Sitting down at my desk to write this post, and I’m not entirely sure as to how much I’m going to share. I don’t want it to be one of those “woe me” posts but I also don’t want it to be a ridiculously happy and fake one either.
So I’ll just take a swing at it and hope that it all comes out making some kind of sense.
I’ve been an over-emotional person my entire life.
This is no surprise to my friends and family at all, in fact it’s old news.
So when I fell pregnant with my son, I felt every ounce of hormone changes in every possible way. It was a whirlwind of mood swings, over-bearing love and eventually anger at my body for what happened.
It was obviously heightened considerably during my sons hospital stay and it’s had its peaks and troughs throughout this last 2 years.
It’s something that I’ve always dealt with myself and never thought about getting help with. However, known only to close friends and family, it all came to a head a few months ago.
I’ve never been able to control it, but I’ve always found that I’ve been able to cope. This changed when my sons “Autism” symptoms became more and more apparent. I found that instead of crying a couple of times a day at random adverts or songs I’d listen to, that I was flying off the handle and getting aggressively angry at the tiniest of things. I’d be filled with so much anxiety that I didn’t want to leave the house. I felt like everyone was looking at me, judging me… thinking the worst of me. On the rare occasions I did venture out I’d have panic attacks, and if I was without my husband and son it would be even worse. I wouldn’t go so far as to say my thoughts were venturing towards anything dark or that I was a danger to myself, but there were certainly moments where I thought somebody else would do a better job with my son than I could. I felt worthless.
So I got help.
It wasn’t easy to ask for it, but it was necessary and fortunately my doctor was brilliant.
He diagnosed me with Anxiety Disorder and PTSD (this in particular was a result of life in the NICU). He prescribed a small dose of anti-anxiety medication for me and after several months I can say for sure that it has made a world of difference.
I feel much more level headed about life in general and feel like I am capable of facing any problems we have full on and without fear.
This doesn’t mean I’m “cured“. Not at all. In fact, this last fortnight has been a real struggle, but I’m always hopeful that tomorrow will be better.
I’m sharing this because I’ve done my research. Mental Health, even in 2018, is still such a taboo subject. Being told you just have to “get on with it” is such an ignorant and old fashioned way of thinking. We are all built differently, and what works for some doesn’t necessarily work for others.
Being a mum is the most wonderful and rewarding aspect of my life. I mean it wholeheartedly. But it’s hard.
I only have my son to base this on, but he is 100 miles an hour, every waking moment of the day. The only reason I’m able to write this is because he’s playing in his playpen – and by playing I mean he’s throwing all of his toys out of it onto the floor and screaming at me to give them back so he can do it again. Peppa Pig is both a life-saver and a curse. I hate her because she is obnoxious beyond reason, but she gives me half an hour of rest-bite throughout the day to get things done, so she can stay. He hates his playpen with a passion, but if I need it otherwise my trips to the toilet would result in the utter destruction of every precious and breakable item in my home.
I’m not the perfect mum, not by any measure. I have flaws and I struggle like everyone else, but I think it’s about time we were able to admit it without all of the judgement and calls for public flogging.
Just some thoughts I had on this dreary morning. I’m now away to lift my screaming child out of his playpen and watch him in awe while he tears my livingroom apart in 30 seconds.