The one they’d never heard about: Postpartum OCD.
After child birth there is the aged social expectation that new mums should feel elated, be living in a dream world of grateful happiness, and be glowing with an abundance of love for their bundle of perfection.
However, after having my second child, I appeared to have been presented with a nightmare that did not reflect the old-fashioned ideology of a postpartum mind.
Just after we’d welcomed my daughter into the world, my mind decided that instead of counting each tiny finger, and cooing over every tiny snuffle, it would overwhelm me with the fear that my baby was in harm’s way. For many new and experienced mums this fear may have been perceived as ‘normal’ with juggling hormones, sleep deprivation and stress taking the brunt of the blame, thus my concern was dismissed by those around me.
I played it down, secretly attempting to communicate my feelings through subtle jokes, yet simultaneously refusing to openly admit what I was truly experiencing in the hope that it would go away. Soon the negative intrusions became uncontrollable, and I became fixated on protecting my babies from harm. My phone memory became inundated with photographs of cracks in the ceilings and around the edges of the rooms in my house -we had had the living room re-plastered a few months before Sofia arrived and as the plaster dried out it would split slightly, which was to be expected. However, the intrusive irrational fixation that I was solely responsible for preventing the deterioration of my house became my only focus; I firmly believed that my ceilings and floors would fall in and my children would be victims in the rubble.
My entire life revolved around those ceiling cracks. I genuinely do not remember much about the first few months of my daughter’s life, instead being consumed by the constant monitoring, listening and documenting.
I’d been robbed from my family.
Discussing my concerns with my mum, mostly by sharing my poem, “Mugged”, started the ball rolling. She read through the extended metaphors and suggested that the negative intrusions that I was experiencing was not normal and that I should seek help.
We’re always asked about the best advice we have received as a mother. Well, that was it. Get help.
Owing to my perinatal status, my doctors arranged an immediate appointment with the mental health nurse who then set up a referral for a consultation with the Cognitive Behaviour Therapy team. Fortunately, the awareness of perinatal mental health issues has evolved significantly over the last decade, and the stigma of admitting to suffering from a mental illness is slowly lifting. Yet the dread I felt of being judged by the medical professionals was prominent; prominent but irrational. I could not have asked for a more supportive team.
This beacon of hope influenced my poem, “Cracked”. I didn’t know what my diagnosis was or how it would be fixed but there was an underlying hint of positivity now that my army was growing. At that point we were maintaining vigilance.
After my first session of CBT, it transpired that I was suffering from Postpartum OCD.
I’d heard of Postpartum Depression. I’d heard of Postpartum Anxiety. But I’d never heard of Postpartum OCD.
I was baffled. How could I be suffering with an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? I was not displaying any of the standard symptoms that are often portrayed by the media: repetitively washing your hands; constantly listing series of numbers or words; or being obsessively clean to rid any germs that contaminate our day to day lives.
But my over inflated sense of responsibility, feeling that no one else was competent enough to protect my babies, and the attention that I poured into these uncontrollable negative intrusive thoughts had me fairly high on the postpartum OCD scale. Initially, I assumed that I’d be feeling like this for the rest of my life.
During the CBT sessions, my therapist and I retraced a lot of situations, gave reason to my thoughts, and secured balanced evidence in my head so that, after a few months, I began to control the intrusions. Fuelled by my weekly homework tasks, determination and motivation kicked in; I had lost enough of my life to this bully and I began to build confidence and regained some control.
Research form the Royal College of Psychiatrists suggests that “OCD affects two in every 100 women in pregnancy and 2-3 in every 100 women in the year after giving birth.” and yet postpartum OCD does not share the same exposure or media coverage as postpartum depression or postpartum anxiety. An idea was ignited; I wanted to defeat the tyrant.
Inspired, I penned my most recent, horrendously honest and personal poem, “Postpartum OCD”, hoping to raise awareness of postpartum OCD, arming women with the reassurance of its existence, and therefore preventing the presumption that madness has set in.
It would be lovely to conclude with some form of closure, saying that I’m now cured of postpartum OCD and that I am right back on track. But the reality is that these illnesses can creep back at any minute. I often have relapses and the intrusions get wind of my vulnerability, but they are met by the techniques, strategies and evidence I’m now equipped with.
Leander: Mum of two; full time English teacher; writer of horrendously honest poetry about motherhood; lover of muddy puddles and consumer of copious amounts of camembert.
@postpartumpoet
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCAdS9nthhb-AqZ3_tbWEHMw?view_as=subscriber
References:
https://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/mental-health/problems-disorders/perinatal-ocd (06-10-2019)
Mugged
It has snuck up on me,
unexpectedly
robbing my sanity,
increasing my vulnerability.
I’m stepping apprehensively,
guarding incessantly,
thinking irrationally,
worrying illogically:
Mugged by anxiety.
© by Leo’s Mum (2019)
Cracked
And then I cracked
Like furrows of dried plaster.
Before, immaculately seamless,
Now a silhouette of mountains,
foreboding; fearful apprehension.
It doesn’t weaken me.
My structural integrity is still unbroken,
but I see it every day.
I know it is there.
I anticipate its expansion.
But, this time others can see it.
Comforted to know that they can recognise it.
We’re maintaining vigilance.
© by Leo’s Mum (2019)
