On Monday 3 May, to mark the start of Maternal Mental Health Awareness week, Jaz from Caterpillar Music Basingstoke will be running an online music class for children (and parents!) of all ages - this will be available to stream all week.

There is no fee to join, but any donations greatly appreciated - for more information on Cedar House Support Group and why this is close to my heart, read on.

Click on the link below to stream the class:-

https://caterpillarmusic.com/class-leaders/jasmine-mccarthy/charity/

https://www.awarenessdays.com/awareness-days-calendar/maternal-mental-health-awareness-week-2021/

*Trigger warning - this contains an honest, open account of Postnatal Depression and some may find it distressing*

I thought I knew all about postnatal depression. I’m a GP. I have done countless postnatal checks and asked women the screening questions, thinking they would tell me if they were struggling. Why wouldn’t they? Women with PND feel ever so low - and sometimes they feel so low, they can’t see a way forward. And then they aren’t able to look after their baby. 

I also knew postnatal depression certainly wasn’t going to happen to me. In fact I was so committed to this fact, I took my daughter to her first baby sensory class when she was 2 weeks old and my episiotomy had barely healed. I made friends with new “mum friends”, I carried my daughter around in a sling, I bought a spin bike for home to exercise while my baby slept, lost my baby weight. I was finding this a doddle. 

And then I started to feel like something was really missing. I hated spending all day covered in sick or poo, speaking to a tiny human who couldn’t speak back. “I know what it is” - I thought; I’m not “Me” anymore. I should go back to work (my daughter was 6 months old). 

As I left my tiny baby in nursery for the first time, the kind nursery nurses said I could call as often as I needed to check in.

As I walked away from the nursery, I cried. But it wasn’t because I missed my baby- it was because I knew in my heart she was better off being looked after by these strangers. I was a terrible mother and she deserved more.

At this point I hadn’t had more than a few hours sleep in well over a year. 

“Sleep when she sleeps” - they said. Except I couldn’t. As she slept, I thought of every possible scenario that might happen in the night and cause her harm. I didn’t want to harm my baby - I was absolutely PETRIFIED that something would happen to her. She would stop breathing, she would have a cot death, she would suffocate in her sleeping bag. My intrusive thoughts were constant and unrelenting. As my husband and baby snored next to me, I lay awake, counting down the hours until they both woke and I had to exist once more with my mask painted on.

So I went back to work. And my job is stressful at the best of times. And I see lots of distress. I see people at their lowest ebb. 

And it was when I was on the phone to the crisis team about a suicidal patient I was very concerned about, it suddenly occurred to me. 

I don’t want to be here anymore. I am a terrible doctor. I am a terrible mother. I am a terrible friend. I am a terrible wife. Everyone would be better off without me.

And that night on the way back from work, I calmly quietly rationally tried to end my life.

Fast forward a few days - and the Crisis Team had referred me to the perinatal mental health team in Winchester. 

But there were so many assessments. And so much red tape. I work for the NHS. I encounter this every day at work. Even before the pandemic, the waiting times for people suffering with mental health problems were terrifying. This is not the NHS’s fault - everyone who I came across in the NHS - primary care, emergency care, crisis team, perinatal team- were phenomenal; doing an incredible job in an impossible system. 

But the waiting time  between assessments felt like forever and this was very traumatic. 

More than any other emotion - I felt embarrassed. I felt alone . And I felt guilty.

That’s when my sister told me about Cedar House Support Group. One of her work colleagues had severe Postnatal Depression and recommended it to her.

Tentatively I sent a message to Liz Wise - the experienced specialist counsellor in postnatal depression who herself had PND.

She replied to me within hours. And I panicked. I didn’t want to feel like an alcoholic attending AA. I had nothing to say. I backed out. I said my daughter was ill. (This turned out to be true and all 3 of us developed coronavirus in March 2020. This really helped my mood!)

A few weeks later, I summoned the courage to contact Liz again. And she spent an hour talking with me, asking me open questions. And just listening. Really listening.

She understood. All the intrusive thoughts, the self critical thoughts. The anxiety and the guilt. She just got it.

That week I attended the support group twice - because of COVID-19, it was on Microsoft teams. 

Hearing from other women at the same stage in their recovery as me with similar stories, as well as women well into recovery, gave me hope. There was light at the end of the tunnel. For around 6 months I attended the group online twice weekly - entirely free of charge. Alongside this I had compassion focused therapy with the NHS perinatal team. I took medication. I had VIG (Video Interaction Guidance) treatment. I did everything possible to get better. But the lasting memory I have - is of hearing other women’s stories, and of Liz Wise’s adept skills at weaving in and out of group conversations, signposting and validating so subtly . I needed this to feel less abnormal. I needed to know that my thoughts and feelings were not me - they were a cruel illness masquerading as me. 

Now I am well again - I am back at work and have worked through a global pandemic and thrived. I am lucky to have immensely supportive family, friends and colleagues.  I can see how lucky I am to have a beautiful daughter and fiercely loyal husband.

But I will never forget the darkest year of my life - and will forever be indebted to Liz Wise and Cedar House Support Group.

 For saving my life; and guiding me back to being “me” again.