Since giving birth to Sprogzilla, I have had my bad moments – crying, shouting, feeling down etc. I’ve always told myself this is a normal part of being a new mum and a result of the severe sleep deprivation I’m enduring.

I was wrong. I’ve been lying to my family, my friends and myself. I didn’t want to admit this monster lives inside of me, but now I must come clean. The evidence is far too obvious.

First of all, I must reveal that I have a long history of depression and panic attacks. It waxes and wanes I guess, depending on the amount of stress in my life. My school years were the last time things were really bad, though working life has also caused me some rough times. I sought help on several occasions and was put on a variety of anti-depressants, none of which really helped and ultimately brought their own problems. I was referred to a Community Psychiatric Nurse once – she was all but useless and dropped me from her caseload after just one session.

When I am at my lowest points, I withdraw into myself and cut off emotionally. Sprogdaddy refers to this as sulking. I wish it were that simple. So many people have misunderstood my condition, I guess it’s no surprise that my own hubby doesn’t get it either. I don’t think he ever will – it takes someone who has gone through this state of mind to know what it does to you.

I am a passive self-harmer. I don’t do stereotypical things like cutting myself or taking pills. Instead I tend to stop eating to the point of feeling physically sick with hunger. I will sit outside in the pouring rain or the freezing cold dressed in just a nightie. I want to punish myself, I feel like I deserve to suffer. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself, but usually it’s plain old self-loathing.

Sometimes I will scratch myself almost to the point of bleeding. That usually happens on bad days. Like today.

Today, Sprogzilla is still teething badly and Sprogdaddy is supposed to be working a late shift. My anxiety levels were high since I woke up this morning and I have been tearful and snappy. I reached a crisis point and decided to retreat to the bedroom so that Sprogdaddy would not have to see me so upset. Except instead, he came in a few minutes later to remind me of my motherly duties and and ring his hands in despair at me. His final comment, before storming out of the room, “I can’t be bothered to deal with you any more. It’s like having two children in the house!” knocked me to the lowest ebb. I sobbed uncontrollably into the duvet, and finally realised I cannot ignore this elephant in the room any longer. I have post-partum depression. It might not be the full in-yer-face, 24/7 variety. But it’s there, periodically rearing its ugly head and shoving aside my illusions that everything is fine.

I don’t feel like a worthy mother. I don’t know why, but I never have. Going by the strained communications I’ve had with Sprogdaddy over these last few hours, I feel like a pretty shit housewife too.

I don’t know who to ask for help. I have no faith in the health services, they have failed me too many times. I wouldn’t want to trouble the few family members I am in touch with. And there is of course, that little thread of dignity that wants to carry on projecting the image of a super-happy family that’s coping just fine on its own.

I suppose I will soldier on until things get better. That’s how I’ve survived so far, and most days, after all, are good ones.

Sorry for the depressing post, but I really needed to get this off my chest. Maybe shouting my woes out into cyberspace will be more cathartic than speaking to an over-paid, disinterested shrink whom I’ve waited six months to see.