the entire organ removed. I was booked in for surgery for a weeks time. 

Only, two days later, I ended up in the ER with a temperature of 41 degrees that I could not control with any amount of panadol. I had come down with full blown influenza. I had that temperature for 5 days. Panadol and nurofen would drop it to the lowest of 39. I was in agony. Surgery was delayed and I spent thee weeks trying to get myself better. All the while, having to still look after my 1 year old baby on my own. The hardest part of being a Mother sometimes, is not being able to crawl into bed and sleep your illness away. So I agonised through 5 days of the highest damn temperature I have ever experienced, while still putting on a smile for Evelyn.

Three weeks later, I was admitted to hospital and I had my first surgery (that my adult mind can remember). I dressed up in my OR night gown and cap, my super spunky stockings and slippers. I was wheeled through the hospital in a bed and straight into an operation room. With scrub nurses and surgical doctors and the man with the gas mask. Then I had an organ removed. Through my belly button, of all places. And that still freaks me out to this day.

I had an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic so I spent an extra night laid flat on my back and unable to get myself to the bathroom. Then I came home and Anthony went back to work. And I just had to get on with it. Four scars on my belly, a groggy mind, a sore body and a toddler to handle. Three days later I was to start my first day at work. Awesome for recovery time.

Once I recovered from surgery, I came down with Gastro. Badly. Then I came down with a cold. And I recovered, only to be hit by another cold. Since then I have had three more colds. All the while, I had a house to run, I had weekly house inspections to clean for, I had a child to look after (who fell sick just as often as I) and all I wanted to do was just crawl in between my bed sheets and curl up in a ball and wait this whole thing out.

But, that is not the life of a Mother. That is not the life of a Mother who has no support. You suck it up, you keep breathing, you suffer in silence and you just get on with it. Throughout these 6 months of illness I also lost my relationship with my Mother, my Aunty passed away, my best friends still remain overseas, the one girlfriend I thought I could rely and depend on was neither reliable or dependable and I really felt the sting of loneliness. 

This year, has been a year of illness and as the last traces of Winter fade and spring has begun to bring the warmth I am just praying and hoping and wishing that this is the last of our sickly, sniffly, snotty 2012 and now the fun times can begin.

We deserve it! Hell, if WE don't then I definitely do!