My Darkest Edges

At about half past midnight on a hot January night in 2009 I sat bolt upright in bed with chest pains. A golf ball was quickly forming in the middle of my chest. I stumbled to the kitchen for some warm water and threw down an antihistamine.
What followed was the most frightening experience of my life…
When the chest pain worsened I panicked and woke my partner in desperation. He was dazed and confused and asked what I wanted him to do.
“Call an ambulance!” I said first to myself, then out loud.
I walked to the phone and called ‘000’. The operator spoke calmly and assured me an ambulance would be there within a few minutes. She was right. In no time two ambos arrived and started the challenging process of calming me down.
In the minutes that followed I could feel myself moving in and out of an adrenalin-driven anxiety fog I had never known. I was about to die – from either a collapsed oesophagus or a heart attack – and no calm medical professional was going to convince me otherwise.
My daughter Lily was away up the coast with my mother. I was due to drive and pick her up the next morning. At this point I was positive I’d never see her again. I sat on the stairs inside my house wearing a heart monitor. They informed me I had a mild arrythmia, common for people over 40.
“I’m only 39, God DAMN IT!” I screamed in my head.
I calmed a little and the anxiety fog seemed to be lifting. It was time for me to decide whether to take the ride to the hospital or stay here at home. Ambo number two mentioned the fact that, if I decided not to go with them, they could not legally be responsible for what might happen once they left.
I was still hooked up at the heart monitor and we all listened as my heart rate escalated at the thought of being left here alone. I opted for the ambulance ride. The 30-minute trip to the hospital (no siren, thank God) was surreal. I sat in the back opposite ambo number one. He monitored me with conversation. I could hear my own voice slowing under stress. I was managing about two words every 10 seconds. What ensued was an anxious confessional of motherly proportions.
“Have you had enough sleep lately?”“No.”“Have you been working hard?”“Yes.”“Have you been eating well?”“No.” (Four take-away Asian dinners in one week isn’t something my body handles well). “Are you under any stress?”
That was the BIG question. My daughter had been away from me for the last five days. Knowing she was staying without me at the beach was a stress I’d been too afraid to admit to myself until this moment.
I had several attempts at describing how I was feeling to the ambo. I mentioned the claustrophobia I discovered on a flight to India in my mid 20s. I also mentioned the magic mushroom experience I had around the same time in Byron Bay (I didn’t have the capacity to tell the whole innocent story). His questioning turned to modern day recreational drug use and I reassured him what he was witnessing was not a drug-hazed freak out!
We arrived at the hospital and the antihistamine and adrenalin cocktail started kicking in. I sat in the registration area answering questions for the triage nurse. I felt like I was entering some mental institution and must have looked the part with my long paranoid stares and delayed answers. I must admit I’d hit the emergency department jackpot! The ward was as empty as the ambos were quick. (Note to self: mid-week breakdown = much greater chance of emergency silver service).
Over the next couple of hours God sent me his best health care team. The nurses were angels, the doctors wore wings. Robert had driven down to join me in emergency after only just getting to sleep around midnight. He’d been pacing the corridor patiently for two hours. I had blood tests and heart checks and blood pressure checks. All looked good and I was finally feeling the pain subside.
When the doctor asked me how I would rate the pain in my chest, I was embarrassed to admit that, despite the pain being only a 4/10 at its worst, my anxiety levels felt they’d gone through the roof at about an 11! The realisation – that I’d really LOST IT – now seemed more frightening than the anxiety levels that had earlier sent my heart racing.
The final test was a chest x-ray. As I lay on the bed watching the ceiling pass by while being wheeled through to x-ray, my (strange) thought was: “the next time I’m in this damn hospital, I want it to be in maternity, not emergency!”
Next minute, as I stood shakily up against the x-ray machine, the female staffer asked, “Not pregnant are you?”
“I………don’t know,” was the long, slow answer. The fact is my periods are about as regular as CityRail trains. (Just when you think you can feel one coming, you realise it’s a false alarm and you’ve been delayed yet again).
I was wheeled out of my chest x-ray and wheeled in for a pregnancy test. In the moments they took to analyse my wee, hubby and I had a great – somewhat nervous – chuckle to ourselves about the most dramatic pregnancy announcement in history.
Finally... “It’s positive!” said the doctor. “Two lines.”
We laughed and cried at the madness of it all, exhausted by the night we’d had.
*
