You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘depression’ tag.

I received lots of lovely messages on my birthday last Friday and have so much to be grateful for in the year ahead.

But there was no call, SMS, card or e-mail from my mom.

I called her on Saturday to check that they’re OK. And yes, of course they were. My parents were having fun at dad’s school reunion. I didn’t mention the forgotten birthday and Mom finally called yesterday to say she realized that she’d forgotten. I changed the subject to my little girl as soon as possible, as I didn’t know what to say and would rather talk about sunny, happy things (our long history taught me this survival tactic).

Surely it’s no big deal when your mother forgets about your 37th birthday. I’m a big girl. I have a husband who loves me dearly, a delightful baby girl and a tiny blessing on the way.

It’s just that my relationship with my mom seems best explained by these words of a Laurika Rauch song.

DIE BOOT WAT IN DIE SEE VERDWAAL
DIE WIND WAT DEUR DIE BRANDERS MAAL
SONDER SEILE TEEN DIE WIND
SKOMMEL ONS
SONDER OM MEKAAR TE VIND

IN DIE WATERS WILD KAN ONS VERSINK
IN DIE DONKER SEE SAL ONS VERDRINK
SONDER SEILE TEEN DIE WIND
SKOMMEL ONS
SONDER OM MEKAAR TE VIND

KAN ONS WEET OF SAL ONS RAAI
HOE VIND ONS OOIT ‘N KALM BAAI
SONDER SEILE TEEN DIE WIND
SKOMMEL ONS
SONDER OM MEKAAR TE VIND

SAL ONS OOIT DIE LAND KAN HAAL
IS ONS IN DIE SEE VERDWAAL
SONDER SEILE
SKOMMEL ONS

Woorde en Musiek: Pieter J. Swanepoel/Peter McLea

(You can listen to a snippet of the song here – select track 10.)

Now that I’m a mom who totally, absolutely adores my little girl, I feel even more distant from my own mother. It makes even less sense that I so seldom felt loved by her. Her journey through post-natal depression wasn’t tempered by anti-depressants, as mine was – but still, was I really such an unlovable baby, tot, child, teen, woman..? Or was I emotionally so warped that I was unable to recognize that she loved me?

After the birth of my baby, those childhood memories that still haunt me seemed to become more vivid, alive and taunting than ever. I so intensely remember the years of tiptoeing through our house and through my life, of being scared I would be noticed. Scared that mom might suddenly and without warning lash out and start screaming at me like a berserk banshee.

All I know for sure is that I’ve given my all over the years to try and make my mom like me – as pathetic as this might be. I’ve even named my beloved little girl, the most precious gift I’ve ever received, after her – largely because it was the right thing to do as per our strong family traditions.

Also, I know that in her own way, she tried to be the best mother to me and my (too many) siblings that she could be.


I choose to look at it like this: My mother might not be the best mom there is, but she’s the best mother I’ll ever have. Therefore I’ll try to always be the best daughter to her that I can possibly be.

Surely any other path could only lead to more regret.

I think about this often, as every IF probably do.

I’ve always loved kids, taught Sunday school to 6-year olds for years and became a paediatric occupational therapist – mostly because I figured it was the most valuable course a prospective mother could take at university. As an oldest sister with 4 siblings, I helped raised and totally adored my 2 little brothers – I was an awestruck 6-year old at the time of the birth of the oldest of the 2.

If things went according to plan (as it does for many non-IFs), I’d have been married and raising a truck load of kids before I knew it.

But working with kids as OT in the UK was traumatic. Disabled kids, retarded kids, dying kids, inherited diseases wiping out all kids in a lovely family.. Playing with the kids was great and I considered myself very lucky for getting paid to do this. But, it also got boring to every day watch kids struggle with the most simple tasks. It’s not very intellectually stimulating.

Furthermore, Prince Charming took his time. By 27, I made a career change (into IT) and could now to keep food on my table in sunny SA. Next thing I knew, I was a single career woman going places while many of friends were looking after terribly obnoxious LOs!

