Those of you who read the blog, and/or follow me on the various streams of social media I frequent, may have noticed that I’ve not been myself recently. My jolly persona has been somewhat dower. My writing has been affected.
I feel so sad. So desperately sad.
I didn’t want to face up to the truth, as I’ve felt like this before. I never wanted to feel like this again. But I had to bite the bullet. Eventually. (There’s only so much sobbing on a freezing cold park bench, whilst your baby sleeps next to you in the pram, that one can take.)
So I went to the doctor yesterday.
It’s PND. Obviously.
The depression feels different this time. Primal. A base emotion. Chemicals whizzing around my body. Making me feel sad. Making me feel anxious. Preventing me from sleeping. From enjoying time with my baby. In turn creating guilt for feeling like this; I have no right to be sad when I have such a beautiful baby girl. What a selfish Mother I must be to feel like this.
I’m always close to tears. I’m always tired. I’ve lost my spark.
So what next?
The doctor was lovely. She wants to see me regularly.
I’ve been prescribed tablets to help with my anxiety and to help me sleep.
I’ve been referred for CBT. I’m so grateful for this. CBT saved me last time. Opened me up. Made me talk about everything I didn’t want to. I’m ready for it this time. I’m ready to talk to someone who will listen. Someone who won’t trivialise my feelings or give me a funny look as I try to explain the reasons behind my darkness.
And I will find it again. My spark. I will find it, and I will be happy.
I just need some time to process. Time to heal.