In the week that followed, I spent a lot of time in the fog of fear I’d felt that night. It had only temporarily lifted and returned thick and eerie the next morning. At times I found myself frightened by absolutely everything and anything. I remember feeling afraid I wouldn’t be able to make my daughter’s sandwich. Sometimes even walking to the bottom level of my house to pee was overwhelming. The safest I felt was lying down.
I ate small amounts of food very slowly, fearful of choking, I slept constantly, more so because I was afraid to be awake than tired. I watched hours of sport to zone out from my reality (thank God for the distraction of the Australian open and Test cricket!) What I feared most was that this fearful state could become my new reality, that perhaps this was a place that – once visited – could never be left behind.
At its worst, I remember feeling so afraid that all I could think to do was close my eyes and repeat the words, “I choose love and light.” I had a visual of light under a doorway in a darkened room and I lived with the hope this light would grow greater and the darkness subside.
Each time I seemed to be improving – able to socialise and function normally – I’d feel the fog returning and loose my grip once again. What I feared most was never being myself again, the person I had come to know as ME.
For the first seven days I kept the depth of my fears to myself. By the end of that week, with little improvement, I began to get really emotional. Those pregnancy hormones kicked in nicely (and in hindsight, were perhaps my savior). I was pretty sure by now I’d had a breakdown, but it wasn’t until the tears started things started to shift and it felt more like I was breaking through to another place. Each time a close friend or family member called, I was brought to tears by their concern and I began openly sharing my reality (whether they were ready for it or not).
Then, after a conversation with a loving and wise friend, a light went on. If I never was the same again, would that be such a bad thing? I had a history of overworking, overdoing and overthinking just about everything and – the fact was – it was a bit bloody overwhelming! I’d continued to live this way up to 36 weeks into my first pregnancy and returned to work full-time just eight weeks after my daughter was born.
The decision was rational/ financial and set me up for a slow and painful hormonal and emotional death. The facts were clear, the decision made sense to hubby and I. But my baby and my body felt quite different. Nevertheless I soldiered on regardless towards my corporate paypacket.
This recent breakdown just didn’t seem to make sense. I’d convinced myself that, since moving to the Blue Mountains, life was a whole lot easier, slower. I moved for more space, more time, less work and less stress, yet here I was three years, later hospitalised with a breakdown and a pregnancy.
I remember clearly in the three days before my breakdown, that I struggled physically and mentally in the searing heat. We were in the middle of the hottest January in 50 years. My three days had been physically and mentally challenging. Most importantly, when my body had asked me to stop, to take the bus up the hill that day instead of walking, I hadn’t listened.
Perhaps this physical and mental breakdown was my body’s way – and my baby’s way – of saying I had no choice but to do it all differently…
At the end of my foggy week, I found myself in the local bookstore searching for a birthday present. While Lily browsed the kids’ section, I asked the shop assistant to point to point me in the direction of the parenting section. She walked me to it. There I stood looking quizzically at the titles. I was standing right in front of the ‘Fear/stress/anxiety’ section (and it was a sizeable section).
I laughed out loud at where I had found myself and the fact it was so aptly placed next to the parenting section. The assistant asked what I was laughing at, “I’ve just had the most fear-filled, stressful week of my life,” I answered, “and here I stand.”
“Well, there you go!” she answered. On my way out of the shop, a woman approached me with her two small children and touched me gently on the arm.
“Excuse me,” she said in the warmest way. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said back there and I just wanted to say it does get better and it’ll be okay.”
I was overwhelmed by her generosity and her courage in extending a kind word to a fellow traveler.
*
About six months into the pregnancy and just days before my daughter’s sixth birthday party, I fell into a deep dark hole with a panic attack like no other. Although I’d suffered with frequent attacks since the breakdown, they’d been relatively minor.
This one took me to a whole new low.
Robert had grown confident in my ability to recover from my minor panics and was often late home on his two-hour commute back from the city. This particular night not only was I frozen with fear but, for the first time my head, filled with dark thoughts of harming both my beautiful daughter and my unborn child.
So gripped was I by these thoughts (and for days after) that I feared they may become real, that I might actually harm those I loved the most. Equally frightening was the fact that Robert was so far away from me. I felt alone and paralysed with what I thought was some sort of inner demonic power.
