It will soon be my daughter’s 6th birthday and, by now, most of my friends have either two kids (or more!) or another one on the way. People often ask me whether my husband and I will follow suit, and when I say, ‘No, we think we’ve decided to stop at one.’, they generally look surprised – because, for many people, the thought of raising an only child is inconceivable.
The truth is, I never intended to have a ‘lonely only’ (an expression I dislike and disagree with, but it’s been said to me so many times!). Having grown up with a sister who’s very close to me in age, I always thought I’d have two children. As kids, we spent hours playing with dolls and talking about getting married and having babies; after all, that’s what women are supposed to do, right?! I’ve lost count of the number of ‘warm and fuzzy’ ads I’ve seen on TV and in magazines over the years, portraying babies as cute little bundles and their mothers as happy, beautiful, contented women. Having had a baby and experienced the reality, I can’t help thinking that the media has a lot to answer for!
When I first discovered I was pregnant at the age of 27, I was over the moon. My husband and I had been together for 8 years, were happily married, and had both worked hard to ensure we were in a good financial position. Everything seemed perfect, just as we’d hoped it would be, and I was keen to keep it that way. I’d always enjoyed a healthy diet, but I became even more conscious of what I ate, avoiding the list of foods my midwife had told me to avoid, and ensuring I consumed my ‘five a day’ – every day. Early on in my pregnancy, I read an article about household cleaning products and the potentially harmful chemicals they contained; it played on my mind as I was cleaning the bathroom the next day, so I figured it made sense to switch to ‘eco-friendly’ products. I also found myself washing my hands a lot more to avoid picking up bugs (the morning sickness was bad enough on its own!).
I had a straightforward pregnancy with no major issues. I spent a lot of time worrying about the baby, but I guess that’s natural for a first-time mother. My husband was incredibly supportive and did his best to reassure me that everything was ok. A week before my due date, I was fast asleep in bed when my waters broke, and the following evening (after just five hours of contractions) our daughter came into the world. I remember looking at her and thinking she was the most beautiful little person I’d ever seen. I really couldn’t believe we’d produced something so perfect…but as I was wheeled onto the postnatal ward with my daughter in my arms, I felt an unexpected wave of anxiety pass over me. My throat felt as though it was closing up, and I had pins and needles in my hands and arms. I thought I must be having some kind of allergic reaction the drugs I’d been given during labour and, as I passed the baby to my husband, I broke down in tears. By the time a doctor arrived to examine me, I felt so overwhelmed and unwell that I honestly thought I was going to die. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I was having a panic attack – and, although I eventually calmed down, those precious first hours with our daughter were gone forever.
After a short stay in hospital, we were checked over by a paediatrician and discharged. I remember feeling incredibly relieved, but also a huge sense of responsibility. Our first few days at home went smoothly and our daughter only woke two or three times during the night, so we were able to catch up on some much needed sleep. After a week or so, though, she became very unsettled and our midwife said it was probably colic. There’s much debate about what colic actually is, but our previously calm baby became fractious during the evenings and almost impossible to settle at night. She seemed to want to feed constantly (it was the only way I could stop her from crying) and yet, after feeds, she’d draw her knees up, as though she were in pain, and begin crying all over again. My husband and I were averaging about two hours of very broken sleep a night, and to say we were exhausted is an understatement.
I remember one of our neighbours calling with a card and a gift. She came with her son, who was a toddler at the time, and I was so tired I wanted cry. As she cuddled my tiny daughter in her arms and her son began stroking her face, I felt uneasy. I started thinking about all of the germs that might be on a toddler’s hands – about how weak my daughter’s immune system must be, and how awful it would be if she fell ill. How would we cope with a sick baby when we were already so tired?! It was all I could focus on, and I was so glad when they left the house.
Over the next few weeks the sleepless nights continued. My husband returned to work and, in his absence, I became obsessive about hygiene and also felt compelled to check the contents of things for harmful ingredients – from food packets (I was breastfeeding) to my the label on my daughter’s bath wash. Simple tasks like making a sandwich and emptying the bin became time consuming, and juggling day-to-day life with looking after a new baby (and on very little sleep) seemed impossible. Looking back (and to anyone reading this) it sounds ridiculous, but I was so tired and anxious that I’d lost all sense of perspective. I avoided going to baby groups, as I was certain we’d pick up a nasty bug, and my hands became red-raw from all of the washing. I went to baby clinic every week (which I found incredibly stressful) and repeatedly told my health visitor how tired I was. Because my daughter was gaining plenty of weight, though, she didn’t seem overly concerned. She made various suggestions of things we could try to ease the colic and encourage my daughter to settle at night, but, despite mine and my husband’s best efforts, nothing seemed to work. I looked at other mothers cooing over their babies and couldn’t understand how they were managing so much better than me, as I’d been so ready to become a mum and so well prepared. I felt like a massive failure and began to wonder what on earth I’d done to my life; I’d always had a successful career and lots of friends and yet, in the space of a few weeks, I’d become isolated and depressed. I loved my daughter so much, but I wished I could turn back the clock.
One day, when my daughter was six months old, things reached an all-time low and I ended up at my GP’s surgery in tears. The doctor took one look at my hands and asked me whether I’d ever heard of OCD. It was as though someone had switched on a light; following months of thinking I just wasn’t coping, I suddenly realised there might be a reason. He referred me for Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) and, after a short wait, I was assessed and allocated a therapist who began seeing me each week. This really was the turning point. I went from feeling completely confused and alone to understanding more about anxiety and the negative thoughts I’d been having. My therapist encouraged me to question the beliefs I’d developed around germs and contamination, and to face my fears by gradually exposing me to the everyday situations I’d grown to find so stressful. It wasn’t easy but, in my mind, I had to do it – because I loved my daughter and my husband to bits and failure wasn’t an option.
By the time my daughter was 18 months old, things had improved dramatically. I decided to go back to work part-time, realising that being at home all day wasn’t the best thing for me (or my daughter), and also began training as a breastfeeding peer supporter within my local community, which was something I was really passionate about. I started to feel more relaxed in my role as a mother, and life with my daughter became increasingly enjoyable. The fact that she was only waking a few times a night (it took her a long time to sleep through, but a few times a night was manageable) also helped, as my husband and I were far less sleep deprived.
I wanted to share my story because there’s often a stigma attached to mental health conditions like OCD, and postnatal OCD is more prevalent than you’d perhaps think. By raising awareness, those who suffer will hopefully feel less alone. I could spend the rest of my life feeling guilty about the past but, through my therapy, I’ve learned to focus on my strengths and the things I’ve done well as a mother, rather than on my past failings. Despite the fact that I’m a good mum (well, a great mum actually!), I don’t think I’ll be going back to changing nappies and sleepless nights. My husband and I both agree that life with our lovely daughter – who amazes us and makes us laugh every day – is great, and we don’t want to jeopardise what we have. We also have five wonderful nephews, all of whom life nearby, so our daughter is never short of a playmate!
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To my six-year-old daughter,
Every Little Cloud 