It Was The Worst of Times, It Was The Worst of Times.


Here’s my own experience of depression.  I guess I just never thought of it as being share-worthy until now.

This particular episode of cracking-uppedness owed itself to POST NATAL DEPRESSION (PND) – or POST-PARTUM for you across-the ponders. This was a love SO DEEP – for my children – that it nearly bloody killed me (and quite possibly would have done, too, had it not been for the support of my hubby).

In September 2006, my house was falling down. It actually WAS.  Fuck!!!! It was going to FALL DOWN and raze our entire lives to the ground. The end had started when I saw cracks in the tiles on the bathroom wall. This PROVED that my house was now in the process of collapsing. Maybe the whole house…or maybe just the back of it, where the baby’s room was.  So I moved the baby back in with us. My hubby didn’t object, because it calmed me down.

I was OK then.

UNTIL I could hear her CHOKING in the night. Not just snoring – CHOKING. She was fucking CHOKING, for Christ’s sake.  So I stayed awake and watched her. And listened.

I was OK then.

UNTIL I knew that her blankets were going to suffocate her. They were going to cover her face and put a stop to her babybreath.  Either that, or she’d choke on the fibres. So she went blanketless and wore an extra onesie. 

I was OK then.

UNTIL I heard the rhythm of the clock on the wall. This was the same wall that her cot was pushed up against. It was clearly going to land on her head in the night and kill her in one tick. So I moved the cot into the middle of the room.

I was OK then.

UNTIL I realised that the middle-of-the-ceiling light bulb above her cot was going to EXPLODE and spit shards of glass into her cot. If she didn’t bleed to death with the cuts, she’d swallow the glass.  So she came into our bed.

I was OK then.

UNTIL I realised that we were going to roll over and kill her. We were going to roll together into the bed’s centre and suffocate our tiny child.  So my husband moved out into one of the spare rooms.

I was OK then.

UNTIL I realised that this meant I was ALONE with her.  Of course now, she would choke in the night and I wouldn’t hear her.  And if I DID hear her, it would be too late because I wouldn’t get to her in time. So, as I was moving out of my own head, my hubby moved back in to our room.

I was not OK.

So I sought medical help. I was prescribed Citalopram, (amongst whose side-effects are suicidal thoughts). Those little 10mg buggers saved me. They’re dangerously addictive little fuckers, so I weaned myself off ’em after around six months.   If I’m honest, I can’t really remember much about the bedrugged period, but I can offer my assurance that THE SCIENCE WORKED. My baby wasn’t dying, and my house wasn’t falling down. It was like a team of builders had come in overnight and secured the building.  Citalopram was the medicinal mortar holding me together.


You can struggle through, and it will always be OK.

UNTIL suddenly, one day, it isn’t.

GET HELP. You are not a freak. You are not alone.

GET HELP. Depression is shitty and utterly fucked up; but it’s also normal.

GET HELP. Please.

I’ve been PERMANENTLY OK since circa July 2011 when baby number three – my son – was born.  I mean – I’m still off-the-scale bonkers but only in a good way.  I’ve learned to channel any twisted thoughts into stories – everything I THINK goes onto a page. Those that know me understand that I never have an unexpressed thought.  And that’s why I’m OK. Nothing’s left unsaid. NOTHING. Because if you talk, there’s always someone willing to listen.

And if you need me to listen to YOU, I’m here. Always.

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