The next morning the only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t handle this alone and for the first time in my life I wanted professional help. The first thing I did was tell Robert what had happened. I was petrified about revealing my thoughts about our gorgeous girl and unborn child. I was convinced I’d be separated from Lily, possibly lose my unborn child and even be committed to a mental asylum.
Robert listened and his reaction convinced me he loved and believed in me. He suggested it sounded like hormones were raging inside me and supported me in seeking help. I cannot explain the weight that lifted in sharing my deep, dark secret. He simply said – in his wonderfully rational male way – “Well I think it’s hormones messing with your head but if you are afraid of acting these thoughts out, wouldn’t you prefer to know and keep your child safe?”
I rang a dear trusted friend trained as a psychologist who agreed this sounded hormonal. She helped me work out a support action plan I could put into place.
This included:
at least two emergency people I could call (especially with Robert so far away in the evenings sometimes)
an appointment with the hospital’s psychology unit (where I could seek support NOW, well before bub arrives plus arrange post-natal depression support should I need it). This meant getting a referral from my GP and being willing to admit publicly that I REALLY NEEDED HELP! (This was tough.)
telling my family (sisters and mum) exactly what had been going on for me so they were ready, willing and able to support me if needed. (This was even tougher.)
I took action straight away and made my appointments, started sharing with my close friends and family what had really been going on all these months and my most recent deep, dark hole. What surprised me was that no one, not even my mother or father, tried to fix it. They were just there for me. One of the main reasons I moved to the Blue Mountains was to be closer to my family. I had no idea when I made that move that in three years time I would relish that support like a lifeline.
In the month that followed, I found myself openly sharing my panic attack story and even my ‘deep dark thoughts’ with my mum friends. I was astounded to hear their stories. One woman confessed she was too frightened to cross the local pedestrian bridge for fear she would toss her child over the edge. Another told me of her persistent weekly thoughts of putting her crying child out into the bin on garbage night.
I heard story after story from mother after mother confessing her feelings of anxiety frustration, fear, resentment and sheer panic while sitting in the driver’s seat of motherhood. Each time I shared and listened, my own dark thoughts seemed to lighten, the burden gradually lifting, until I could talk and joke about them rather than feel totally consumed by them. It was helpful to remind myself – as I’d been taught in meditation – that thoughts are not WHO I AM, and that like all other thoughts, these too would pass.
*
Towards the end of my pregnancy it occurred to me that, realistically, I would be parenting full-time for the first time. With Lily, I was so fully entrenched in full-time work by week eight that I really wasn’t in the frontline of parenting for the first 18 months of her life and missed the tough day- to-day stuff.
What I had experienced was sleep deprivation and the madness it can instill in you.
In the mad, mad world of men and wars sleep deprivation is used as a severe torture tactic, now outlawed. For a mother of a small child, it’s everyday reality.
When Lily was about 18 months old and fell sick with a high temperature, I remember sitting up with her through the night. I was working full-time and sleep was like gold as far as I was concerned. I tried several times to give her paracetamol and when she flatly refused, I screeched at her, “What do you want me to do?!”
She stopped in shock then fell into my arms in tears. All she wanted was cuddles from her mum and all I could think about was how exhausted I was already and how shattered I’d be at my desk come 9.00am.
Six years later, living in the Blue Mountains, with my second child….this was what I had asked for, what I wanted. Surely up here in the fresh mountain air, without the stresses of the city and work, I’d be a cooler, calmer mum and shrug off the sleep deprivation.
I was totally deluded.
*
One day four, after a two-hour crying session, I left Amy on the bed, stood up and yelled at her to “Shut up!” She cried, I felt rotten. I decided it was time to take my war-torn body and overwrought mind and just walk away. I left, turned off the monitor and checked the clock. I gave myself 10 minutes. I ate my cold eggs (breakfast in waiting), drank warm chamomile tea, ran a hot bath and pulled out the Tai Chi DVD I’d bought months ago. I decided that as soon as she settled I’d sink into my bath then try some tai chi.
After ten minutes when I turned on the monitor she was – of course – fast asleep. A doctor’s appointment that afternoon confirmed her glands at the back of her head were swollen and all the holding and consoling I was trying was probably causing her more pain. And despite the doc’s insistence there was no ear infection and no first tooth, two days later up pops bub’s first tooth!
The guilt monkey came and sat on my shoulder for a while. But, I’ve find he gets smaller each time I forgive myself for being human.

