Take that, Navy Asshole.

I might cop some slack for writing this but it needs to be done.

Every time I search for information about PND, I come across news articles, blogs, doctors numbers etc.

The articles I've read lately, and earlier on, were always so 'heavy' and 'serious'. And by that, it's not a dig or anything, but sometimes PND doesn't make you want to cut your wrists. In all honesty, I never wanted to kill myself.

I just wanted to put my beautiful daughter on the sidewalk and go back inside.

I'm serious.

To feel that way...it's SO confusing. You feel an incredible amount of guilt for just wanting your child to shut up. The crying! The moaning! What does she want!!

Picture this:

A young teenager being diagnosed with PCOS and Endometriosis- shattering her dreams of becoming a mother. Said teenager finding out she's pregnant afew years later. Teenager is now 18, almost 19, and has the odds against her- bugger all support, no confidence or self esteem. No money. Half a job. Friends who just want to get high and use her as an excuse to their parents as to where they are... "I'm at Suzi's"- she never was, and I never knew she said that either. I never knew where she was!

Anyway. Not much support from anyone- especially said friend mentioned before. Mother swaying between "good decision" and "bad decision", my brother said he "couldn't support a bad decision". But I knew having a termination was the bad decision. My dad asked how I could raise a child when I'd left school at 15. My babies father threatening suicide.

I don't know how I got through it. But I was determined to be the best damn mum out there. I was determined to prove them all wrong and to break the stereotypes.

She was born, (it's her third birthday today), after a pretty traumatic labour and birth. I can't remember it unless I write it out and piece it together. Basically it was over 30 hours of contractions, most 4 minutes apart. I spent majority of the labour in my lounge, alone, while my daughters dad lay in my bed texting another girl. I had no support from him. And the fact he was there, I think it made it worse. I think my labour was emotionally traumatic because he was THERE but did NOTHING. Everything we'd learnt in antenatal class was a waste of time.

Every time my wheatbag ran out of heat, I would have to get up and reheat it. An awful contraction every time I got up. Bending to get iceblocks out of the freezer damn near killed me. I was lonely, but not alone. It was bizarre. 

Don't get me wrong, the labour could've been SO much worse. I could've ended up with the caesarean section I signed the papers for at 1pm. I could've lost her. I could've died.

But I didn't, those things didn't happen. I thought I'd made it through the worst of it.

I spent 48 hours in hospital, Addi never cried so no one really checked on us. No one really showed me how to breastfeed- I just looked like I had it sussed so they left me. I didn't. No one showed me how to bathe her.

We left, in her dads car, at 5pm on the 10th September 2010. I was terrified of going home. He dropped us home, stayed for an hour or so, took some selfies with her and then left. He had 2 weeks off work but went 'home' every night.

I needed him. I will NEVER forget that pain. Never. I'm shaking now even remembering it. It was Spring, somewhere. Not at my house. It felt like hell. Everything was a dark navy shade of blue even during the day. My carpet was a mess, clothes all over the place. No one to help me clean.

Inevitably my dad 'came round' like everyone said he would. I didn't really care by the 5th month. It was me and her against the world.

So when my dad physically came round to our house, he would clean. Which made me feel even more useless. I hate making excuses but I didn't want to vacuum incase I woke her. I was so scared of her being awake. I was scared to sleep, myself, incase I never woke up- I was that tired. Breastfeeding was terrifying, my breasts were bigger than her head and I smothered her if I didn't hold myself off her nose. So when well-meaning people would say "just lie down and feed her in bed", they didn't understand that it would possibly kill her.

I had carpal tunnel when I was pregnant, which left my body a day or so after I had her, but a sore wrist remained on my right arm. I couldn't pick my own baby up properly without crying, it was like the bones were stuck. I had to pick her up by her clothes as I couldn't bend down, my back was so sore. She was posterior and the birth was pretty intense so I think I did major damage to my tailbone (well according to my chiropractor I rebroke my tailbone).

