Dear Mr Latham

Dear Mr Latham,

I only knew of you as 'second best' to our past Prime Minister, John Howard. I have no interest in politics - I'm pretty blind to the happenings in Parliament - and I like it that way. You caught my eye a few years back when you weren't afraid of showing your inner bitch with fellow politicians, calling them names and acting all gangsta-like with Mr Howard. You had me back then at 'arselicker' and calling them 'a conga line of suckholes'. You won my vote.

But then you had to go firing off your ignorant, sexist and uneducated mouth and belittle the women of Australia (sorry, no - not just Australia - the world) with your malignant and antiquated comments about mothers with a mental illness. What an awesome role model you must be to your sons.

I didn't choose to have depression, or anxiety, or psychosis. I haven't made it up to avoid the responsibilities of motherhood. Before having my first child nearly 15 years ago, the signs were there. Circumstances, combined with the chemical imbalance in my brain, led to my illness. I didn't ask for this. I didn't give myself a mental illness or three for the fun of it. Or for the attention. Or for the periodical feelings that make me question my need to breathe.

Did you choose to become a prick, Mr Latham, or did it just come naturally? Maybe it came to you as naturally as motherhood should come to every woman? There's yet to be a medication to treat being a bastard. I know, I checked. However, antidepressants might help you. How about some anti-psychotic medications to relieve you of your sense of grandeur and misogyny?

Your article (which I will call Mark's Guide to Raising Women In The 1950s: A Dickhead's Perspective) must make your mum proud. You suggest that women who need 'neurological assistance' in order to raise children is sad. You suggest that women 'like this' should not have children, and that these children will suffer knowing they were the reason behind their mother's 'pill-popping'. I know I do not and will not stand alone when I say to you that my 'pill-popping' bad habit is the reason why my children still have a mother today.

I have to admit Mr Latham, that I was doing really well before reading your article. I have learned to manage my illness well after 14 years, to know the warning signs, to put in place strategies I have worked hard at to cope with the everyday demands of being a stay at home mum of five kids with a husband who works very long hours. But today, I took your words to heart. You made me feel sick and selfish and guilty for wanting to have children even though I knew I wasn't well. You made me question whether I should return to the workplace. You made me feel wrong for wanting some time away from my children for me. And you are actually right about one of the comments you made - I did choose to have my children. I knew I may have difficult times ahead raising them with this illness, just like thousands of others with their own challenging medical (non-mental) issues. 

I'm damn proud of my children. Damn proud of myself for staying at home and raising them the best I can. And I'll be damn proud of them when they grow up better off for having been taught that mental illness should not be feared nor condemned. That everyone has a story. That with society's support and less people like you in the public eye spewing your offensive and damaging opinions, more people like me will find their voice to shout from the rooftops "I'm crazy and perfectly normal!"

Mr Latham, I'm not angered by reading your comments. I'm disheartened and sad. It's not us mums with mental illnesses who should feel ashamed, but you.

Yours in craziness,

Cut My Milk

Just smile & get over it.

And then I got all serious...

There is nothing funny about depression. You won't be laughing with this story.

Some of you will feel uncomfortable. Some of you may not like what I am about to write. Some of you were there from the beginning. Some of you have gone through it with me. I write this so you will understand my story, not to feel sorry for me or worry about me. Just to understand. Too many of us go through this, and no story is exactly the same. This is mine.

I haven't been feeling too well lately. In the head, that is. I know it will pass, as it usually does. I am now able to tell myself that.

Only a few years ago, telling myself that a bad moment was only a temporary setback did not happen. It was a hell of a lot easier to succumb to the negativity that began to eat away all the good stuff in my life. People have asked me why I couldn't just cheer up, think happy thoughts, smile, get over it. For far too long, I did just that. To some extent, I still do.

It takes a lot of energy to combat the negativity that can enter your head, and without experiencing it first hand it can be difficult to fully comprehend just how tough it can be. Depression is not just a sadness. It can manifest in so many different ways in everyone. 'Sad' people don't necessarily have depression. There is no 'one-size-fits-all', which is a shame, coz if it did maybe I could have dodged that bullet. But depression doesn't seem to give a rat's fat arse if you are fat or skinny, male or female, black, white or from Mars, blonde, brunette, tall, short, high achiever or full of stupid. 