Welcome to Motherhood: My new naked truth

I’ll never forget the morning I awoke to find my partner holding onto one of my breasts and my daughter the other. It was the perfect metaphor for my life: everyone wanted a piece of me. My life, my mind and my body were no longer my own.

Welcome to motherhood!

When I returned to work just eight weeks after my first daughter was born, I had no idea the physical and emotional toll I would pay. Financially the decision made perfect sense. But within months I was mourning the loss of my breastmilk and what felt like my complete loss of self.
I had fallen pregnant just a few months into my work contract. It was a well paid and interesting gig. But with it came weekend hours and a level of responsibility I grew to resent. Several times during the working day I’d sneak my breastpump into the bathrooms and sing nursery rhymes to my sleep deprived breasts. I laughed at my pathetic clandestine pumping but when long work days and frequent night feeds finally took their toll, my milk supply and sense of humour dried up. I wept for days, mourning the loss of the only daytime connection I had with my beautiful baby girl.
I’d studied my arse off in high school and worked like a dog in university for a qualification that earned me a big fat paypacket and a work gig that was now keeping me from my baby. For all my efforts and those of my mother’s generation, I felt completely ripped off! And, although Lily was at home with Robert - rather than in daycare – it still just felt wrong to me. The separation felt like too higher price to pay...
My own mother had earned herself the right to a career too and spent much more time encouraging other people’s kids than her own five. I know she doesn’t regret having a career but I’m sure not all her decisions were easy. Her absence ingrained in me a deep desperation to be able to find some way to both work and be at home when my kids came home from school.
In January 2004 when my work was at its peak, my 15 year old step son moved in. I returned home from work each day to find a stressed out stay-at-home dad, a disillusioned 15 year old and a baby longing for her mother. Being so desperately needed at the end of the day was far from flattering. It was suffocating.
And, although I longed to hold my beautiful daughter in my arms and hear about all the funny, crazy and clever things she’d done that day, what I also ached for was some of the simple freedoms I took for granted in my life BC (before children): ocean swims, regular exercise, trips to the movies, peeing alone. What used to be my favourite time of the day was now the ‘witching hour’.
Some days as I rode the bus home I daydreamed of riding all the way to Bronte Beach for a quick dip in the ocean pool before returning to the onslaught of family. But guilt kept me from it .When I did come home it took all my strength not to ask Robert what the hell he’d been doing all day. (In hindsight he did an incredible job and spending the first two years at home with Lily deepened their special relationship. For that I am truly grateful). Back then I was simply exhausted and jealous.
I was too busy and too tired to eat well at work - asian stirfrys and, chocolate and soft drinks – and, with two men at home I was consuming more meat in a fortnight than I’d usually eat in a year. The yoga, good eating and meditation that was once daily routine was long gone and replaced with booze (no longer breastfeeding), take-away and TV.
I knew life would be hard. I knew there’d be sleepless nights and more fights and less time for me. What I didn’t know, what no-one had told me, was that every little bit of me-time and space and all the little things that together helped keep me sane would be stripped away. I didn’t expect to feel completely torn between a desperate need for me-time, a corporate paypacket and a deep longing to be a stay-at-home mum...