So the days brought sunlight with them and the false sense of happiness. I cried at the tv, I pulled on her dads arms when he left. I cried and begged and pleaded, but he would always say "I'll be back in the morning". Do you know how dangerous it is to leave a new mum alone with baby blues? I'll tell you now- DON'T DO IT. Because those 'baby blues' aren't baby blue. They're black, and navy, and crystal white. They're cold and scary and lonely.

She rarely cried, so I thought I was doing okay.

I'll be honest here and say the next few months dragged on like how I've explained. I do NOT know how I got through them.

Also, 4 days before she was born, Christchurch had the first 'big' quake. So I was scared of falling furniture, scared of the house breaking, the ground opening up and taking us. It wasn't normal. The aftershocks continued.

All I'd learnt from the 9 months of preparing, well, most of it went out the window. Having a 'real live baby' was so different to everything I imagined- so different. I can't even explain but if you're a parent you'll know what I mean. 

I couldn't quiet the voices in my head- people telling me I couldn't do it. "Your house is a mess" "I'll do the dishes" "You're so lazy" "Don't give up breastfeeding" "Use cloth nappies"

FUCK OFF.

I was TOO WEAK to clean, looking back now, my house was a MESS but it wasn't dangerous. She wasn't even sitting up. She wasn't eating. She was just tiny, just BEING.

My whole life I've been pushed, pressured, prodded. Never just supported. Support and pressure are two complete different things.

So the months rolled on, somehow, and then the next phase happened. She was eating, and I would puree cooked food for her. I did my best and she did hers too. We worked together. We would venture out, visit people, go for walks. I felt a bit better because she was growing and I realised I had no one else to thank for that but me. It was all my doing. I grew her for 10 months and continued to, outside the womb. I felt amazing but then nighttime would hit and I would turn into a child, terrified of the dark.

The next 'part' I want to write about, before I forget, is when I said to her dad I wanted to put her on the sidewalk.

I had vertigo so bad (I get it sometimes) I would walk into walls. I couldn't breathe properly. I had my first ear infection at 21. She had one too.

We were alone and it was horrible. I was BEGGING her dad for support, BEGGING, reaching out with every fibre in my body. I would give him everything, to keep him. I cooked three meals a night- mine, Addis and his. Granted, sometimes I fed her out of a can, but come on- I can't even criticise myself for that because otherwise she wouldn't have eaten.

To outsiders, I looked fine and didn't look like I needed help. Even I didn't think I needed help. I wouldn't know what 'help' to seek.

My depression followed me like a kite dragging on the floor. It crept up into my body, my life, my head, with its navy blue eyes and black hair, cold skin.

I didn't realise how bad I felt, until I had a good day. And I thought it was normal to not feel great all the time. I didn't know.

It was December 2012 when an old friend turned my life upside down. Things had fallen apart so badly with Addi's dad and I felt like there was nothing left but anxiety. I said goodbye to my baby. I said goodbye to her. I packed her favourite things and said goodbye.

Do you know how much that hurt? I don't know if you will- whoever you are- but imagine it. Just imagine it. This child, who has done nothing wrong, been nothing but herself and been so beautiful inside and out- saying GOODBYE to that?!

I looked longingly into her dads eyes as he stared into my soul, slitted eyes and a cold mouth. I said "take care of her" and I'm sure he thought nothing of it - that I was 'over exaggerating' again. 

I went to my counselling appointment and told her what was going on. I was an absolute mess. I was crying, shaking, tear-stained. I was bawling actually. Telling her that someone had told me to 'disappear' and I said I would.

My counsellor told me to get some wine and go home. I thought she might have admitted me to hospital but I think she knew me better than that. She knew I'd been through worse and got through it. So this was just another bump.

A few days later I was on anti-depressants. They made me so tired I couldn't drive. I thought if I got pulled over, I'd be done. I felt drunk. My mouth was dry for 2 weeks and I sweated like a serial killer. But I knew it would be okay.


