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Motivational Stories from the heart

PANDA thanks all the individuals who have shared their stories with us.
It is through their courage and openness that we can help others to know that it is OK to talk about it.
No one needs to suffer in silence.

Holly’s Story - My lost year and learning the value of help

Holly-4-web My first pregnancy was lovely, despite some major stress when my parents separated rather traumatically after 40 years. It never occurred to me that that alone was putting me at risk for mental health problems post-birth.

I felt in my prime: 31, newly married, highly independent, healthy and thought the world was my oyster. It never occurred to me the anxiety & depression I had suffered from in my early 20s would rear its ugly head again, in such an exciting and hopeful time.

My perfect maternal picture began to disintegrate about the time we arrived at the hospital. I had a difficult, prolonged labor, and my baby Finian, while an absolute angel to behold, needed extra attention when he was born. Fin ended up in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for 5 days. This was a very dark and excruciatingly lonely time for me; it pretty much set the tone for the following year.

My husband Dave returned to work 2 weeks after the birth, and I missed him horribly-- to the point of terror on a daily basis, but was too ashamed to tell him. We had moved about 30 minutes out of the city, thinking it would be an ideal place to raise our family. Our parents were hundreds of miles away - not an ideal scenario for life with a newborn baby. I had many acquaintances and work-friends (counselors no less!), but no one close enough to ask ... "Are you ok?" and genuinely listen to the answer.

Fin had an undiagnosed tongue-tie and breastfeeding was incredibly painful as a result. I told every health professional I came in contact with how much it hurt but none of them thought to look at the underside of his tongue. He was feeding 1-2 hourly and screaming a lot, through each and every night, but the scales said he was getting what he needed so I felt as if most people concluded it was “all in my head.” Somehow I persisted (it got easier when his mouth & tongue grew) but it was at the expense of some of my sanity.

I tried in my way to get help from my doctor and maternal child health nurse, and others; but for whatever reason, they just couldn't hear it.

In the end it was time that probably healed me. My son got older and I recognised in retrospect my own misery. I talked about it with people, wrote about it and got free of the shame. But I would have much preferred a diagnosis, and intervention. That’s a year of my life, and my son’s life, and a year of my marriage, that I’ll never get back after all.

When I had my next child, I did everything differently. I shouted from the rooftops that I’d had postnatal depression (PND) the first time. I found a good doctor, and a counselor, and I told everyone I might need their help. I wasn't sure if I'd suffer from PND again, but that wasn't the point; I had people to care for me if I did, and knowing that made all the difference.

‘My husband was diagnosed with postnatal depression’ - Anonymous

I didn’t know that men could get postnatal depression. It never occurred to me that my loving, intelligent and supportive husband could slowly disappear or that our much wanted baby would push our marriage and lives to breaking point.

Looking back, I realise I didn’t know much at all about the realities of life with a new baby and the challenges it could bring. I learnt the hard way.

I had a picture perfect pregnancy apart from some early nausea and felt well prepared for labour. I had read books, attended antenatal yoga and believed I would be able to manage the pain. After all this was a natural part of motherhood and women all over the world did it every day.

However my picture perfect expectations dissolved after 10 hours of labour when our baby’s heart dropped rapidly and we were told she was in significant distress and we needed an emergency caesarean. The next 40 minutes were the most frightening of my life and I clung to my husband Matt, crying, terrified we were going to lose our baby.

Matt was calm and reassuring but his ghost white, taut face showed his fear. Zara Daisy entered the world tiny, blue and still. Eventually we heard a cry and we both sobbed, relived, exhausted, and overwhelmed.

Zara needed extra care and spent two days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). But luckily there were no ongoing difficulties and we went home together. Matt later said that he felt like he’d run a marathon, but he didn’t feel he could talk about himself as I lay in hospital sore and traumatised.

I struggled for four weeks at home trying to breastfeed, feeling increasingly hopeless. My tiny baby needed the best care she could get and I couldn’t feed her properly. As each week went by I felt more and more like a failure. I was trembling, crying, terrified that something would happen to Zara.

At my six week Maternal Child Health appointment, I was diagnosed with postnatal depression (PND). I now know that mothers who have babies admitted to NICU are at increased risk of postnatal depression.

I was lucky that my PND was picked up quickly and I was referred to a wonderful doctor and counsellor. Grateful to have someone tell me what to do, I followed their care plan to the letter. I also joined a postnatal depression awareness group where I could talk openly with others.

During those dark first months and through my recovery Matt was great. He organised family members to help out at home when he was at work, took on most of the cooking and household chores. He changed nappies, bathed Zara, prepared bottles, got up at night to help settle her, and took her for long walks.

We couldn’t find much time to talk, but we were managing. When Zara turned five months I was beginning to feel like my old self. I had more good days than bad. However as I felt stronger and my anxiety waned, Matt seemed to be getting restless and impatient.

I could see tension in his shoulders and red rise up his neck on the occasions Zara screamed for any length of time. He would try to sooth her when I asked, but quickly got agitated saying that he could not settle her and that she clearly wanted me not him.

He began to spend hours in front of his computer and by the time Zara was seven months old, he was drinking a bottle of wine a night by himself. He complained about being tired all the time and I realised somewhere along the way he had stopped playing music – something he loved.

There were some good days when we went out as a family, but the remoteness always returned. As he became more withdrawn, I became more and more angry. I resented the husband I had adored eight months ago and felt that he was being completely selfish just as we’d gotten to the point of being able to bond together as a family.

We argued about who had the more difficult role and who was to blame. I was at breaking point once again. This time the intensity of my anger scared us both. I screamed that I was sick of him, that he was a selfish, terrible husband who clearly hated life with us and I couldn’t take it anymore.

Having struggled through my own darkness I was desperate for light. Instead of fighting back, tears rolled down his face and he confessed it was not us, but himself he hated. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.

He was overwhelmed by his failure at not protecting his family and looking after them like he should. Although he loved Zara, he blamed her for wrecking our lives, and, at the same time worried that she would think he was a bad father and person.

We knew we needed help and rang PANDA. We got a referral to a psychologist that dealt specifically with men and reluctantly he agreed to go to relationship counselling to try to mend the damage we had done in heated arguments.

In all the time I was being cared for I realised no-one had thought to really care for Matt – least of all me. And even after all I’d been though with my postnatal depression, we hadn’t recognised it in him.

Now Matt is playing music again and we cherish our family of three with Zara. We are open to having another baby and if we do, we know the postnatal depression signs to look out for and where to go for help. Now we know so much.

‘I loved these little people but I wanted to escape’ - Lisa's story

lisa-matt-2-web From the moment I realised I was pregnant, I was overcome with feelings of loss and grief. I was no longer an autonomous individual. This was the beginning of a journey that took me to a place of additional and unimaginable loss – loss of control.

I was a self-confessed control freak, symptomatic of my lack of self-confidence. I never took on anything more than I knew I’d have the best chance of being able to cope with so that everything I did do was done extremely well. So to the outside world and everyone around me, I appeared completely confident and capable not at all someone who ever needed help.

The first real test of my attitude to having children was when my husband and I decided in July that we would stop trying to avoid pregnancy and if nothing had happened by the end of the year we would start actively trying to conceive, giving us plenty of time to get used to the idea again of having children.