Tresillian saves the day...

...and my sanity...and probably my family.
Four nights at Tresillian has changed my life. I've just spent four intensive days and nights under the angelic wings of Tresillian staff at their residential facility in Penrith. It was a weird Twilight Zone experience in a way as it's right next to the hospital where I was born and gave birth to Amy. It's just off the street I grew up on and once upon a time on the same grounds was the preschool I attended.
My time there with 8 1/2 mth old Amy was brilliant. It was like spending time with a bunch of caring aunts who had all the time and knowledge in the world, but yet still let bub and I work at our own pace.
When they asked me what I wanted like: 'what time would YOU like to wake up in the morning?' I was a little shocked. I thought it was all about bub and what she needed. It was refreshing to see they were interested in what I wanted for bub and me too.
The first night was bloody hard. She cried for a whole hour, with plenty of tears and some soothing and settling from me. What was great was that the staff were right there with me at settling time and encouraged me to do what felt right for me. They encouraged me to start using my instinct again and watch and listen to my bub - instead of watching the clock.
They also ran brilliant courses. I went to three: stress management, toddler tactics and connecting with your baby. These were all fantastic and were a great time to get honest with a bunch of mums (and some dads) with nothing to lose and everything to gain!
There was one couple with twin six month old boys, a couple of almost three year olds with expectant mums, an exhausted single mum and some very stressed parents. I was in good company and sharing our stories really helped lighten the load.
As the days went on there was a common chorus of gratitude not only for sleep and support, but for the growing confidence. Focusing solely on bub for four days - not housework, food prep, etc - was a gift. I started to see how she behaved and understand what she needed. And, for the first time in months, I was really enjoying her company. When she woke I loved seeing her again and playing with her, spending time together.
(Several parents agreed with my verdict that it was nice to want to see and spend time with bub rather than sighing or swearing each time you hear them wake - yet again - for your attention).
Amy progressed really quickly and on day two she took only a few minutes to settle. By day three she was sleeping 12 - yes you heard it folks, 12 hours - at night and about 3 hours during the day. She was no longer needing the breast to sleep, self settled beautifully and ate like a trooper!
Not all the bubs and toddlers around us responded that quickly. Some took a little longer and others seemed to improved then went backwards a little. Aparently that's pretty normal and I think in the scheme of things Amy was just really ready. So I'm grateful for the outcome. All the parents I spoke to, even those whose bubs weren't quite there, felt they had so much more information and confidence to work towards a better night's sleep. A couple of mums I connected with extended their stay by a couple of days in order to get a little more prepared before heading home.
It was an absolute priveledge to cross path with other mums and dads walking the parenting path and doing whatever they can to save their sleep, their sanity and their families/ marriages.

The day I returned home, I headed out to the shops to pick up a few things and the U2 song 'It's a beautiful day' came on the radio. I cranked it up and sang my heart out, tears of relief and joy rolling down my face. I pulled into my mum's house (on the way) for a cuddle and was so overwhelmed I could hardly speak. When my poor neices asked 'what's wrong with auntie Lyndal?' my mum answered: 'Amy's sleeping at last!'.
I've got my mumjo back!!!!!!!!!!!
Even in these first few days at home, I can already see I'll have more time for Lily in th evenings(turning 7 on Friday). There's already more predictability and laughter in our house, less stress and arguements. All is well in our world, for now...
Tresillian's website: http://www.tresillian.net/
24 hour helpline: 9787 0855/ 1800 637 357

