Shattered

It has been two weeks. The unbearable sadness, the shocking grief
has now passed. The antidepressants and sedatives have numbed the
pain.
Now I feel my regular depression mobilising its army of thoughts at the
back of my mind, ready to invade my being. The fight is dirty, but I
shall continue to battle if for no other reason than to prove to my
family that I can be of some use to them.
Fourteen days ago I had an abortion. I hate that term, but I am forced
to accept my action and the consequences. I am thirty-one years old,
have a loving partner, a gorgeous preschooler and adorable toddler. I
also have a recalcitrant obsessive mind, which slides into major
darkness approximately every two years.
I accidentally fell pregnant twelve weeks ago, my mind having been
slowly drowning for weeks prior to that. How could I have another child
when I catastrophised the normal activities of an infant? I obsess over
the normal little things. When my first-born was four months, I fed him
the baby rice cereal meant for a six month old, the only one available
at my supermarket. I thought it strange that the box noted the age
requirement, but attributed it to the fact that a lot of babies don't
begin solids until six months and of course to my paranoia. My
distorted thinking had thrown my judgment. The cereal contained the
added ingredient of maize flour, and as there was no reaction, a
maternal and child health nurse advised: He's fine. Don't worry about
it.
Nearly four years on and the incident continued to plagued me. Over and
over again, in bed, in the shower, while I attempted to play with my
little ones I replayed my mistake. I obsessed about this mistake,
turned it into a near death experience, and used it as a trigger for
retrieving every other mistake I had ever made. I was a bad mother, a
poor example of a human being. I didn't deserve to live, much less be a
mother to yet another child. All the joys of motherhood had deserted
me, and my will to exist had fled. I would look at my to precious gifts
and just cry.
Weeks of torment ensued, and the casualties were many. I killed my
embryo on the advice of many doctors so as to save myself. What was the
point when I didn't deserve to live? It doesn't feel as though I am
saved. I felt like a coward. Why should I attempt to experience a life
filled with joy, as therapists inform I should expect to experience,
when I couldn't even bring a little lost soul into the world.
My partner had urged me to seek treatment for the sake of the family. I
found a psychiatrist with whom I felt comfortable. My thoughts were
still distorted, but the message from my psychiatrist and GP was like
lightly frosted glass. I could see what they were advising, but knew
they could not force a decision upon me. What my partner understood was
that the stress of another child would put fatal pressure on my
over-burdened obsessive mind. The use of medication would be too risky
until after the first trimester, and breastfeeding, my special bond
with my little wonder, could well prove to be impossible with the
cocktail of antidepressants and sedatives I would require for me to
merely get out of bed each morning. My now medicated mind sees the
logic.
However, no one could ever have told me that the termination, the guilt
of which would I knew would eventually pass, would result in a
shattered heart. The death of my father, whom I privately worshipped,
left me so unprepared for this grief of my own design. The weight of
sadness was far worse than any depth of depression I'd previously
experienced.
Upon leaving the women's clinic I felt relief. The intense morning
sickness of the previous eight weeks had disappeared. Waking from the
anaesthetic, I had expected to still feel the ever-present nausea.
Within an hour of the procedure I was well and on my way home.
It was the following day that my form of reality bit. I'd slept through
the night and awoke feeling definitely not pregnant. The guilt over
feeling so well swelled my heart, in preparation for its explosion. My
toddler, so used to my vomiting, still retrieved a big old plastic
container from the cupboard in preparation for my usual wave of
sickness. Nothing came. My little one was almost disappointed, but her
joy at me being able to sit up with her for breakfast quickly filled
her with happiness. Mummy's better. My preschooler was sceptical. He
had been to all my appointments, even the ultrasound that had
frightened him, and had seen me cry for months. I choked back the
tears.
Throughout the day I tried to pretend that the previous weeks had just
been a dream. My well body aided the attempt, but by nightfall, the
tears became uncontrollable. My little girl was also heartbroken that
her Mummy was once again sick. My son retreated, attempting to engage
his father in play.
Remorse gripped me. I kept looking at my son and daughter and could
only think that I had murdered their sibling. I had killed what was
once like them. My partner kept reassuring me of our decision, quoting
my psychiatrist, reminding me that I would not have been able to get
through another twelve months without a suicide attempt. I nursed my
scan of my seven-week embryo as though I was holding a newborn.
