A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.
In anticipation of tickles.
Sunday 26 January 2014
Monday 20 January 2014
SEEING THE FOREST FOR THE TREES
I have recently revived this blog (albeit in the most basic of ways), and I happened to read through an old draft post that for whatever reason never saw the light of day. It was a timely discovery, coinciding with the very recent and very unexpected realisation that I had postnatal depression in the early months of motherhood.
I had written the skeleton of a post while at a cafe alone with the babe, in the midst of severe sleep deprivation and stormy times on the domestic front. Reflective of my mood at the time, it was rather negative, and reading back I can hear a lost, helpless voice underlying the cynicism, crying out for some help or, more crucially, some understanding. A feeling, I am almost entirely certain, that all mothers experience at one point or another - whether due to an extended bout of little sleep, illness, low mood, or any other affliction that sneaks in with the predominantly joyful exploits of motherhood.
Doctors, nurses, early childhood workers all eagerly thrust copies of the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale toward me at every visit, after I answered in response to, "Is the sleep deprivation you're experiencing interfering with your sense of wellbeing?" a confused, "Well, yes, of course...". I was feeling down - of that I am certain - but I question whether it is possible not to feel down after over a month of surviving on two-hourly snatches of sleep.
I had written this rant on my phone, and when I went to transcribe its contents onto here, I realised that magically, mysteriously and almost imperceptibly, the air had cleared, my mood had lifted, and I no longer felt lost.
It makes me sad to think of how the difficulties I went through warped my perception of things. No one likes to talk of such dark times, but there were times when I longed for my old life, where I thought I regretted decisions I had made, where I looked upon my sweet babe as a terrible burden who I just wanted to get away from for a bit of peace and sanity. It is hard for me to write this and make these thoughts concrete. But I am not ashamed of them.
What is strange about reading this old post is my insistence that this was not actually postnatal depression. And I can tell you honestly that it was not because I was in denial, but because I truly believed this was a normal side effect of sleep deprivation. The irony is that, as someone with a background in psychology, I could not see that what I was going through was clinically significant. Sometimes you really can't see the forest for the trees.
It was only one morning about a week ago, when I was watching a morning chat show, that a woman spoke about her experiences with postnatal depression (and more specifically, the anxiety component of it) that I realised not everyone went through it and that the symptoms she spoke of were an exact reflection of my early motherhood experiences. It is almost laughable to consider how shocked I was at this realisation, a year on from the actual event, and how this realisation had eluded me for so long.
While feeling like a bit of an idiot for not seeing it sooner, I do also understand why. How the hell is one supposed to know what is normal or not normal? So often we only see these things clearly after the event, when it's too late or not really an issue anymore. And is there anything to be gained from this realisation, so far down the track after everything has resolved and life has moved on? I think all along, a small part of me has been looking for a way to absolve myself for something I know I have no logical reason to feel guilty about.
I had written the skeleton of a post while at a cafe alone with the babe, in the midst of severe sleep deprivation and stormy times on the domestic front. Reflective of my mood at the time, it was rather negative, and reading back I can hear a lost, helpless voice underlying the cynicism, crying out for some help or, more crucially, some understanding. A feeling, I am almost entirely certain, that all mothers experience at one point or another - whether due to an extended bout of little sleep, illness, low mood, or any other affliction that sneaks in with the predominantly joyful exploits of motherhood.
Doctors, nurses, early childhood workers all eagerly thrust copies of the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale toward me at every visit, after I answered in response to, "Is the sleep deprivation you're experiencing interfering with your sense of wellbeing?" a confused, "Well, yes, of course...". I was feeling down - of that I am certain - but I question whether it is possible not to feel down after over a month of surviving on two-hourly snatches of sleep.
I had written this rant on my phone, and when I went to transcribe its contents onto here, I realised that magically, mysteriously and almost imperceptibly, the air had cleared, my mood had lifted, and I no longer felt lost.
It makes me sad to think of how the difficulties I went through warped my perception of things. No one likes to talk of such dark times, but there were times when I longed for my old life, where I thought I regretted decisions I had made, where I looked upon my sweet babe as a terrible burden who I just wanted to get away from for a bit of peace and sanity. It is hard for me to write this and make these thoughts concrete. But I am not ashamed of them.
What is strange about reading this old post is my insistence that this was not actually postnatal depression. And I can tell you honestly that it was not because I was in denial, but because I truly believed this was a normal side effect of sleep deprivation. The irony is that, as someone with a background in psychology, I could not see that what I was going through was clinically significant. Sometimes you really can't see the forest for the trees.
It was only one morning about a week ago, when I was watching a morning chat show, that a woman spoke about her experiences with postnatal depression (and more specifically, the anxiety component of it) that I realised not everyone went through it and that the symptoms she spoke of were an exact reflection of my early motherhood experiences. It is almost laughable to consider how shocked I was at this realisation, a year on from the actual event, and how this realisation had eluded me for so long.
While feeling like a bit of an idiot for not seeing it sooner, I do also understand why. How the hell is one supposed to know what is normal or not normal? So often we only see these things clearly after the event, when it's too late or not really an issue anymore. And is there anything to be gained from this realisation, so far down the track after everything has resolved and life has moved on? I think all along, a small part of me has been looking for a way to absolve myself for something I know I have no logical reason to feel guilty about.
Sunday 19 January 2014
Sunday 12 January 2014
2/52
A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.
Marvelling at her mastery of the spoon.
Tuesday 7 January 2014
THE 52 PROJECT 2014 - 1/52
A portrait of my daughter, once a week, every week, in 2014.
A photo in which I can see the baby still there in my toddler - a rare and precious event.
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