Angry Foods

After spending about 10 days avoiding some of the foods I'd read can affect MOOD, I noticed an incredible difference in my mood. I was far less moody and angry. Despite being up several times a night with Amy's tooth number four and feeling quite exhausted during the day, I still felt cool and calm.
Then one night Bob and I both had some spicy food and later that night, when Amy demanded our attention, we were at each other's throats. And, when I ate out Chinese last Thursday, I woke with a food 'hangover' and in a really bad mood. I was snappy for 48 hours.
Even last night when I had some chocolate, I instantly got a headache and felt quite irritable last night and today.
Someone asked me the other day where do you start, because the food/ mood thing is so big. My answer to her was the same as the food/mood and food intoolerance websites: keep a food/ mood diary.
I've decided to do that for myself for the next month so I can get a clearer picture of things. (Can be tricky with food intolerances as the reactions can be delayed by 48 hours). Anyhow, bit of work, but after boticing the difference in the last little while I think it's worth it!
Will report back on my diary in a month.

Foods and Moods

Came across a really interesting article in issue # 126 of WellBeing Magazine about foods and moods. It was timely as I'm on a mission to 'Tame the Dragon' (dragony fire-breathing sleep deprived bitch) I've been for a way too long now.
The article looked at British studies, one of which is The Food and Mood project, which ran from 1998 to 2009, looking at the links between diet and nutrition and mental and emotional health.
Subjects saw reductions in anxiety, depression, mood swings, food cravings and PMS. And a new study published in the British Journal of Psychiatry (2009) suggests food should play a greater role in preventing depresssive disorders.
Neoru-psychological symptoms or illnesses that can be caused or worsened by foods included: mood swings, behavious disorders, anxiety and panic attacks, hyperactivity, poor memory, concentration, sleep disorders, migraine, poor co-ordination, numbness & tingling and fatigue.
Apart from the obvious culprits of food additives, preservatives we hear so much about in relation to children and behaviour, of greatest surprise was the effect 'healthy foods' such as milk, wheat and - for some people - things such as broccoli, corn, cheese and tomatoes.
The article has some really useful information on how to load up on mood enhancing vitamins and minerals and points clearly to folate (thought this was only important before/ during pregnancy), B6 and B12, and iron as well as omega 3 and 6. Also talked about foods for concentration, relaxation and energy, as well as the greatest depressors (processed meat, chocolate (NO!!!), sweets, fried foods, refined foods and high-fat dairy, alcohol).
Now, all of this can be a bit overwhelming. I know six years ago when I developed a 'intolerance' to Amines, a natural chemical found in loads of foods, I found it all a little too daunting to deal with. (I wasn't aware 'till recently that women of child-bearing age are more susceptible to food intolerances because of the hormonal influence).
I did the elimination diet in order to identify the amine problem but after that I simply used my skin as a measure. If I wasn't breaking out in hives or large welts, unattractive swollen eyes, or the odd botox-looking lip, I thought I was OK.
But, now I'm thinking the skin was my body's most dramatic way of showing me it didn't like what I was eating. (Incidently, amines are found in all my favourite foods: chocolate, wine, cheese, avocado, tomato, olives, oilve oil, take-away Thai).
I'm now wondering whether the 'panic attacks' that started at the beginning of my pregnancy last year could have been at least partly the result of diet. And whether the post-natal depression I've experienced with Amy was due at least in part to my diet, or could have been reduced somewhat through my diet. After all, I've been freely eating chocolate, avos, tomatoes, olive oil with no obvious physical side effects.
As for the mental/ emotional side, according to the Food Intolerance Network, eating the foods your body can't tolerate well can lead to: headaches, anxiety, depression, lethargy, panic attacks, irritability, restlessness, mood swings. Well, that's been me in a nutshell (a nut in a nutshell!)
Then there's the LIVER to consider. The Chinese call the liver the army seargeant and the 'seat of anger'. An unhappy liver can cause severe emotional distress, resulting in mood swings, irritability, depression, dizziness, headaches, even suicidal tentencies.
So, if you or your kids are showing signs of any of the above, and your instinct tells you it might be something to do with food, you might want to look at:

• Issue 126 of WellBeing Magazine


• Checking out the Food Intolerance Network


• Getting a copy of the UK Foods & Moods poster (for less than $5)


• Doing the Livercare online questionnaire (Dr Sandra Cabot's)


• Checking out the Mood Disorders Unit at the Prince of Wales Hospital, known as Black Dog
  
• Reading the Mind Guide to Food and Mood
• Reading the online WellBeing article on Beating PND naturally

In the meatime, I've simply cut out chocolate, cheese and wheat for three days and can't believe how much clearer my head is...and the dragony fire-breathing bitch has retreated to her cave (for now, anyway!).