I know the following:

  • If I could choose, I’d rather not have kids than watch a disabled kiddie struggle through a possibly short and painful life. But we don’t get to choose.
  • Hearing my mother complain about pregnancy and childbirth for most of my young life, I’ve always been absolutely terrified of that experience. I wish I could have kids without going through that crap.
  • I’ve always hated AF and all the cramping and would have liked a hysterectomy at 15 if only I could somehow still have had my own genetic kids despite that.
  • I still absolutely love playing with kids and adore my little nephews.

I’ve only qualified as ‘IF’ in July and instantly plunged into major depression. How unfair! I’ve spent most of my life wishing, planning and preparing for this!

However, having carefully considered all, I’ve decided not to miss the joy that can be found today! Remember, there is no guarantee that we’d be happy once we have those kiddies.

So yes: I still want to have kids and I’ll mourn over IF my whole life if I never have kids. But, maybe being 35 years young(!) in our modern society, being healthy, having a wonderful DH and a fantastic luxurious life (by many standards) is actually as good as it gets?

It seems I’m unlearning how to sleep. I usually can’t do without 8 solid hours per night, but in the past 7 or 8 weeks I rarely got more than 4 hours on any given night. Last night, for example, I didn’t get a minute of shut eye.

Not the best way to start a week. Shame, not for DH either, who now sleeps in the guest room (let’s just call the flippen room that) to avoid my tossing and turning. The advantage of this is that I can at least turn on the light and read – it’s currently way too cold to get out of bed and do anything else.

I started on Fluoxetine last Thursday, so I’m hoping that spring will eventually arrive again.

I should probably also see a therapist – which would be to DH’s shock and horror. He has about as much respect for a psychologist as for a maximum security inmate. But sheesh, I feel so haunted by ghosts of Christmas past (previously survived a dreadful illness), present and future at the moment.

I guess one can only vaguely hope to be able to make sense of it all some day.

But back to work, chin up – and smile.

I hate to admit that lately I can’t snap out of being a constant cry baby. I have slept very little in the past month, lost a worrisome amount of weight (actually dropped my BMI below 16) and worst of all, can’t seem to stop crying. All of a sudden, the weight of the world is totally wearing me down and I’m wondering whether I’d even cope with having a kid.

Fortunately I have a job where I sit in an office all day doing IT stuff, so it will thankfully take a bit of time before my co-workers figure out I’ve possibly lost all my marbles. My poor husband must unfortunately know this by now following several erratic outbursts over nonsense.

Sure, I’m still reeling from the formal diagnosis of IF and severe endo (only 4 weeks ago). I’m still cramping a lot after the extensive lap, which is not conducive to a good night’s sleep or a healthy appetite. Besides, maybe it’s nothing a BFP might not cure?

Yet I have a horrible family history of severe depression, so I can’t afford too much nonchalance.

If anti-depressants are no option while you’re ttc, I don’t want to mention any of this to my FS – or preferably anyone, actually. I’m too embarrassed and am used to being much more together than this. Maybe more thoughts of ponies and rainbows, a few 30 minutes walks per week and (hope I’m this lucky) some restful sleep will do the trick?

Since getting the dx of IF and severe endo three weeks ago, I’ve been awake every night for about 3 or 4 hours somewhere between 1 am and 6 am. I first thought it was only because of the pain after the laparoscopy, but it’s no longer that.

So I’m lying in the gloomy darkness every night trying to think ‘rainbows, ponies and happiness’ while some bleak scenarios of IF and endo race through my mind.

Statistically, my chances of taking a baby home someday seems (according to the studies of severe endo and combined with my age factor) much much less than I ever had for a test or exam, yet all of a sudden this is the only ‘test’ that matters to me now. I so hope to be one of those lucky statistics!

Guess I’m kinda depro and struggling to deal with this new hand I’ve been dealt. I’m permanently on the brink of tears, which is the main reason I can’t get myself to tell my friends of my IF – I’m terrified I’ll start sobbing like a 2- year old, which is so not me.

Ai, this really is lonely road.

Calendar

June 2017
M T W T F S S
« Dec    
 1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
2627282930