It's been nearly a year on these magical little pills and I can honestly say they gave me the 'hand up' I needed. I can't say they saved my life because they didn't. I did.

My anxiety (I have an anxiety disorder too- just thought I'd pop that in now, right at the end...) has lessened. Instead of needing to please people, needing to be the best- I've decided that I only need to please my beautiful daughter and 'good enough' IS GOOD ENOUGH.

I applied for jobs. I moved house. I decluttered. I changed. I decided to become a Pregnancy Counsellor (voluntarily) and use my story to fuel my desire to help other young, single, or solo mums with their journey.

I am in the best place I've ever been. I ENJOY my daughter, I can actually BE alone now. I can enjoy my own company, as much as hers. I've finally found who I am. I can sleep. I can eat, and cook, and clean. I AM CAPABLE. I DON'T NEED ANYONE ELSE. I DON'T NEED HIM.

I am relying on myself. It is the best feeling, knowing I'm actually fully capable of being this wicked person (bit biased). 

My daughter is hilarious. She is clever, she is strong, she is beautiful inside and out. And it's because of ME.

That, in itself, is enough. It's good enough. I'm good enough.

For the FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE I have goals! I have determination, I have dreams. I have no fear. I'm not scared. I wear navy blue on my nails and don't even link it to the navy monster that violated my life. I am 100% woman. I am unapologetically myself.

If you only take one thing from this, then please remember, they are feelings not facts. 

PND isn't always suicidal, it isn't always a huge big deal, it isn't always written about. It's sometimes just a Navy Asshole that makes you believe you're not a good enough mother.

You are. I am.

For Addi Faith

This blog post is going to be a struggle.

I find it easy to write about things that cause, or caused, pain. I find it harder to write about positive things because words don't seem to be enough.

It's around about every birthday (of yours) that I do a post like this- summing things up, describing who you are and where you're at, what our relationship is like...

And I usually say what I've learnt or where I'm at, too.

So I guess I'll start.

You are almost 3. That's a lot. That's 36 months- which doesn't seem a lot, at all. You have the sweetest personality- but you're picking up an attitude to match! You have a great range of vocabulary but often revert to the main words you know, when you're describing something. You find farts funny, and burps. You make my heart flutter; watching you sleep is the loveliest thing.

You asked me what baby birds eat, and instead, I asked what YOU thought they ate. You replied with "moussakka".

You ask for a bottle in the night, sometimes, and as I'm walking out you say "a big one" and then occasionally remind me to "warm it up". If it's too hot, you say "tiny one mum". Okay, baby.

You say please and thank you. You also say You're Welcome.

You can count higher than I thought you could! And you know the ABC song; some days.

Your favourite dinner is curry, and you love "butter sandwiches" (peanut butter). Yoghurt is a hot fave and also luncheon (blurgh).

Grandad, Nan and Uncle Sam are your biggest loves. Ofcourse there's also Grandma, Aunty Aimee, Sharelle and DAD! You know all our favourite colours and in the middle of the night, you rattle off all our names.

You love our cat, Weasel. It's almost reciprocated but trust needs to be regained...

I asked you if you could see the big fat blackbird on our lawn, but you replied with "AHHHH I can't see mum. My head is too tiny!". You couldn't see out the window.

You're tall, blonde and blue eyed. You're beautiful inside and out.

I can't believe you're THREE. I can't believe I've been a MUM for three years too. Sometimes I have to pinch myself that I grew you. I wanted you. I knew you before anyone else did. That I'm your mum, and you love me the way I love mine.

We have a wonderful relationship. I cherish each moment with you and always will. I remember the nights, alone, with you. I remember tucking you into my top and singing you to sleep. I remember driving you around the block to make you fall asleep too! And I remember not eating for hours on end because you needed to feed... I remember a messy house, unmade beds, an untidy bathroom- it's hard on your own with a new baby. Ill never forget the first nights at home with you once you were born. I was terrified. I would cry myself to sleep, or just cry, feeling so lonely and scared. I had BAD baby blues and no one seemed to care. It turned into postnatal depression and I'm so sorry I put us through some hard times, baby girl. I'm so sorry. 