Lyndal

Let the sunshine in...into the dragon's cave

Woke this morning after a crazy teething night. Can't tell you what happened at what hour because it's all a mad blur. All I do know is we emerged from the cave at around 5.50am to start the day. Despite rising 2 1/2 hours before leaving the house, it was still a mad rush to get out on time for school/ work. When I returned to it at 2pm, it looked like someone had broken in and wrecked the place searching for something of value.
Any way, back to 5.50am. When I finished breastfeeding and dragged myself out of bed I left the girls and Bob in bed and went upstairs hoping to find 10 minutes of peace and quiet before the turning on the treadmill of the school day rush.
I stepped onto the verandah and immediately fell into the cosy warmth of the sun. I'd grabbed my yoga mat on the way with the intention of ironing out some of the breastfeeding creases from the night before.
With my first breath and stretch I started the usual self-talk: 'Better make the most of these few minutes because you've got a 15 hour day ahead of you before Robert's back home and, frankly, I don't know how the hell you'll make it through!'
I could feel the dragon emerging (the dragony fire-breathing bitch of sleep deprivation). Only this time I stopped it in its tracks. I turned to the sun, soaked in its light and beautiful warmth and breathed in the possibility of a new day.
'No matter how exhausted I feel today, I accept whatever the day chooses to give to me. And I'll be grateful for it.' I almost instantly felt my shoulders loosen and my back iron out. I felt freed from the burden of exhaustion and decided then and there that, despite the plans I had for the day, if the opportunity presented itself, I'd lay down and rest. It did and I did. Amy and I mamanged a short nap together in the afternoon.
We left the house an absolute mess that morning and for the first time in a long time, I didn't take ownership of it. At 5pm it still looked that way and all that mattered was that we were all fed and watered and loved.
Besides. mufti day tomorrow and I'd rather spend the evening having fun helping Lily organise her outfit than stress about the mess we'll be stepping over.

The dragon sleeps another day...

Lyndal

Postnatal expression

My baby girl Amy has just turned seven months. She's a happy healthy girl, growing in leaps and bounds. First time around (Lily, now nearly aged 7), I returned to full-time work early and didn't take time out to join a mother's group or enjoy any me-time activities.
In the early months after Amy's arrival, there was many a day and week when I felt I was drowning in depression. Despite being a second time mum, I felt hopeless, helpless. My partner, Robert, spent 4 hours a day commuting, so it was quite normal for me to do a 14 - 18 hour day as a single parent.
I knew what (PND) signs to look for. I knew my pregnancy panic attacks might make me more susceptible. And I had all the local community help/ support information at hand. For some reason, though, I fought to keep my own head above water and lean on Robert for help.
But when the door opened for me to join a mother's group with a creative twist I jumped at it. Held at the local community centre, the fortnightly gatherings involved 2 1/2 hrs of open discussion and a some form of simple creative expression, such as collage or painting (all for $6!). Just days after my first attendance, I received a call from a local potter running classes just two streets from my house. I had enquired six months earlier and she was following up to offer me a class spot. I jumped at that too.
It's been three months since I started and I truly believe both classes have been life saving. It's breathed new life into my writing (my book), and given me vital time to freely explore and express a whole other side of myself. The benefits of taking regular time out for me and focusing on simple, positive and creative stuff has been incredible.
And it's got me wondering...what are other mums getting from creative projects that are keeping their heads above water? Can creative expression reduce post natal depression?
Lyndal