I directed all my pain and anger at him. The distorted recriminations
poured out. Why couldn't you change your sixty-hour a week job? Why was
your career more important than a human life? Why couldn't we move to
the country and both take less demanding positions and share the
parenting? Why did I have to make every decision? I needed you. You
knew I didn't want to do this. How could you let go ahead, even after I
had cancelled the first appointment? He wanted to comfort me. I
couldn't bear his touch. He began to blame himself and all the while
our children bore witness to my attack and mutual tears.
This went on for two days. I then decided I could no longer live with a
person who couldn't help me cope with life's little accidents. If we
couldn't cope with this situation, how could we hope to cope with
anything else together? My faith in him died along with the embryo. My
partner contacted my psychiatrist and obtained sedatives. Dutifully I
took them, but only for my children.
The sedatives kicked in and I felt motivated, for the first time in
months. I took a trip to a small town just outside our city, searching
for my 'sea change'. I enquired about kindergartens, timber cottages,
work in retail. I would become a single mother and deal with everything
myself. No one else was willing to help. It was just I and my little
ones against a world that didn't understand that people suffer from
depression.
Upon my return home that night I crashed. My bravado died. It was me
who couldn't cope with life's little accidents. I couldn't even cope
with life. My children would be better off without me. I cried all
night. I got on the Internet and viewed images of ten-week embryos. All
I could see was human form. The explosion came. Various suicide
scenarios played over in my mind again and again. I couldn't think
straight. I wanted an end where there was no chance of being saved, and
most importantly, I didn't want my children to discover my broken body,
for at 3.30am I had chosen hanging as my weapon of choice. I didn't
even care about my once loved partner. He could go to hell.
Sleep deprivation and hours of thinking along these lines inevitably
lead to desperation. I had killed my baby, I hated my partner, and I
could see only a life of hell for my son and daughter with a mother who
couldn't be normal. I felt cheated. I had the abortion so I wouldn't be
a threat to myself with the stress of another pregnancy and child, yet
all I wanted was to die. What was the point of the abortion? Why
couldn't I have taken the chance? I stole the sedatives, which had been
hidden by partner, and ran past my children and into the bathroom.
Locking the door, I could only manage to get two of the tiny things
from the childproof blister pack before my partner broke through the
bathroom window and heroically saved me from myself.
The next couple of hours were a blur. The hate for my partner had
deepened so I called my sister to fly into town to collect my children.
If my partner couldn't cope with three, he wasn't going to have the two
we had created with so much love. My sister was on the first flight,
and I was taken to a psychiatric clinic. I relented to the admission.
At least there, my children wouldn't have to witness my final descent
to hell.
Upon admission, staff that treated me as if I was normal greeted me. It
was like some bizarre Fellini movie. I was beginning to think I was
normal, and they were all insane. My doctor and assigned counsellor
talked me through my actions, and it started to make sense. More drugs
were fed, and the near catatonic state shifted. I began to think a
little straighter. The staff reinforced that I had made the right
decision and state of hell would pass. Time and medication would help
me see the light.
I was also informed that the medication would mean I would have to stop
feeding my little toddler. Another shard was chipped from heart.
Everything seemed to be taken away from me. Within the hour, my darling
was weaned and separated from for the first time in her life. My little
boy so confused and frightened by the hospital, gladly walked away,
with hurt in his eyes. My sister stayed with me, unaware until my
desperate tear stained call to her of that morning of the state I had
gotten myself into. We were both in tears. Why didn't you call me?
Don't you ever check out on me? You have two beautiful little children
who desperately need you and a loving partner. You have made the right
decision. Don't ever leave us. All I could say to her: No one told me
just how broken hearted I would feel.
Packets of sedatives and antidepressants have gone along way to
straightening my thoughts. I have even told a few close friends of my
experience, who had previously been unaware of any history of
depression. The relief after years of battling to hide my illness is
immense. The shame has gone, with slow acceptance taking its place. The
tears have abated, I can now sleep through the night, and my partner
has moderated his ambitions. Most importantly, I can now look at my
cherished little ones and thank the world for their existence. My
children and partner once again trust that I'll be there for them.
However, my mended heart still feels very tender.