I cry. I shake. My
mind tumbles into despair, spinning. Suddenly, I come good. I bustle around doing
dishes, chopping vegetables, folding laundry.
Singing. Another hour goes by, my
toddler decides to crack the shits and so do I.
And the tears flow again. Just. So. Thoroughly. Exhausted.
There are few things so uniquely devastating to a new parent
as the sleep deprivation that strikes us all.
Perhaps a tiny bit easier the second time around, as the utter shock of it
isn’t entirely unexpected, the loss of sleep that accompanies newborn-hood is
enough to derail even the most supported of families.
I used to be someone who couldn’t survive on less than 8
hours of sleep every night. After a few nights of only six or seven hours I would become increasingly moody and cantankerous, inevitably affecting
my performance at both work and play and straining my relationships with those
closest to me. Enter parenthood:
sleepless nights; anxiety; insomnia; depression.
In my darkest days when my firstborn was eight weeks old, I
was getting only two hours of sleep a night.
My son, happily settled into a budding routine, was still waking for
feeds but sleeping for 10 hours at night and was thriving by every
measure. I was falling off a cliff.
Tortured by constant anxiety ravaging my mind and tension locked in my body, I
spiralled into a state of panic that prevented me from achieving relaxation or
peace of mind at night. I was unable to find sleep even, especially, in a
dark and quiet house. I became distraught.
I sought help simply by talking, talking, talking first to
my partner, then my doctor, breastfeeding counsellors, and of course my family
and close friends. The talking was
therapeutic, but I also listened. I
listened carefully and took note of what I heard. You are a useless mother. Look at this house. You can’t keep it together for one minute,
how pathetic. Look at your gorgeous baby looking up at you and all you can do
is cry. Do you know how much harder other women have it? You are so weak. Get a grip. Here we go again, another night of
insomnia, you must be mentally ill. You will never be normal again.
The words were poison.
Crippling. I heard the insults over and over again and noticed which
ones hurt the most. Which ones I believed
the most. I wrote down defiant counterpoints on sticky notes. You are a bloody good mother. I posted them where I would see them dozens
of times every day. You are not sick. Next to my bed, on the fridge, on doors and
walls and mirrors. You are not neglecting your child.
Day after day I read those notes and gradually began to believe that they
were true. You will find your natural rhythms again. Slowly, surely the
insults faded into the background. You are EVERYTHING your baby needs. The
affirmations became my mantra. I
started sleeping again.
Seven months on, the second time around, and with the luxury
of perspective I compare the two experiences.
This time there was no depression, but the insomnia was worse. The numbing drudgery of it all was potently
felt. Wild mood swings during the day. The constant efforts to comfort a
crying baby. Endless breastfeeds. Backaches, headaches, tension… monotony. Yet through it all, and to this day I cannot get enough of
her. My embrace swallows her whole. In
the darkest hour of night, an enormous gummy grin seen through the dim light sets
my spirit alight - my heart burning with love - and my all-consuming exhaustion
simply vanishes into the shadows.
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