Less than one month later I was pregnant. At a very early ultrasound scan it was found that I was 7 weeks pregnant – with twins. I was absolutely horrified but simultaneously overcome with guilt that the ease with which I, someone who was so ambivalent about having children, could get pregnant and with twins!

There were people, like my sister- in-law who’d been trying IVF unsuccessfully for years, who were desperate for children who couldn’t fall pregnant and here I was doubly pregnant after one encounter with my husband! I felt awful.

A feature of my need to maintain some control was my extreme fear of the pain of childbirth, so I attended hypnobirthing classes and practised the exercises diligently. When I was handed a slip of paper at 35 weeks gestation informing me of the date of my planned C-section at 37 weeks, 5 days due to the presenting twin remaining in breech position, I felt absolutely devastated – ‘failure’ for not having the natural birth I had wanted.

Two hours after birth, twin 2, Lulu, latched onto my breast perfectly and had a lovely feed. Twin 1, Nina, was smaller and had trouble latching on. The first or second night in hospital I was unable to settle Nina and felt horrified and ashamed when the midwife informed me that she must be really hungry because she hadn’t been fed for a long time. I’d forgotten to feed one of my babies! – Failure. Again.

I was terrified of taking these babies home and having to take care of them myself being so incompetent and ignorant of their needs.

Day 6 and the day to leave hospital came and I was anxious all day. I had such an overwhelming urge to burst into tears and ask them to let me stay in hospital, but I tried to ignore it. Once again I had worked hard to give the impression that I was in control and confident. I put my fears and anxieties down to natural first-time parenting jitters and forced myself to smile. But I remember vividly standing in the doorway of my hospital room ready to leave with the double pusher all set up waiting for my husband to return from the car.I was sweating, I was having heart palpitations, my mouth was dry and I wanted to throw up. I was looking at those two babies in that room gripped by fear and anxiety. I am leaving the controlled environment where there is expert help on hand 24/7.

Thankfully, my husband had made provisions so that he could take 8 weeks off work. He was there to help with everything: washing, cleaning, shopping, preparing meals, baby care. Instead of enjoying this time, I obsessed over how I was going to manage to do all this when he returned to work.

It was with breastfeeding that my obsessional, rigid, all-or-nothing, one in, all in mindset really manifested itself into a monolithic beast on which I focused my need to try and gain control. It also represented the point of conflict between two competing interests on a single point of control – my body. I desperately wanted to succeed at breastfeeding and do the best thing for my babies, but at the same time I was equally desperate to have my body back. I had no support from my family to continue breastfeeding yet I had created this irrational notion that formula was akin to “poison” and refused to allow it, and I envied women who gave their babies formula without a care. No-one saw how desperate I was, and in my mind no-one cared, not even my family and my poor husband was helpless.

When the girls were 6 weeks old, my favourite uncle who lived around the corner had a major heart attack and died in ICU three weeks later.

While my aunty’s house was full of people in one way or another, we were abandoned. No-one made the short trip 500 metres around the corner to visit us and see if we alright. It was made abundantly clear to us that the death of a person is a tragic event and the bereaved are in need of any and all support available. But the birth of a baby – especially two babies – is a “double” blessing and a time of wonderful happiness that clearly we were left to “enjoy” alone. Neither was my grief at the loss of my uncle acknowledged, despite having given a heartfelt eulogy at his funeral with 9 week old Nina strapped to me.

My father was left, grieving for his brother, supporting his sister-in-law (my aunty), taking care of my mother as well as having to take care of my elderly grandparents. He tried to help us, and sometimes he was able to, but I never wanted to ask anymore of him than he was already giving to everyone else. I could see he was struggling, and he could see I was struggling too. Stalemate.

My prophecy had manifested – my life was over. I fantasised about getting in the car and driving away and never coming back. I even contemplated suicide, but realised that would be the ultimate failure to my babies. I had thoughts about harming the babies that completely horrified me. I had been sucked into a vortex of misery, hopelessness, worthless, despair, catastrophe. I looked at my babies and cried…every single day. I loved these little people that I wanted so desperately to escape from. I felt like a complete miserable failure as a mother, as a wife and as an individual.

Who was I anymore anyway?

I had no idea. My life before was a distant memory and I grieved the loss of that person acutely. I was lost, overwhelmed, and despite all my efforts – completely out of control. I can’t remember the exact sequence of events that took place that brought me to the point of being diagnosed leading to the commencement of treatment. I remember my maternal and child health nurse one day asking me to complete the Edinburgh scale at a visit one day and informing me that it was a high score and I needed to see my GP as soon as possible because I could have depression. I remember seeing my GP and crying and crying. She wrote up a mental health care plan and we discussed which medication I would take. I felt like a failure, but she reassured me. By the time I left, feelings of failure had shifted to feelings of sheer relief.

There was one bitter realisation that I continue to regret to this day and think that maybe I always will. That is, the realisation that my babies were 6 or 7 months old and I had spent all that time in a state of disarray, fearing them instead of taking joy in them, wanting to escape from them rather than immersing myself in the marvel of their development. I had lost the first precious months of my babies’ lives and the realisation that it was gone and I could never get it back was, and still is, the biggest regret and loss of my life.

On a positive note, what I have gained from this regret in particular, is a mental default reminder when either I or my husband feel or express frustration with the stage the girls’ are at and fantasise about the greater freedom that will come when they are older, I can always remind myself to stay in the moment and appreciate exactly where they are right now and not to wish their lives away anymore. Just yesterday, at the park, I noticed one of my girls’ shoelaces undone and stopped her so I could fix it. While I did it she put her arms around my neck, kissed me and said “you are good Mum”.

A Father’s Story of Watching postnatal depression implode his family - Matt's story

lisa-matt-3-web Looking back on it, my feelings are that Lisa’s post-natal depression was suffered by both of us. From the moment we arrived home with our twin girls from the hospital, we were like two children again, except this time with children. I can’t remember feeling that helpless, like I was standing in the sea and was being pounded by wave after wave. I certainly didn’t feel unhappy at the time, and I don’t believe that I was, but our lives had changed so significantly – we were hostages to our children and their requirements.

We were lucky for the first 10 weeks as I had this entire time off work and stayed at home to get to know the girls as well as doing everything I could to care for Lisa post-caesarean. Obviously there were the normal sleep challenges that come with having children, let alone two of them, as well as the constant struggle to maintain some kind of dietary vigilance as we like to eat as healthily as possible, but much of the time this went out the window for the sake of convenience.

Frankly, the support from family members around us was minimal, and more often than not, left us with a strong sense of dissatisfaction afterwards as visits quite often left us frustrated and more stressed than we otherwise would have been.

This was not helped by our general state of mind as new parents – it’s funny how everyone seems to think that we should be ecstatic all the time, when our sleeping/eating patterns were so messed up and think that they have the right to tell us that we should be happy when we clearly were not in the state of mind to take such ‘advice’ all that well.

