In other news…

I saw my shrink today.
I cried.
I kinda just let the last 4-6 weeks tumble out.
In all its ugliness.
The bad sleeping.
The crying all.the.time.
The over-reacting.
The feeling of being completely overwhelmed, no matter how small the task.
The prevalence of the mean-bitch-mummy.
The feeling of I am nothing.
The weight and body-image issues.
The if-I-wasn’t-here daydreams.
The complete loss of perspective.
The why-the-fuck-do-I-bother mentality.
The negativity.

And so it came to pass:
that would be a script for some little white pills.

There is so much I could say about depression and living with it.
Wondering when, not if, it will return.
I tearily asked Dr J today, “but why now? why when I have been tracking so well did I fall so hard and fast back into the pit?”
“Because,” he said, “it is a dark insidious disease.” That I need to recognise how remarkable it was I got through the entire pregnancy and seven months of the post partum phase in good, solid, mental health.
It means I should wean Jasper. My precious little ray of sunshine who looks on me with complete joy and adoration.
I feel like a complete abject failure.
That the one thing this body of mine can do I now have to stop because the main part of me is fucked. I was on them when I was b/feeding Felix and they didn’t alter his state of screaming awakeness one jot. So I’m hoping if I keep the morning, lunch and evening feed (dropping the lunch feed at around 9 months) but ditch the expressing palaver, my child of freakish mobility but remarkable contentedness will remain.
Dr J pointed out that most women back at work full time at this stage would have weaned at 3 months, that just look on the 7 months this child has had that so many in the world miss out on. That the negative impact of my depression on me and him is far greater than the benefits of breastfeeding him to my psychological cut-off point of 12 months. That what’s with that? It’s not like I’m up for an Order of Australia for hitting the 12 month mark.
That’s why Dr J rocks. He just calls it how it is.

So here I sit. Completely and utterly knackered and bracing myself for the side-effects of going back on drugs that I know make me a much better me. I just love that happy pills upset your tummy and heighten your anxiety before making you feel far more even-keeled – like lets knock you down to build you up.

And I can hear the collective sigh of Internet relief that all my wallowing, narky, bitter wailing will at least ease off a little.