Onto the soppy stuff.

You're my best friend. One day you'll say you hate me and that I'm NOT your friend- that's okay. I'm your mum first and foremost, but I'm always here for you. I'm open-minded because of you.

Not only are you teaching me things, you're teaching me who I am.

I love who I am, and it's thanks to you.

Thank you, sweet girl, for holding on. Holding on through those horrific 10 months inside of me. I did my absolute best to protect you and I hope I did enough. You came out unscathed, you rarely cried and you were- AND ARE- happy to even be here on this earth.

Grandad always wonders why you're so happy. He looks on in delight. I have to remind him that we're MEANT to be happy! That's how we start out. That's how we "come". We come at peace, happy and content. We complain when we're not- but we always go back to our happy place eventually, or seek that place. You've got nothing to be sad or upset about, angel face. I'm doing my best to change the world around you, and to make you strong enough to deal with the fact that not everyone is the same as us.

Some people in life, won't understand you. And that's okay. You're not here, or there, or anywhere, to prove a point. You're not out to make them understand you. If you're wanting them to understand what you're saying- then you can only do your best. If you're wanting them to understand an issue- do your best.

Always do your best and then you'll have no choice but to feel content and happy with YOURSELF. You can be PROUD of yourself. Doing your 'best' and 'being your best' doesn't mean you need to exhaust yourself, baby girl. It means you are passionate. You breathe fire from your heart, and speak the words straight from your brain.

Be honest, and true. Even if it hurts. Be gentle and kind, but don't let people treat you as though you're weak. Prove them wrong, with love- I have!

You've made me someone I never thought, or knew, I could be. You've taught me so many things. Because of you, I have motivation every day. No day is a bad day, just some days aren't as great as others. You have helped me find my passion not only for what I believe in, but for LIFE.

All my life I've been let down, even when I have no expectations. But you never let me down and you never will. I'll always love you the way I did when I first met you. It's something you'll never understand, unless you have your own children- and I don't mind if you don't! 

If you love men, and you want babies, then that's great. If you love women, COOL! If you want a career and not a family, that's fine! This is your life. I will support you, I will never push or pressure you. I will encourage and love you.

Grandad used to play me a song by Simply Red, when I was little. I have listened to it often over the past 3 years and here is a line of lyrics just for you:

"I don't believe in many things, but in you, I do."


And I will finish this blog post the way I finished one when you were 3 MONTHS old..


You are "a handful" my beautiful, smart, funny little girl. Which is why us mama's, we're made with two hands:)

You are 3 years and becoming more and more you every day.

My promises still stand, my arms will always be open and I will always be behind you.

You are infinitely loved.

Mummy xx

Past, Present, Future

Acutely aware of every move I make; which frown lines will be triggered if I lean to the left, will my neck skin pool to one side if I move my jaw from this god awful lock, are the tiny hairs on my fingers all plucked to perfection if he sees me in the sunlight?

Anxiety creeps as I lay beside him, my hair; is it looking okay on the pillow or does it look like a hat? Are my breasts modestly covered or do I look like a porn-star? If he needs release; I’ll be asking for it if I relax; dare I be seen vulnerable. If I scoot down a little bit, he will see the same angle as he does when he towers over me, as opposed to being my equal. I scoot. He owns me, he needs to own something.

My ingrown hairs disgust me but I can’t let them win. I have no control over what my body does, I just have to accept it to the best of my ability and cover what I can. If I shave my legs in the sink; I have to wear a dress- leggings or jeans irritate freshly shaved legs and I end up with a burning rash. It’s 9pm, I can’t wear a dress. I’ll have to shower but that means I’m naked, it means I have to hold myself; to touch someone who has hurt you so badly- it numbs you. It tightens your muscles and spikes your hairs into cactus pricks; I am a knight trapped in a studded suit of armour.