The real issues started upon my return to work. This was coupled with the death of Lisa’s uncle and her mother also breaking her foot quite badly straight afterwards. This was an especially hard time for both of us and it was during the first 4 weeks or so that Lisa’s postnatal depression escalated significantly, and in turn, my state of mind certainly wasn’t conducive to work.

There were many occasions where Lisa would call me anywhere up to 10 times a day in tears as one of the girls would not sleep/eat appropriately or at the right time, or for any other reason. Lisa was having significant issues with breastfeeding the girls and managing major issues with blocked ducts and the like, but seemed inexplicably determined to continue to breastfeed them even though for Lulu, it clearly wasn’t working. This weighed heavily on me as I had, on numerous occasions asked if it might be better if we formula fed Lulu, much to Lisa’s anguish and, at times, disgust.

I said before that I can’t remember feeling that helpless as when we arrived home with our children, but I really think that the 2-3 months after I returned to work was worse.

I had a hip condition at the time that caused me significant discomfort and precluded me from walking long distances, but there were times when I’d put the girls into the pusher and just walk around with them, in huge amounts of pain, just to give Lisa a break. I required major surgery that I couldn’t have at the time for a number of reasons, but I felt that my own pain, and mental state, was secondary to Lisa’s, and my own wellbeing wasn’t even on the radar – just be a man and get on with it!

Things dragged on like this for around four months, but started improving slowly after.

Lisa decided that the breastfeeding was not working, and she visited her doctor and did the Edinburgh test. She was diagnosed with postnatal depression and prescribed anti-depressants.

My sense of relief was incredible, and this improvement allowed me to take a night a week to visit friends and just relax away from it all, which I still do today. My friend Paul in particular has been of great comfort and support, though not directly, and has always been a tremendous distractor from the day to day goings on at home.

I personally was diagnosed with mild depression around two and a half years ago – which was probably a hangover from this time. As the man, you feel that you need to take all of this on yourself and keep things going. To be honest, you can’t. It’s not healthy or smart to just think you can cope. Never be afraid to tell anyone what you need if you think that they can help you. Never lie about how you’re doing, to yourself or anyone else. If you’re struggling, say so. Speak to your doctor, friends or family

From ‘perfect pregnancy’ to postnatal despair - Anna's story

Anna-2-web I loved being pregnant! No morning sickness, the thickest hair I’ve ever had. I also loved giving birth; I felt in control and not scared. As I held my precious Natalia in my arms for the first time I remember thinking, ‘things will never be the same’. I’d researched my pregnancy week-by-week but did not really think much about the reality of being a new parent. ‘She’ll just adapt to our lifestyle’ I kept reassuring my mum.

I struggled for three weeks trying to breastfeed, feeling increasingly frustrated with my failure at this ‘natural’, motherly function; isolated I was usually left alone out of respect for my privacy; terrified that Natalia would die from malnutrition and confused by all of the well-meaning but conflicting advice I was being barraged with.

EVERYONE was telling me what a perfect baby Natalia was. But I didn’t feel that way, in fact, I wasn’t feeling anything – no happiness, no love. I wasn’t getting any sleep. When she was awake I was counting down the seconds until she’d be asleep again so that I could rest. I was constantly anxious that she could wake any minute. When I did fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion, I would wake up in a panic.

My family was being so supportive, offering to help in any way I wanted, but I would always say no. I had to prove myself as a mother, I was used to being successful at everything I did and now this was my job. After all, I wasn’t earning any money anymore; I was just a mum in the same puked-on dressing gown, day in and day out.

The signs of Post Natal Depression were subtle initially – loss of appetite, constant thirst, uncontrollable sweating, negativity and lethargy. It’s just the baby blues I was assured by family. Try to relax and speak to other mothers said the GP. After two days I told my husband that I did not love Natalia, wanted my old life back and the best thing for her was to be adopted. In tears he first begged me to stop thinking that way and then in exasperation yelled ‘absolutely not’. I began searching for alternative solutions – if I can’t make her go away, I need to go away. Thoughts of suicide consumed me. Even more distressing were thoughts of taking my daughter with me, something I still struggle to speak about. One morning my mother-in-law found me in the kitchen running a knife down my wrist. I was taken to the Emergency Department and they found me a place in a Mother and Baby unit where new mothers are treated while still being able to care for their baby. I was admitted that night. All I remember is welcoming arms and someone saying ‘It will be OK, promise’. My anxiety had become so debilitating that I had to be convinced to get out of bed, I didn’t shower for days. I thought about suicide constantly. I tried to cry but couldn’t. I did not eat. I could not make decisions, concentrate – even watching TV or reading was impossible.

Caring or my daughter felt like a burden and I was furious with anyone encouraging me to. I couldn’t bear to even call Natalia by her name.

One evening a nurse asked me ‘ if you had a broken leg and had to concentrate on yourself to get better while others cared for your baby would you feel guilty?’. ‘No’ I replied. ‘So why is it that because you have a medical condition affecting your brain rather than your leg that you feel differently?’. I didn’t answer but I knew why – because of the stigma associated with mental illness, something I was guilty of myself.

It took several weeks of antidepressants to feel the fog starting to lift. Progress was slow but I got there with the unwavering support of my husband and mum. For the next nine months I was back to my old self. I cherished every moment with Natalia and her exciting achievements. We joined a fantastic Mothers’ Group and I started working from home, bringing an important part of my life back.

I no longer had PND and started to wean off the antidepressants. And that’s when the relapse happened. This time it was different – recovery took much longer because I was angry that I failed. This time it wasn’t about my daughter. I loved her and she didn’t deserve such a weak, disturbed mum. I couldn’t bear to even make eye contact with her because of the guilt, shame and hopelessness I was feeling. It took all I had but the medication kicked in the fog started to lift once again.

It’s been 12 months and this time I’m doing things differently. I’m staying on the anti-depressants as long as I have to and I have an excellent support team - a psychiatrist, psychologist and GP who understands PND. I am at peace with the reality that I am still recovering from PND. I’m setting realistic goals - to be the best mum I can be, not the perfect mum. To ensure that I don’t lose myself, that it’s OK to have ‘me time’. Most of all, there is nothing more precious to me than Natalia, Steve and my family. For them, and myself, I will do everything I can to avoid a relapse. And if I do, to fight it with all I have, believing I have it in me.

‘You’re a good mum’: My journey back from postnatal depression - Leanne's Story

Leanne-web My belief was that motherhood was not something that you could fail; especially a middle class successful professional who had a loving husband and supportive family. But postnatal depression changed all that. It sapped my confidence and competence as a mother and a person. It’s taken a long time for me to be able to say ‘I’m a good mum’ and actually believe it.

My beautiful son Tom was born healthy on his due date and I felt supported by the midwives who provided reassurance that my milk would come in, ‘everything’s fine, just keep going’.

But it was not all fine and I went home with disposal bottles and formula. It had not occurred to me prior to delivering Tom that I needed to know how to sterilise, or have a stock pile of bottles, teats and formula. I hadn’t read a single thing about bottle feeding and was anxious going home. I was wondering how I would be able to feed and settle the baby as well as get to the shops and buy all the ‘stuff’ we needed. I could feel my pulse racing and I’d become agitated thinking about being responsible for feeding this little fellow. I felt totally incompetent and unable to keep myself together for more than an hour. I had not been able to successfully breastfeed and I was crying as much as Tom. But I tried to put on a brave face and said everything was fine.

