It’s only now that I begin to recover from postnatal depression (PND) and the low cloud lifts that I can look back and see the funny side of this illness.
I know that depression isn’t a funny subject, but I always find laughter and humor to be my coping mechanism. And if I didn’t look back at how PND made me feel and laugh at her attempts to make me loose my mind, I reckon she would have a lot more power over me now than she does.
When looking back, I’m finding solace in laughing at the weak attempts that PND took to make me look like a class A tw*t, and rather than let those memories pull me into a downward slumber, I’m pulling away any power PND has left and making a mockery out of them.
Kind of like a ‘I’ll laugh at me first before you do’ kind of safety net.
So in order to have the last laugh I’m going to share with you all the top 5 times that PND and my anxiety have tried to make an absolute di*khead out of me…
- Crying in the crowded cafe
I’ll set the picture for you…
I’m one week post birth of my second baby. PND has set her claws in hard, my anxiety is sky high and I somehow think its a good idea to go for lunch with the baby and my parents since they are over visiting us.
As we sit down the baby starts screaming…
The baby wont stop screaming…
PND starts talking in my ear how everyone is looking and thinking I’m a bad mother…
Tears begin to well, and over walks some family friends, with not a clue whats going on…
‘how are you doing?’ they ask…
Up pops my face from hiding, eyes read raw and snot running down my face, giving Kim Kardashian a run for gurning uglies.
Yep, wrong question my friend, wrooooong question!
(Secretly hoping I never see them again)
2. The airport breakdown
Flying with anxiety is even more of a bad partnership than flip flops on a rainy day. F’ing useless!
After the birth of my first child even when the low mood lifted I was left with debilitating anxiety. Cue me then having to fly on my own with an overstuffed bag, and shit weight limit imposed on me by a low cost (they’re having a laugh with that one) airline.
I qued for 45 minutes just to get to the check in desk, where a miserable gorilla covered in makeup decides to tell me that unfortunately I have to remove some of the contents of my suitcase to meet the weight limit.
Now any other person may just use their problem solving skills here. Perhaps peacefully move some contents to their hand luggage.
But no, not me.
My anxiety pulls out the inner threenager in me, pulling the biggest tantrum I’ve ever seen. I wail as I try to pull the bag back off the desk, crying and flapping my arms around like the gorilla had just told me to set my bag alight. I start to hyperventilate as I cant think how the hell to get out of this problem, and the only solution that comes to me is that I should just throw it all out. So in front of over 200 other people in the airport I fall to the ground with my case, and start flinging out my clothing from the bag. Knickers, bras and tampons roll across the floor while I’m still in fits of tears.
After all that I realise that all I had to do was pay £30 for the extra weight.
Hindsight without anxiety… useful!
3. When absolute sh*t rolls out of your mouth
Anxiety and PND roll together hand in hand like a loved up couple in spring time. They particularly love when you are thrust into a new environment and immediately jump on each side of your shoulder to wind you up to just before panic attack level. This is when I begin to talk utter sh*t!
For instance, going into a new baby group where I find everyone siting in a circle singing along full pelt to some baby tunes I don’t even know. My anxiety increases as PND tells me there is no way in hell I’m fitting in with good mums like this. So I decide to stand on the outside of the circle and hold onto my little ones hands, because, you know, I’m more comfortable there out of the way of everyone’s sight and she is acting as my little safety net. When one parent turns around to give me a chair and asks me to come into the circle I panic and the words…
‘I don’t like to sit!’ come out of my mouth
As the woman looks at me perplexed I then go on to try to save myself with…
“My legs are sore I’m trying not to bend them”
Lady keeps looking at me with wide ‘what the hell are you talking about nut job?’ eyes.
My mind is now on massive melt down and red sirens are flashing panic, panic!
“It’s a medical thing!” thinking that will explain my way out of this horrendous situation.
Cue me then having to walk out like the stick man to prove my horrendous anxiety driven lie.
4. Pissing my pants (literally)
No not from laughing, just literally being so incontinent after pushing two watermelons out of my lady tunnel that holding in any form of bodily fluid becomes completely impossible.
My first instance of knicker, trouser and shoe wetting came two days after the birth of my second child on a trip to the park. There I am watching my firstborn climb the monkey bars and all of a sudden liquid starts dripping down my legs. No warning, Just standing around pissing myself.
On this day anxiety had started creeping its way in, so when this happens I don’t just run to the loo to clean myself up. Noooooo, I loose all control of my mind and just start running about the park not sure of what to do.
I run to the gate and forget about my daughter. I run back to get her, then see a bush and think a great idea would be to hide in there. I forget about my daughter again so run back to get her, see a parent as I make my way out and run back to the bush. Finally my daughter wondering what the hell I’m doing comes to get me and as quickly as we can, with my legs crossed, shuffle along to the loos as she trails me along shouting, ‘mummy can you hold your wee wee in until you get to the toilet!’
Not only did I look like an idiot in front of my daughter, but to any parent who was unfortunately there on that tragic day witnessing the weird woman peeking between the bushes.
5. Tomato slam dunk:
So I’m tired, and emotional. Its been a bloody hard week fighting the thoughts that PND had put in my head, that I’m a horrible mum and I’m stuck in this horrendous job that is motherhoos and how I’ll be horrible at it forever. ‘Will I ever do anything for myself?’.
Cue husband then trying to take the last of my MacDonald’s cheese bites, the only little joy I have left in my life, and PND drives my anger up 100% to the point I smack Maccy D’s tomato ketchup all over said husbands head and storms off crying.
‘Mummy doesn’t share food!’
No mummy only looses her marbles over it!
So there PND, you may have made me look like a dick, but I’m owning it. You may have won small battles but I’m winning the war!
I may cry over the tiniest of problems because you cloud my vision and make it hard for me to see the obvious route out of them. I might fall into a panic attack because I’m shoved into a room with people I feel intimated by all because you make me feel I’m not as good as them. I may fall into a silent low because you make me think wetting my pants means I’m a disgusting human being. But at the end of this war, me and my pissy pants will be the one’s having the last laugh. I’ll be the one laughing you away and thinking ‘remember the time PND tried to ruin my life? Ha ha what a tw*t she was!’