My neck has hair on it. I’m not a gorilla but I do have PCOS. I grow hair in places women shouldn’t. I spend about 40 minutes a day, in the morning sun or in the car with the right daylight shining on the right places; so from any angle, I’m a woman. I pluck the snail trail from my scarred bellybutton, to my undie-line. I have to press my breasts down so I can see, and I have to shut the curtains so no one else can see. I scan my body from a male’s perspective- what would put me off. I run my hands down my legs and back up. I can’t lose him.

I’m imperfect. I’m damaged goods; and he still wants me.

Some days I’m snarky and bitchy, he’s right. I was up all night with our daughter while he fucked other women in car parks, which I have to bite my tongue about, otherwise I’ll be faced with numerous reasons why it was my fault. Why he needed a ‘shoulder’ (although you can’t have sex with a shoulder) because I wasn’t there for him. He’s going through a rough patch. He’s tired of being needed. She was fun.

Dinner was pushed around the plate while a litre of coca-cola stretched his stomach to its limit. It was cold now, even more inedible. Silently I twist in my studded suit of armour; my stomach stretched to its limit also but not with food.

I am as close to him as I’ve ever been; as close as I’ll ever be. He must be in a good mood. We are connected. I’m not in pain. I can’t feel very much apart from my hair being pulled violently; my eyes wanting to close but unable to, because the skin around them is pulled so tightly. Tears threaten to fall but if I cry he will stop. We will be disconnected, and go to sleep on bad terms. I fight the tears and stifle a moan of pain. He mistakes it for pleasure and continues. We are on different pages; we are in different books completely. I need this closeness, or I thought I did. I was 17 when I sought this bittersweet closeness.

He is done; I am undone in many ways. I am open and vulnerable. My clothes are half on, half ripped and thrown across the room. He must have wanted me. I like being wanted, I am the girl he comes home to, and I am not an easy person to be with, apparently. High maintenance.  I am lucky.

He rolls over. The space between us is hollow.

Days roll on, roll by, roll roll roll.

By night he finds his comfort inside me, pulling my hair and silencing my cries with his heavy tongue. I long for romance. I long to be loved but I am afraid. My studded armour not only traps me; but keeps people out, too.  Sometimes throughout the nights; an arm may fall on me. I hold onto it with every fibre of my being.

I kiss him with everything I have inside of me. I hold him and try to squash the spaces between us, but there are still airy hollows where his body doesn’t quite meet mine. He weighs down on me, leans and rests; my neck hurts, there is no comfort or support. He finds comfort and support.

He is gone; in search for unholy comfort during working hours.

I made tea just for him. I ate extra carbs; I’m trying to lose weight, maybe then he’ll stop cheating. But if he doesn’t eat, he’s angrier.

He doesn’t eat.

My cries are stifled by a hand, this time. A heavy, someone-elses-vagina smelling hand, covers my mouth and nose. I can’t breathe or yell. My arms are pinned down. My legs are numb. Everything is white.

He is calm.

He eats the next night; he must be high.

A heavy, fumbling hand surrounds my neck. Not only can I not breathe; I’m wondering how unattractive I look with my neck pushed up around my face; red, swollen, struggling for life. White.

Weeks pass. He must’ve found comfort elsewhere.

Nights are silent, on my side of the bed anyway. His side tosses and turns, I can see two souls above him. One white, one black. They are struggling in a fight; turning him to grey.

He moans in his sleep, a poor lost soul wading through clouds and charcoal skies, mixed in with the rest. Overheated and drenched with sweat; I wake him. I can’t sleep if he’s restless. I take his shirt off, although the thought of touching him hurts me. I want to hate him but my own soul won’t let me, I am too tired to hate. I need sleep.

Nights roll. Days fly.

There is one hand on my neck, one fumbling between my hair and mouth. Pushing me further away from life; into this grey mass, into the pillows.  White.