I focused on my baby believing the problems were with him. He’s not sleeping, he’s not feeding. If I fixed Tom then everything would be okay. I felt exhausted and yet at the same time I couldn’t slow my thinking down. I was sensitive to noise and could hear Tom’ cry even when he was sound asleep. I cleaned my house constantly, everything had its place and the sink was always clear of dishes and bottles. The idea of taking Tom out of the house made me feel really anxious. I did my grocery shopping online and if we needed bread or milk, my husband picked it up on the way home.

By 5 weeks, Tom was admitted to a mother baby unit. I thought this was affirmation that he was the problem. By that stage I couldn’t count the number of scoops required for his formula. The expectation I had put on myself to be a competent mum took over any opportunity for me to be present in each precious moment with my baby. I was in the mother baby unit for four weeks and I struggled as I did not know how to nurture as a mother. I had been on my own for many years surviving life but never felt loved, safe or secure.

Tom and I were filmed by my psychiatrist. It seemed to take over 5 minutes before he made eye contact with me and I realised for the past 6 weeks, I’d never really looked at him. It was a moment where I could actually start to comprehend that there may be a problem with me.

On discharge, I completed a 12 week outpatient program which helped me forge understanding and coping strategies. I also had regular visits from an enhanced maternal child health nurse and psychiatric nurse as well as a parent group co-ordinator. My memories of Tom’ first year are limited and I cherish a photo book that I made after his 1^st birthday. There are only five photos of me in total for the first year of Tom’s life.

It took me a long time to feel ready for a second child. When we did fall pregnant I was immediately nervous. I found the courage to speak to my GP and ask for help. We scrolled through the PANDA Service Directory for psychologists in my area and I met with one several times before Jack was born to ensure I had everything I needed in place.

To help me feel less anxious, I had a set of commitments to myself. I would either get some fresh air every day or if I didn’t go outside, at a minimum I must have a shower and open the curtains. I would feed the baby no less than every 2 hours and not more than every 4 hours. I would attempt to have him sleep between feeds but would not be concerned with how long.

My life now is filled with many precious moments and I catch myself smiling about something the boys have done every day. I’m a good mum.

I wish I had known things would not be perfect - Fiona's Story

Fiona-1-web At the time I had my first child I was 23, managing a busy hairdressing salon a lead singer in a band which played for weddings and corporate events. I was not shy or scared of crowds and I really liked a chat. At no point did I even consider it may not all go like this…Perfect and happy pregnancy,

Fairly easy delivery (might hurt a bit but that’s ok),

Take baby home and breast feed (I had big boobs so there should be plenty of milk),

Look for a nice school,

Look forward to Uni graduation.

This was not something I consciously thought about or expected, but I didn’t consider it to go otherwise.

*I wish I had known then, that things may not be perfect

The reality check started with a report at 18 weeks of cysts on my placenta and being told that we may have to consider terminating as there could be extreme damage to the baby. It was the longest, most agonising 2 days of my life until we found out they were harmless.

*I wish I had known then, that things may not be perfect

Next up was an unplanned caesarean which resulted in a very painful staph infection. I could not pick up my baby. I felt useless!

We were not off to a good start. On the way out of the hospital I had a screaming tantrum at my husband because the baby wouldn’t go into the seat properly and looked uncomfortable, and that was the end of the world! That was not like me at all, I didn’t throw tantrums. What was going on? It must be hormones.

*If only I had known it may not be perfect

When I got home I tried to make up for all of my failings of the last couple of weeks. I went into super-mum mode to prove to myself and others I was in fact perfect, and really good at this. I would hang the washing out on the line with my baby hanging off me in a carry pouch, I would make sure the housework was done and the dinner was on by the time my husband got home.

But Harley had bad colic and difficulty feeding. Then mastitis came. I was feeling more useless as the days went on. This wasn’t fun or perfect at all.

My maternal and child health nurse picked up that I may have postnatal depression (PND) when I started telling her about all my tears and confusion with day to day tasks that used to come automatically to me and now seemed hard. But I think the real give-away was when I told her that I wanted to punch my husband in the head just for breathing. She was lovely and I trusted her with my thoughts and feelings, but when she suggested I call a psychiatrist who specialised in PND I thought she must have gone mad! Only people with mental problems when to psychiatrists and I was NOT someone with mental problems, nor had I had a day of depression in my life. I lived with this misconception until my baby was 4/5 months old. I had gotten worse and worse as the days went by. I couldn’t remember if I had changed a nappy, I was too scared to go outside or answer the phone. I didn’t want people near my baby. The anxiety would take my breath away and I felt like I was having a heart attack when people were around me.

I finally went to see my GP and with all my courage, swallowing my pride, I told him how I had been crying all the time, forgetful, agoraphobic, confused, hated the husband I loved 4 months ago and felt helpless and hopeless. I saw a psychiatrist with a lot of resistance and spent three months in hospital getting to the point where I could function well enough to go home. They taught me how to feed my son solids as I had not done that by 6 months, how to let him comfort cry rather than pick him up every time he made a peep, how to go outside again without fear, and that it was ok not to be perfect and give myself a break.

I wish I had known that there is no such thing as the perfect plan, the perfect execution or the perfect conclusion when it comes to having a baby or in fact to life full stop. It is not meant to be perfect, just enjoyable.

Darkest Before Daylight - Leanne's story

Lee-and-AJ-web I WAS at the very severe end of the post-natal depression spectrum, and not everyone who experiences post-natal depression will think or feel the way I did.
But as unwell as I was, I got better.
Read the full article.
(Please click on the story link for the story to appear in a new window.)

This story appeared in the Sunbury Leader on 24 October 2010.

Creating Special Spaces by Sarah Foley, mother of 2

I love to be out in the garden with my children.· To feel the warmth of the sunshine, whether I’m sitting, gardening, playing or working.· I developed Post Natal Depression (PND) after the birth of my first child.· I remember, after my daughter was born (in June 02), thinking the world seemed smaller in winter.· The sky seemed not only lower, but the heavy, grey clouds I could see from the maternity-ward bed, seemed to compress to some extent my ability to recover after giving birth.· So as you can imagine, this time of year seems to be a bit of a challenge for me, as traditionally I wouldn’t have gone outside as much during the winter time. But I have since discovered the beauty of being reguarly outside during the colder months.· Exploring the garden shows the bulbs are already beginning to raise once again from their slumber. The vegies can still be grown and require much love and devotion to maintain. And the kids seem easier to look after in the garden – they love it too.· Since being a regular member of a PND playgroup, my coping strategies have broadened.· And I have learnt that many mothers make life work’. I’ve found some stategies that work for me, for coping during winter. They are:

- To acknowledge the positives in my life: ·I remind myself that I’m lucky to have a garden now. We used to live in a unit without a garden.

- To include physical exercise in my day – every day. I put a ‘storm-cover’ over the pram in cold weather and walk around 2 or 3 blocks with my kids.· I prioritise my health and reguarly visit a naturopath.