With me, I get anxious, angry and physically unwell. Easily. The world becomes a heavy, dark, scary and confusing place. 

Geez, this is not my usual happy and sarcastic blog. 

I think I now recognise some of the thought processes that go through my head when I'm becoming overwhelmed by 'it'. I thought, for your enjoyment, you'd like to come visit me in my mind and look around. Stay for a wine. Mind the wet paint.

I've had depression for a good 13 and a half years. I've been on antidepressants, antipsychotics, anti-anxiety pills, pills to make me sleep and relax, pills to make me get up and go. I've missed out on enjoying my babies. I've missed out on enjoying my marriage. I've missed out on enjoying my life. Damn you, Depression.

Being such an invisible illness, I have bluffed my way through much of the past 13 years, until I decided recently that I will not let this define me. I will treat it like any other illness that needs management.

Having said that... 

At this very moment, all of what I said above is total bullshit. Depression found me again and is trying it's hardest to fuck me over. It could be the interaction with the Duramine I have started taking to become the sexy bitch I'd like to be, or it could just be that my kids share a brain between them and I am struggling to keep my shiz together. Either way, it is sending me back to Crazyville.

In this mood, I want help with everything, but I don't want help. In this mood, whatever you say to me will be taken as a punch, even the nicest sincerest thing may be taken completely out of context and be implying I am a failure. Don't talk to me, and I will see it as avoidance. Look at me, and I will become self conscious. I know it's a confusing place for me, but I also know how confusing and frustrating it is for you. Really, I do know.

It was first suspected I may have depression when Campbell was about 2 months old. I was breastfeeding. All the other mums in my mother's group were breastfeeding. I hated breastfeeding. It hurt, and my baby was never satisfied. I would cry every time he woke up knowing I would have to go through this torture again. I began rocking in a corner of the spare room. I always thought that the image of a nutbag rocking in foetal position was made up just for movies. It's actually not. My Maternal and Child Health nurse insisted that breast milk is best for my baby and that I should keep doing it for at least another year. Some mums breastfeed for two years. I told her how I cried. I told her how it hurt. I was told "Welcome to motherhood".

That was the day I decided would be Campbell and my last day.

I drove in the rain, Campbell screaming for a boob. I would drive straight at the next bend. The next bend. The next bend. I chickened out and turned the car around. I didn't want to come back to the house, but I did. In my eyes, I had failed again. 

The next day, I took Campbell to the doctor's as he had a sniffle. I was at the doctor's every couple of days. Campbell's wee was a funny colour. His poo smelled funny. He squinted his eyes too much. He slept for eight hours straight. If it were not for this visit to the GP on this particular day, at this particular moment in my time...well, I owe this doctor a huge amount of gratitude. My frequent visits to her office had her ask, "Are you ok?" I told her I hated my baby because he wanted breast milk. She simply said, "Then stop." While being in a two month state as the living dead, I had no idea there were other options. Wouldn't I be a bad mum though? Her answer: No such thing as a bad mum, but a happy mum is essential. She put me on antidepressants. That was 13 and a half years ago.

Things went from shit to fucked again when I was pregnant with Ella. I was so certain I was destroying Campbell with my lack of parenting skills, I decided I couldn't bring another child into this family. I got a towel and my sewing scissors and lay down behind my bed. I was determined to cut this thing out of me. As I lay there holding the point to my tummy, I thought I couldn't do this. How could I even think this? My scissors would get blunt and I would get blood all over our new carpet. Laying there, realising the stupidity of my reasons why I couldn't do it, I laughed hysterically and cried until I fell asleep.

When Ella was born, I could see and smell things. They were very real and I told nobody. I thought everyone else could see and smell them, too. I would often hunt around in the middle of the night sniffing power outlets convinced something was smouldering away inside the wall and we would all burn alive.  My eyes and mind played tricks on me. I watched Campbell hover above me in bed and then run through the closed door. Ella stared at me with judging baby eyes. People looked at me oddly, like they knew some hilarious secret about me or that I was dressed wrongly. I would glance in the windows of shops to see if I had my clothes on backwards or I had forgotten to put on my pants, but I couldn't see me in the reflection. I wasn't there. Odd tall thin grey men were looking back at me instead. Their faces like those theatre masks. Contorted. Smiling with their own secrets about me. Everyone would know I was a fraud.