Girls come and go. But he always comes back to us. Sometimes I lose my temper because he’s tired and can’t help me with housework.

I wait for a good time to speak to him. If he comes in the door and shuts it with force; it’s not a good time. White.

I am torn between my black soul and white. They never want to fight. They won’t turn to grey. They are adamant that even shaking hands would turn them into a storm cloud. I am two people at once. I am angry, hurting, lost yet unsure where to find myself or if I’ll ever be found. I am tired, weak, cold and afraid to be alone, afraid of myself. Unaware of who I am anymore. I’m not good company or worth loving, so why would I want to be with me?

I find the courage, after our daughter sleeps through the night, to send him an email. I pour my heart onto the white screen and I can almost see the black writing and white page; merge to grey.

I can’t compact it anymore, I’ve written a lot but it’s easy to make sense of. While our daughter sleeps, I cry, I proofread and edit. I make sure it’s not too heavy and not too simple. I need him to know I’m hurting and need some comfort, too.

White, that night.

No reply to my email. Nothing said.

I resend, with a new paragraph asking for a little respect and asking whether I’m worth a reply.

He replies, short of time and angry. If he comes over this evening, the door will be slammed.

I live each day in fear of how the door will be shut. I pluck my eyebrows to perfection. I try so hard to lose weight, to fit into the size I was at 17. Will he eat, this evening? No. Good thing I bought him some vanilla coke, otherwise he would have nothing in his stomach like me.

Somehow, I found out about the new girls. I found out. I looked, and I found. Most importantly, I found the god damn energy to search.

I’m angry. My studded suit cracks and melts into the floor.

I am free.

But now, I’m even more vulnerable. My skin, untouched by sunlight for years, burns. Those burns remain for over 6 months.

Boys come and go from my life; from my bed. I never take my clothes off. I am terrified of being cut, burned, and ridiculed.

I’m not searching for anything but occasionally I feel I’ve found something. I’m not lost.

I spend my days writing, reading, enjoying the sunlight on my skin- forming new freckles; or maybe I’m just recognising I have them already.

I discover who I am. Days roll, nights fly.

Music is too heavy. Too painful or too loud. Just too damn much.

Days are quiet as I answer questions inside of me that I never knew existed. Things I never even knew that I wanted to know about. Religion; spirituality. Abortion, miscarriage.

I become a part of something- a team of women who care. They don’t judge. They cry with me; I, with them.

I learn to love myself. I try to piece together my childhood. My memories are broken and cold, scattered all around a mental driveway. Some nice, some bitterly painful to look at let alone hold and confront.

I string them together. There are pieces missing; love, time, respect. I wonder how those things could’ve been changed. I still hold resentment towards the adults (while I was a child, anyway) who treated me so badly. But the one positive, I’ve figured, is that atleast I know not how to parent let alone be a respectable, lovely human being.

I go about my business. I find motivation and excitement to begin a career or to do a course, I even apply for jobs.

I keep my house tidy. I lose weight without trying.

I can sleep.

I can breathe.

But whenever someone touches my skin, my cactus hairs spike up. I’m afraid I’ll hurt them. I’m aware I’m grimacing, wincing and inwardly turning from their fingertips. My hair is waiting to be pulled, my neck waiting to be pushed into the floor.

I wake at night, waiting to see my black and white soul above me, merging into one. But they don’t. I wait to become numb again, but I don’t.

I lay in the sun. I indulge in it. I roll into the days, they don’t roll into me.

I’m no longer afraid of the dark.

He gently slides my hair off my face as I look at him. He holds my eyes in a beautiful caress. Hazel and blue. We talk for hours. His skin touches mine and I don’t grimace. I don’t hide away. I take my makeup off. He first met me without makeup, I feel okay showing him that side of me. My armour is wiped away.

As I drive, I look at the sky. I can see all the lost souls in the stormclouds, fighting one another, a massive brawl, as their owners are too tired to drag them home and sort it out.

There’s no white. There’s a rainbow.