- Not to put pressure on myself to meet high and unrealistic expectations – a home with a young family can’t be clean 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.· And small steps rather than big tasks work best.

This story first appeared in the Winter 2008 issue of Darebin Council's The Parent Voice.· It is reprinted here with the kind permission of··Sarah Foley and The Parent Voice .

Maya's Story - Postpartum Psychosis

Think you're immune to a postnatal illness? So did first-time mum Maya… who in the space of a few weeks went from a cheerful and ambitious career woman to a new mum, and then a psychiatric patient with a serious postnatal illness.

The spare bedroom is filled with boxes of maternity outfits and tiny baby clothes, as well as a sparkling new single bed and mattress for my 18-month old to go into when his cot is needed for the new brother or sister we are currently trying to conceive. So, you may ask, what am I hoping for this time - a boy or a girl?· Well, to tell the truth, I'm crossing my toes and fingers and praying for me this time. Oh yes, I will certainly be counting the fingers and toes of my new arrival, and holding my breath until he or she passes the routine health checks. But the real tester will be the weeks after the birth, and hoping that I don't again fall prey to the monster that is post-partum psychosis.

My last pregnancy was a breeze, and I literally glowed with good health throughout the 9 months. I beamed at people walking down the street, proudly showing off my bump in trendy maternity clothes. When our son was born 5.5 weeks early after two-days of stop-start labour, I seemed to take that in my stride too.· But my world soon came crashing down, and in a very dangerous fashion. When my son was just four weeks old, I was diagnosed with post-partum psychosis, a post-natal illness that affects one in 1000 new mums in the first few weeks after birth. I was admitted to a psychiatric ward, and then spent a month in a specialist mother-baby unit. Medication, provided with supportive professional care while I recovered from the peak of the illness, and the love and assistance of my family, were the key to my immediate recovery.

At the time, I had no idea what caused this massive episode. I was perfectly healthy, and had everything organized a tee. But looking back with an impartial viewpoint, I can see where it started to unfold.· For me, it was the combination of many factors that I may have handled independently, but not all at once. The shock of a premmie baby and his stay in a special care nursery, major sleep deprivation, the change from a busy career woman to an at-home mum caring for a newborn baby, very high expectations of myself as a mum, moving house, and news that my own mother had been given a preliminary diagnosis of cancer (she was later cleared), put everything into a spin.

The weeks that followed were very hard on not just me, but my husband and my family. I was frightened, confused, withdrawn, pestered by illogical thoughts that randomly popped into my head including self harm and harming my baby. Twice in the mother-baby unit I handed in my nail clippers and craft scissors to the staff because I was feeling low, and I had no idea what this damned illness was capable of, or whether I would actually harm myself.· Understandably, my self-confidence was shot. What else would this illness do to me, and why were these completely illogical thoughts coming into my mind? Who was this new person, and when would the old me come back?

Amazingly, my baby coped beautifully, sleeping well, gaining weight and feeding happily from a bottle (as my medication was too potent to pass onto him through my breastmilk). One of the best pieces of advice I was given was maintaining eye contact with bubs, and talking and singing to him. This was a great step to cementing our bond.

I had many things to address before the old me could make a resurgence, and it took time. As the much stressed-over house move had been taken care of while I was sick, I moved into my new home and made friends in the new town. I lowered my initial standards of being the perfect mum, maintaining an immaculate house and having freshly baked goods for guests. Instead, I settle on having a mostly happy baby, wearing clean clothes and dragging myself out of bed every morning! My baby and I relaxed into a routine, highlighted by regular visits from family, weekly in-home appointments from a psychiatric nurse, and regular trips to the maternal child health nurse.

Luckily for me, my husband was a pillar of strength. He propped me up when I was low, he did above and beyond what many other dads do, and most importantly he loved me and told me I'd be laughing about this whole ordeal in time. And laugh we did! But there were also tears as we adjusted to our new role of parenting and the associated strains an episode like mine adds to any relationship. At first I wanted to talk about it regularly with my husband, and cross-check my memories with his about what I said and did in those hazy weeks under the fog of the illness. At times I was upset to hear the words that had come out of my mouth, and remember my unusual behaviour, but I took solace in my husband's reassurances that he knew it wasn't the real me, and that like any 'injury' he understood it would take time to recover. As time went on, I lost the urge to analyze everything that happened, instead accepted it and moved on.

My friends, especially my mums group, were also a lifeline. I saw that other babies were being bottle-fed, that not everyone had opted for cloth nappies, and that they had bad days too. We shared tips on what worked well for our babies, cringed together over the outrageous parenting hints we had received from strangers in the street, and helped one another navigate this new territory of motherhood.··Gradually I lost the lingering worry of 'oh my God, I had a mental illness, what will people think?' and came out of my shell. It took several months until I felt more like my old self again, albeit a slightly quieter, less confident and chubbier version of myself. Even though I'd lost all my pregnancy weight and then some when I got sick, my appetite resumed with a vengeance once I started medication, and the weight I'd piled on proved very hard to shift. I dragged myself to the gym, went walking in a convoy of prams with the other mums, and started reading and going to the movies again. My psych reviews were less frequent as I improved without any sign of relapse, and as the months went on, I didn't feel I needed those reviews as I had in the earlier stages of recovery.

I now feel like I'm back to full strength. I've started working again part-time, and I celebrated my first medication-free night by sharing a bottle of expensive French champagne with my husband.· My son and I are also going great. Our relationship still shows no sign of impact from the ordeal, and it is wonderful to watch him learn new things and charm us with his toothy grin.

Although it's not something I usually bring up in conversation, I have shared my experience with others who mention that they have struggled with a post-natal illness, to reassure them that they are not alone. I still haven't told all of my new friends about my experience with post-partum psychosis, but those I have told said they were very surprised to think of me as anything but the happy, confident and capable mum I now am. I've also been surprised by friends and even relatives who have come out and told me about their own experiences with mental illnesses after hearing about my journey. And hopefully by sharing my story, I can help people to see that mental illness can affect anyone, and management and recovery is plausible.

So, with my ovulation calendar in hand, it is now time to embark on the exciting stage trying to conceive our second baby. Of course, we are now well aware of the potential risks, and my 25% chance of a reoccurrence, but like the Scouts, our new motto is 'be prepared'. We have a list of the 'early warning signs' that preceded my last, and hopefully only, episode and I will not hesitate to resume medication again if we see any signs of ante-natal or post-natal trouble. With a bit of luck, we'll end up with a healthy mum and bubs!

Libby's Story - A feeling of not quite right

PANDA Information Night, Mercy Hospital for Women, February I998

Four years ago I suffered severe postnatal depression (PND). Like some of you, I sat in the audience not knowing who I was anymore, feeling insurmountable inner turmoil, silently beginning to acknowledge that my personal battleground was due to PND. My husband, Ian, and woman sat beside me. It has taken four years for the intensity and depth of my experience to settle, so that I can speak of that traumatic time only with the benefit of distance, hindsight and reflection, and a full recovery. This is my personal story, but it is also that of thousands of women.

Symptoms of PND do vary, and in many ways not all of you will suffer as I did. I sincerely hope not, but if you do identify with any of my experience, take heart in knowing that PND heals itself, you will recover, the scars do disappear and it does merely become a memory.