I drew this when I wasn't too well.

These odd tall grey men often wafted up from the tiles in the kitchen towards the end of the day. At first, they just lingered, following me about while I prepared dinner. Soon, they began to whisper to each other, then whisper to me, on top of each other, until I couldn't hear anything else happening in the house. They would tell me things. Truths. Ella was sent to kill me. Look at her eyes. Campbell will help her. Ella is the devil and Campbell was an alien. Ella's eyes were wrong. They were piercing. They were knowing. I could no longer look people in the eyes. Eyes were terrifying. Mirrors reflected confusion.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell...

After my new Maternal and Child Health nurse came to visit and discovered a display home of apparent artificial control, and after learning I had spent the night prior to her visit cleaning the inside of the toaster and hand cleaning the toothbrushes to their former glory, she said she thought I needed some help. Hospital help. I don't remember how, but suddenly I was in the kitchen with my suitcase packed waiting for my mum to come and watch my children. I remember Campbell, now 20 months old, peeling a banana and dropping the skin on the floor. I cried. I cried with fear and a profound sadness I cannot explain. Years later, I learnt from his therapist that Campbell believed I cried because of that banana skin he let fall. I had hurt my boy. 

Ella and I were 'voluntary' guests of the Mother Baby Unit for five weeks. I met wonderful mums, one of whom became a great friend. I was improving until I watched the breaking news of New York's World Trade Centre being attacked. I cried believing if I were there, I could have replaced a life lost. My stay in the hospital became longer. I had learnt to cheat the staff there, too. I had them believe I was perfectly well. I didn't tell them I could smell smoke. I didn't tell them that I believed another mum on the ward was sent from the odd tall thin grey men to watch me. I was sad few people came to visit me. I don't blame them. I was sad that my mum had to see me this way, and that Tim, struggling with sudden 'single' parenthood and a new job, was sad that he couldn't help me. I was sad I had to eventually come home to 'normality' eventually.

I will not hide from this past. I will not let this define me.

But I'm finding this single moment a hard hard moment.

I still smell smoke. I still have problems with eyes and mirrors. My reflection is still all wrong. But I am here, with five beautiful children who drive me to the edge of insanity and back, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

In a way, I'm glad I've experienced these things. Experiencing these things. 

Gotta go. The microwave is talking to me.

Mental

To celebrate Mental Health Day yesterday I went out with my kids. We didn't go far. They're mental.

I find the biggest challenge living with a mental illness is living with a mental illness. 

I was diagnosed with severe postnatal depression when Campbell was born 12 years ago and with postpartum psychosis, much like schizophrenia, when Ella was born a year and a half later. It will surprise you to learn that when the twins arrived I was the sanest I've ever been. At least while they couldn't walk and talk. Now that they can walk fast and talk back, and I have my new little gummy bear permanently attached to my left hip, the world has again become mental.

I joined a mother's group when Cam was but a wee ball of butter and was told to put on a smile, get over it and don't go telling people I had a problem. These were mums who loved being a mum, thought breast feeding was the only way you'd bond with your baby and who swore they would never give their child dairy, gluten, egg, artificial colours, sugar and flavour. I hated being a mum, bottle fed my baby and gave him his first Happy Meal at 10 months of age (don't judge me, he was a hungry baby). Campbell loves his mummy.

Feeling under stress and overwhelmed with the whole mother deal lately, I booked the hotel where all seven of us will be staying on our Queensland holiday in a few weeks time. Each year, when my husband takes a couple of weeks off work, we head off on a family holiday to unwind, recharge and make some wonderful family memories. A few years ago, when the Wonder Twins were 15 months old, we loaded up the Grand Carnival and headed off on the three day trek across the Nullabor to visit family in Perth.

We stopped for a much needed brew in Glenelg, SA.
Lily wasn't driving.

A couple of thousand kilometres later, and after a brilliant time spent with my aunt, uncle and cousins, we set off home to Melbourne vowing we would never speak of the holiday again.

Traveling to Perth

Traveling from Perth

But now, in the hazy memory of that long, long, long drive across Australia with young kids, we've decided to play in the enormous theme park that is Queensland. I can't wait to walk around them with Scarlett and overtired overstimulated twins for 4 days. 

Unwound and recharged? Pffft. 

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