As I write this it is early Saturday morning. I’ve been awake for hours but I’ve only just got up. I’m sat downstairs with a mug of tea, writing in the pre-dawn light. The baby is lying on the floor, grunting and smiling while Mr Wonderfully Average and the toddler are happily asleep upstairs. It’s misty outside and it feels cold too, autumn is well and truly here. And I’m angry. Really fucking angry.
I’ve been thinking about baby A’s birth a lot more recently. And little T’s. I went to birth afterthoughts this week thinking it would help like it did after little T’s birth. It didn’t. It just made me angry.
I’m angry that I didn’t give birth to either of my children. I’m angry that the medical professionals didn’t trust me and my body. I’m angry that I was made to feel like a silly little girl, stamping her feet because things didn’t go my way. I’m angry that I was told to go home and look after my babies instead of wallowing in self-pity. Well I say, fuck you.
I’m angry that I haven’t bonded with my baby. I’m angry that postnatal depression has robbed me of those precious weeks and made baby A’s second month seem like a blur. I’m angry that for weeks I’ve been too scared to bath my baby in case I hold him under the water until he’s still.
I’m angry all the time. I shout at my babies. I shout at my husband. I shout at the glass I just broke on the floor.
Anger is part of postnatal depression for me. It’s not uncommon to feel like I do, but it’s not nice.
And writing’s my therapy.