At the end of a charmed, happy and healthy first pregnancy four years ago, I gave birth to our beautiful son, Nicholas. The first symptoms of PND appeared soon after, although in retrospect there were early indicators that my PND began antenatally. The extreme anxiety and paranoia about driving the car in the last three weeks of my pregnancy was bordering on the abnormal, with a fixed irrational fear of having a fatal car accident.

This was forgotten in the excitement of an exhilarating natural childbirth. After Nicholas arrived, my euphoria was complete. I felt invincible, jumping with fervent joy and energy, shunning medication for pain as I sailed around the maternity ward as high as a kite; a stupid smile of elation always present despite sitting on a large episiotomy and a rectal prolapse. I didn't seem to need sleep, being too excited in having a gorgeous baby boy. My appetite was abnormally voracious from the instant Nicholas arrived and I consumed a staggering amount of food in those early days.

This elevated mood lasted six days, until a massive post-partum haemorrhage over twelve hours necessitated a curette. The extreme confidence dissipated with the blood I was rapidly losing, along with my self-esteem, my powers of reason and my concentration. I awoke from the general anaesthetic unable to decipher which end of my baby was which, in extreme physical pain and extreme emotional distress; in floods of tears for no apparent reason. The loss of control I felt was total. I became uncomfortable handling Nicholas and refused to bathe him in hospital for fear of him slipping out of my hands.

My first dissociated feelings of being 'somewhere else' were upon leaving hospital. Once home, I became a limp rag, dragged along the carpet by some kind of force that kept 'pushing' me lower and lower, deeper and heavier. It was an effort to sit upright, let alone get up to feed my son. Sometimes I could not face getting up to greet visitors.

The hopeless lethargy continued, and yet in a contradictory way, I was too exhausted to sleep. As one of the most common symptoms of PND, my sleep disturbance became more of a problem. Insomnia plagued me, as my brain would begin to go into overdrive at night, my thoughts racing in a disorganised fashion. I began to torment Ian by keeping him awake regularly until 3 am trying to 'talk it out' and exorcise this beast which had taken over my body. I would try to rationalise and justify my dislocated feelings and try to make sense of my situation.

There was a feeling that something was 'not quite right', but as I had never had a baby before, I could not be sure what it was. There were other social circumstances clouding the development of PND as well. My husband, Ian, purchased the long awaited business that we had always hoped for when Nicholas was two weeks old. Unfortunate timing meant that I was showered with new responsibilities external to my domestic life that could not be ignored. The business premises required total renovation, commencing within five weeks. Every time I tried to do something for the business I suffered emotional setbacks, becoming frustrated, screaming with tears and anger at my growing inability to manage.

Despite these stresses added to coping with a new baby, and despite the fact that I would normally be regarded as a busy person who undertakes a lot of projects, there was still a sense that something EXTRA was amiss; that the 'not quite right' feeling was becoming something that was radically 'wrong'.

My personality changed so that I had a permanent 'PMT' feeling of irritability and no one shouldered these dreadfully rapid mood swings more than Ian. He became THE TARGET. Torrents of abuse, both verbal and physical were aimed at Ian from the minute he awoke until he left for work in the morning, with me crying, screaming and begging him not to go, and often physically restraining him. I would telephone often during the day for no reason other than to hurl abuse over a banality such as a pair of shoes left in the wrong place. Ian handled these outbursts with amazing fortitude. Ian coped magnificently. Somehow he always managed to make each day seem like a new beginning. It was this refreshing quality that helped me endure the PND, when every day seemed like the end. Ian was supported by my woman and some very close friends, and became a wonderful father with an extremely close relationship with Nicholas that continues. Nicholas, for his part, was a beautifully settled baby, who fed, played and slept like a dream. His needs were always met by both of us at this time, and I feel that at no time was his care lacking.

Panic attacks became a frequent symptom. Fear and anxiety at getting into the car would overtake me by the end of the street - palpitations, sweating, agitation and hyperventilation would mean I would have to stop the car to try to regain self control, and then arrive at my destination totally shaken and unable to express more than a few words as the ghastly waves of terror overwhelmed me. Even the telephone ringing would send shock waves through me so that I kept the answering machine permanently on, only answering calls from Ian or my mum. For months this exacerbated my social isolation, yet I would agree to attend social events just for the sake of trying to feel 'normal'. My mask would be in place most of the time, appearing quite unchanged until an obvious panic attack.

I remember feeling totally consumed by sadness and tears at significant family gatherings, Nicholas' first birthday, and in large crowds, having to leave immediately. On the other hand, I sometimes became withdrawn and mute, confused and not able to follow a conversation or participate at all. I will be grateful always to those friends who graciously tolerated my disjointed attempts at socialisation, helping me feel normal by continuing to include me.

At this point, I must say that in losing myself, only one thing kept me turning back. Love for my son, Nicholas was overwhelming, and throughout my ordeal I always felt close to him; bonded by caring for him and the shared breastfeeding experience. I didn't know who I was, and yet whilst breastfeeding, I must have been his mother. Therefore, in my last semblance of rational thought, I deduced that I was someone. I was a mother.

I am grateful to the longstanding friends who noticed my decline, warned Ian, noticed me wearing the same clothes for three weeks, and kept inquiring about my well being; prompting me to acknowledge that I was suffering a serious mental illness. My arrival at the GP's doorstep when Nicholas was seven weeks old signalled the beginning of a long recovery. Prompt referral to a psychiatrist followed, and my initial reaction was, "How on Earth could anyone help me?" the secret was trust and confidence in the psychiatrist.

There should be no stigma attached to seeing a psychiatrist, and the some of the fee is rebatable under Medicare. I feel a qualified psychiatrist is the best professional to decide whether counselling alone or medication is required, and to correctly monitor and adjust this in or outside of a Mother-Baby Unit. In my case, tremendous family support enabled me to stay at home, on antidepressants and antipsychotic medication, with regular visits to the psychiatrist. This stable, regular treatment provided consistent feedback to help mark my improvement.

My family support came from my husband Ian, and from Mum and Dad. Mum encouraged me to contact PANDA, acted as a taxi driver when I could not drive, housekeeper when I could not keep house, support to Ian when I could not be a wife, babysitter, business adviser, cleaner for Ian's business, and she was simply there to do things WITH me, gradually allowing me to resume normal activities with encouragement. She has given me a wonderful blueprint for mothering. Dad was there to assume the domestic duties in my parents' house, provide technical assistance for the business, and support Mum. They all provided unlimited acceptance, love and understanding, but none more so than my husband Ian.

Thank you Ian for your undying love, your patience, endurance and mental fortitude, physical restraint, tolerance and constant hope and reassurance. This is our victory and a strength together we shall always share.

PANDA was invaluable to me in disseminating information to family and friends in the form of information night transcripts and videos. They explained what I could not. Whilst I could never telephone the PANDA support line, I found the group meetings afforded me a place to feel a sense of belonging, where every PANDA member has experienced your symptoms first hand. I can only suggest telephoning PANDA on a 'good' day if you are paralysed on a 'bad' one.

