Baby Tears

Back in 2008 a project I started in 1997 finally made it's way from my heart to paper.
I book called 'Baby Tears'.
I wanted people to know. I wanted other women to know what it was really like to have Ante and Post Natal Depression. Everything I had read to date had made me feel like I was a monster. I didn't feel like these other women felt. I didn't feel sad and have moments of being unorganised. I was dead inside. I was trapped in a living nightmare that everyone else seemed delighted for me to be in. Motherhood. 
I thought over and over about the night I sat in a bath with a knife trying to get the nerve to kill myself. And I thought about that one woman out there who maybe felt like I did. And I wanted her to know that it was OK. She was not a monster any more than I was. That she was not alone. 

And so I wrote this book. I sent it to a publishing agent. Who said hey love it, but we want you to change this, this and this... basically they wanted me to write the books I had already read. That I was a little teary. 
Let me think about it. How about ... NO.

So with the help of my beloved husband Grant and my dearest friend Mish, I self published my book.
It sold a few copies. The State Library of Victoria liked it enough to buy one for circulation. (super proud author moment) But I was still afraid of it. Still afraid of taking my book and getting it out into the world where it would really help.
I said that all I wanted was to help one woman. If one woman got help and was helped by my book then I was happy. And I was. I had people tell me that they finally understood their daughter/daughter in law/ granddaughter/wife. I had one woman tell me that I saved her life. 

Since then I have watched the news, listened to women talk and found myself wondering if I had the strength yet to take my book out of it's protective shell and send it out into the world. Women still need to know they are not alone and not monsters. Family members need to know how to help. Dr's and nurses and midwives need to know that sometimes the feelings go way deeper than what is being said.
So this year. I thought I might revisit Baby Tears.
It needs a big editing overhaul. But I have the knowledge now to do that. Maybe that was why I studied editing and proof reading. For this day. 
This year I want to polish and revamp my book and bring it out of the shadows and into the world.
Here is an excerpt from the first printing. I would love to know your thoughts.


Onwards and Upwards
Georgia.


Wednesday, 5th February 1997
3:15am
I have a son. A beautiful baby boy weighing 7lb 6oz (in the old scale) or3350gm. 
He is the most amazing thing I have ever seen.
I cannot believe this little human being in my arms began as little more than a blood clot, I am in awe.
I am in awe.
But I do not feel love for this little miracle. 
I feel indifference, less then nothing. 
I am amazed at him and study him like a scientist studying an organism under a microscope. 
No love or attachment, merely clinical curiosity.
I watch my parents rapture with their first grand child. 
My Grandfather with the great-grandchild he thought he would never live to see is a ‘Kodak moment’.

But Ethan is not my son. I feel no ownership. No sense of belonging. No joy. Not even a slight softening of the heart when I look at him. Just an ever-increasing sense of obligation. 
Then the tears started. There is something wrong with me. But I am afraid and ashamed. 
Ashamed because I have a beautiful healthy baby and how many women do not even have that? 
Afraid that everyone can see my inadequacies, I don’t even know how to pick him up out of his crib.
I am too ashamed to tell anyone that I am not feeling the joy that they are feeling. 
Afraid because not only do I not know how to care for my baby, I don’t even particularly want to. 

During my pregnancy I had asked people how would I know what to do and when to do it? They all smiled benignly and said, “oh you’ll know”.
But I don’t!
I am just not maternal and the nurses, without even a backward glance, have left me to it. 
I don’t even know what the ‘it’ is I am supposed to do.
I guess their paperwork is more important then making sure I am O.K.

During the night I think Ethan is looking a little more jaundiced then when he was born. I see that thought as a ray of hope and ring for the nurse. 
Deep down inside I want her to look at me, to see into my heart and recognise how I feel and make me better. Or maybe Ethan is more jaundiced and she will take him away and I won’t have to deal with him.
I feel so torn.
I would be crushed by the weight of my guilt if something happened to Ethan and he died. 
Crushed by the knowledge that I was glad he was gone because I could not bear to have him near me. 
But by the same token I would be crushed he was gone before I could learn to love him.

The nurse comes and barely looks at me, takes Ethan away to check him and I feel the tears stinging my eyes. I want so much for someone to talk to, but the nurse is busy and it is too late to call anyone. 
What would I say anyway?
So I look out of the window, crying, alone and lonely. 
I had hoped and prayed that all the fears and doubts I had during my pregnancy would just disappear at the sight of my son.