An extensive support network gave me a fantastic range of opportunities for help, and once I told one person of my PND, I found it easier to share the struggle with others.

Certainly not everyone has the capacity to empathise with your pain and vulnerability, but strength can be gained in revealing the burden. There will be mixed reactions - surprisingly unconditional acceptance from even distant friends and complete disregard from even close family. Some will absence themselves from your lives completely with an inability to handle the situation themselves. It is difficult to accept, and extremely hurtful that some will remain ignorant despite being informed. Ian and I discovered the importance of true friendship. There were friends who were on standby to take Ian's distress calls in the middle of the night, those who cooked meals, visited at short notice when Ian felt he could not cope with the person his wife had become (usually in the middle of the night), and supported us by being there. The best support people didn't try to fix me or keep asking how I was. They never asked, "What's wrong?" or offered solutions. They simply tolerated me as I was.

My local mothers' group, and a group of women I had in antenatal classes were of tremendous help as a peer group in 'normalising' my experience of new mothering - they helped sort out the usual adjustment difficulties of being a new mother from the depressive symptoms.

My Maternal & Child Health Nurse provided wonderful, consistent advice on babycare, mindful of my state of mind in gently suggesting one or two things each visit, and not a multitude of instructions. She gave me confidence in delaying the commencement of solid food for Nicholas until it was essential and I felt ready to attempt the process.

Exercise in the form of walking helped lift my mood, and was essential in shifting some of the enormous weight gain that accompanied my PND. It also made me feel I was doing something active for myself.

My recovery began when Nicholas was seven weeks old and symptoms gradually began to improve after three weeks on medication. Gradually, this robot began to feel emotion again, but it was a slow stringing together of one good day, and then several bad ones when I would fall again into the mire. But bit by bit, I would not fall so far, and I would bounce back quicker and more good days would follow each other. Then at last one day, without even noticing, the well simply was no longer there. I was ME. It was not a smooth ride; not without effort and changes in medication. Do not underestimate the personal strength you can use to work with the suffering - learning to use personal resources such as telling oneself that you will get better.

My symptoms finally resolved after just over a year, and I was weaned gradually off medication after two years. Whilst weaning off medication, I carried the memory of PND like dragging a heavy stone behind me. There was anger over misunderstandings with family relationships that occurred whilst my perceptions were altered by PND. There was grief over losing a year of my life - the irreplaceable first year of our son's life. There was also guilt about the impact my PND may have had upon our son.

I can confidently say that I no longer feel any guilt or grief. There is in their place peacefulness and I am complete. I have returned to work as a physiotherapist, I function as a home based manager in my husband's business, and again enjoy a happy and fulfilling life as a mother. Ian and I have a wonderful relationship, I believe strengthened and deepened even further by our joint experience of PND.

Despite fear of the daunting 50% threat of PND again, our beautiful daughter Elena was born II months ago and she has a happily unaffected 4 year old brother, Nicholas. This time there has been no PND, but preparations were made in the event of its recurrence. Lists of regular meals, shopping lists, a freezer full of food, preventative ante and post natal psychiatric care, re-establishment of the support network, antenatal visits to the maternity hospital to have my history of PND on record, numerous hints to family and friends about accepting help with housework and babysitting, a plan not to be overloaded with external responsibilities, and of course, contact with PANDA helped ease the fear.

In conclusion, I am here to confirm there are positive aspects in surviving PND, and to hope that my story may mean something to you - help in recognising your own PND symptoms, in seeking help and in knowing that you recover, or help in sympathising with someone who is suffering PND. In the end, the joys of mothering your child are worth all the pain and anguish, because the PND will surely melt away, and the reality of love that awaits you from your child is sweet.

A Partner's Story

By Peter
PANDA Information Night, Mercy Hospital for Women, October 1998

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Peter and I have been asked to talk about my experience as a husband dealing with a wife who has had postnatal depression.

Janice went 14 months before we actually had her diagnosed as having postnatal depression. For the first twelve months we had lots of excuses to explain why Janice wasn't feeling so well. I had just finished doing a college degree, we had moved down from Bendigo to Melbourne so there was a relocation and there was a new job that I was settling into. My daughter also had many ear and throat infections which meant Janice had a lot of sleep deprivation and she was constantly tired so we blamed that for why she wasn't well.

Towards the last two months, before she was finally diagnosed, I could see that my marriage was breaking up. Janice kept snapping at me...it didn't matter what I did, she would try to find fault with it. As time progressed this got worse and worse. It appeared to me that she was continually deliberately picking fights with me. She was always finding fault. I just couldn't do anything right. I could foresee how a couple who got married and were going to live happily ever after would end up in divorce.

At this stage I decided to leave home and go to stay with my parents for two weeks so I could get out of the stressful environment and recharge my batteries to go back and take care of Janice. Emotionally I was finding it very, very difficult.

And then came the great relief. Absolute relief that Janice was actually diagnosed with having an illness. It wasn't us breaking up, but it was actually the illness that was making Janice behave the way she was. Being an illness it was something that they could treat. They could put a label on it and say it was postnatal depression. As a depression it could be treated and go away and finally I would be able to get my wife back.

This gave me some understanding and the appreciation to realise, and this is what helped me through alot with my struggles with Janice, that it was not Janice snapping at me and biting my head off. It was the postnatal depression changing her behaviour causing her to do this to me.

One night I was considering my vow and what I had said to Janice. I had said that I would marry her and stick with her in sickness and in health. Here came the time, now we were in sickness, that there was a requirement that I maintain this vow. I made a commitment to do so.

One night Janice and I were walking to get some fish and chips. To get to the shop takes about I0 minutes so we were walking along with the baby tucked up in the pram, and all the way there I was telling her

"Janice I love you, I love you". I was telling her that if she were never to recover I would love her. That if the way she is now is the way she would always be, it didn't matter, I would love her.

I managed to get through to her that I loved her but it took all the I0 minutes of us walking down there for me to say this because she kept interrupting saying "But you can't love me, you don't love me. I don't love me. I hate the way I am and I hate the way I treat you." But I convinced her that I loved her. And it wasn't because of what I said but because I meant what I said.

On the way back from the fish and chip shop Janice opened up to me and she revealed to me that her greatest fear was that I was going to walk out on her, and if I did that she would blame herself. She would say it was her fault because of the way she had been treating me although she didn't want to treat me that way, she just couldn't help it.

I think it was from this point that Janice slowly started to get better.

Once we had the diagnosis that Janice had postnatal depression it didn't take away Janice's change of behaviour, so there was the requirement that I develop some survival tactics to be able to take care of what was going on.

The first thing I had to deal with was the way Janice kept exploding at me. I found that a very simple and effective way was that when she would explode, and it would continue for four, five maybe six minutes with Janice venting perhaps a week's anger at me, I would simply stop what I was doing, I would look at her and I would say nothing. Experience had taught me that if I so much as in the slightest way tried to defend myself, it was like trying to put out fire with a can of petrol. It didn't work.

A classic example was one night when we were doing the dishes and one of the pots had a little bit of custard left on it. That was a catalyst to set Janice off - it wasn't perfect. She spent a good five minutes rattling off her week's anger at me. So I put the dishes down and looked at her and she continued and continued and then stormed off, went to the bedroom and slammed the bedroom door. Five minutes later she came out and all in the one breath said to me "You knew I was off my tree didn't you? I hate you doing that." And then in the same breath she said "Thank you". At last we had proof that this was working.

Other times I would come home and find the dishes were half done, the vacuum cleaner was in the lounge, the washing was half done and the bed was half made. What had happened those days was that Janice had started doing the dishes, but the anxiety of doing the housework meant that she had to start the vacuuming and so she would go and do that. While she was doing the vacuuming she would realise that she hadn't done the washing so she would go and do that. Then she realised she hadn't done the bed and so she would leave the washing to go and make the bed. Then while doing the bed she would realise she hadn't finished doing the dishes so she would go back to start the dishes again. While doing the dishes she could see the vacuum cleaner in the lounge so she would start the vacuuming again. This vicious cycle of frantically running around the house would finally get to her and she would realise that she would have to stop. She would spend the rest of the afternoon making herself tea and reading.

So, often I would come home and find the dishes half done, the vacuum cleaner in the lounge, the washing half done and the bed not made. What it meant was that I had to take on the responsibility of the housework when I got home. I would have to do the dishes, vacuuming, washing - hang it out and bring it in and so on.

So it became my responsibility to take care of the house. I also did the cooking most nights of the week. Here we found some help by finding out what was the simplest but most nutritious meal that we could have. And surprisingly baked beans and eggs with toast has a full range of nutrition.

Also it pays to get some help. Janice got a letter from her doctor to say that home-help was necessary because of her psychiatric state. That allowed us to get home-help once a week from the council. My parents came down to stay with us for a week and when they saw the state of what was going on they decided they would stay for 6 months. What they would do was to come down from Kyneton every Monday night and then go home every Thursday or Friday to have time for themselves as they needed to get away too.

For dinner have at least one night out when you go to Pizza Hut or somewhere like that so you are not constantly stuck in the house with the dishes and cooking. Take the kids with you.

Accept any offers of help. If someone comes around and says "I know you are having a bit of trouble. I'll do the vacuuming", don't be too proud. Accept any offers of help.

As for husbands, you will need to have time out for yourself where you escape and do what is necessary for your own self-pleasuring. For me it was model aircraft. I made and flew model aircraft. This is my passion and this is where I spent what spare time I had. It wasn't much but I did manage to get a couple of planes done.

When the recovery starts you begin by first of all with one good day per week. Then you have two good days per week. Then you progress to three good days per week and you think things are really getting good. A common mistake, I found, was that when Janice was well she would use her good days to catch up with what she hadn't done during the week. That was a major mistake because every time she did too much she would use up her good health and she would get sick again from doing too much. And if she got sick then we would have to start the cycle all over again where she was well for one day per week, then well for two days the next, etc.

So it became my role as the husband to monitor Janice's recovery. When she was doing well and she felt that she could cope I got her to write out a list of what she wanted to do that day. I would go through that list and I would strike off at least half of what was on it, and suggest she could do what was left. That way we maintained Janice's sense of well being because it was very fragile. While she was well it was very easy for her to do too much and become sick again.

Emotionally this was one of the hardest times of Janice's postnatal depression for me to cope with because one week she would be well and do too much and the next week she would be sick and I knew that we had to start from scratch again. This would be hard on me because I would have to go back to doing all the housework again.

In conclusion I was able to cope with Janice's postnatal depression because, what I had come to understand was, that it was not Janice. The change in behaviour, her snappiness, her treatment towards me was not Janice. It was the postnatal depression.

At the end of Janice's recovery I felt like I had given my all, given everything that I had and had nothing left to give. I felt emotionally drained and I felt that I could not handle another bout of PND if it was to happen. Since then we have had another child and again Janice suffered postnatal depression but we were able to understand it and get onto it very quickly.

Now Janice is well, still on medication, but well. Also we are thinking of having another child and maybe another after that to make our family complete. Yes we are prepared to go through postnatal depression again as we have found that postnatal depression is not the end of the world.

Being there - A Grandmother's experience of PND

It was the 4th of September - a very special day for me, as my first grandson was born. It was a traumatic time as he spent his first five days in intensive care. I tried to reassure my daughter that all would be well and that soon she and her son would be home and would be very happy.

This was not to be. It was only the beginning of the most heartbreaking year I was yet to experience with one of my children.

It was during the second week at home that I began to recognise symptoms of my daughter's depression; symptoms other than the tears of 'Baby Blues'.

I knew she was ill and needed immediate help. I phoned every hospital and institution I knew of in the public system, but there were no available beds.

Someone gave me the phone number of PANDA. I rang and was helped and encouraged to battle on and seek medical help.

My worst fears became reality when my daughter and her husband returned from the doctor with the diagnosis of PND. The dosage of medication was of no help as my daughter's condition worsened daily.

I began spending every day with my daughter and her baby; arriving at 8.00 a.m. and leaving anytime between 6.00 p.m. and 10.00 p.m. sometimes staying overnight.

Due to the anger, I could feel my daughter's husband was finding it hard to cope with the situation, and my daughter was rejecting her baby more and more as she became more ill. Another GP was consulted and a higher dose of medication was given. This time the medication did help a little, but not enough.

It was now four months of suffering for my daughter and all of us. I was now on medication to help cope.

Suddenly, my daughter's condition became so extreme that I had to ask for help from another family member. I felt my heart was shattering as I could see my daughter falling apart in front of me, and I could not 'make her better'.

We sought psychiatric help, as the GP could not understand why my daughter could not go on as she was, seeing as she had for four months!

There was no immediate psychiatric help available but an assessment team was called in to see her at home. Although they called daily, I couldn't really see that they were able to do much for the illness PND.

They suggested more help from her husband, and for her not to worry about housework. The counseling achieved little.

Finally, the worst day arrived.

I received a phone call from my daughter; a voice I could barely distinguish as her voice.

"Mum, help me! I can't go on any longer. I don't want to live any more."

My husband and I went straight around to her. It was not our daughter sobbing in a dazed state. It was a stranger. After many loving words and reassurance, we calmed her down. Then she rang PANDA.

We were provided with the name of a doctor with special interest in PND, and the next day her husband took her to the doctor while I stayed home looking after the baby - and I prayed that at last we would find the help we needed. My daughter came back with a smile on her face for the first time in five months.

She said, "I'm going to get better."

At last we had found someone in the medical profession who knew what to do about PND and knew of her suffering. The medication dosage was correctly adjusted and I took her for weekly visits at first, then fortnightly, and now monthly visits.

I thank my husband and other daughter for the wonderful support they have given, as I can now see my daughter 'coming back' and at last having true maternal love for her special little boy.

She is still on medication and still has a long way to go, but the rays of sunshine are peeping through the clouds, and SHE KNOWS that one day she will be her complete self again. We've shed many tears over those months past, and now we can share laughs together too.

I still visit often, but she can cope herself now, mostly. If she is tired, she has a rest while I play with my grandson. She has a safety net of family and friends, a wonderful doctor, her local Health Sister, and the others at the PANDA group.

I know that one day soon, she will be in a world of sunshine once again.

I beg any grandmother to: