Postpartum Rage

I look every part the loving mum, don’t I?
And I was. I am. I love them with all of me. But I was also hurting. I was filled with a rage I was sure no one else could comprehend.
So raw that it felt visceral.

When the overwhelm became too much, it boiled over. My rational brain clocked out. My fingernails dug into my palms, my jaw clenched, the external sounds were deafening and right as my veins felt like they could burst I felt my voice bellow.
It was always loud, so loud that their little faces would startle.
Sometimes I would just scream. Sometimes tears would burn my eyes as I finally released the anger that had been building.
Sometimes I said awful things. Things that no one wishes to say to their kids.
‘That’s it! I’m leaving. You might realise how much I did once I’ve gone’
‘Mummy’s running away. You can find a new one that makes you happy’

Then comes the guilt.
Hiding behind a slammed door I slump to the floor and cry.
I cry for me. For how incredibly overwhelmed, undersupported and alone I am mothering in our society.
I cry for them. For the shock on their faces and their tears as they cry ‘don’t go mummy don’t go’.
I cry as their little hands find me in the dark and they crawl on to my lap to cry with me.

In these moments I’m sure I’m the worst mum ever. They deserve better than me and I just simply can’t live to fulfil their role as Mum.
I ask myself what’s wrong with me? Why do I feel like this? Why can’t I just be a good mum?
When will this ever end?

Eventually, it does end with four very sobering words from my GP ‘are your kids safe?’
Of course they were. I would never harm them and had never had the compulsion to do anything toward them. But in this conversation, I realised I wasn’t ok and I needed help.
We spoke about the most simple help for now - starting antidepressants and having time that was just for me. A day where I wasn’t drowning in mothering.
So that’s what we did.
And three days later I woke in a different world.

When the sun touched my skin, I could actually feel it’s warmth. The days were brighter, the crushing weight had been lifted from my body. I heard my babies laugh, and for the first time in months I laughed with them.
I looked at my boys and I felt a new fracture line split in my heart. I had been caring for them. I had kept them alive, but I hadn’t been able to actively be in love with them. I hadn’t been present.
But now I was again.

Over the next few years I was able to support my mental well-being and manage my underlying depression. I worked on projects that gave me purpose and brought me joy. I co-host a podcast that opens discussions for other Mums, I established myself in our community, I exercise and accept the bad days alongside the good and recognise that they aren’t a reflection of me or my mothering.
I ask for help and actually accept it. I’ve built a village and no longer align my worth with achieving the oppressive Perfect Mother Myth.

I shared my story, as ugly as it is. And I soon learned my experience wasn’t unique.
So many of us were living in shame of these feelings. So pressured to live up to the ideal of the mother martyr we dare not bare our reality. We kept these ugly feelings hidden behind doors, driving us further into isolation.

Each time I share my life I hope it’s a helping hand, reaching out to pull another mum from her trench.  Assuring her that she is a wonderful person and a beautiful mother despite all this.
That’s the duality of motherhood.
It can be the most all consuming, overwhelming, isolating, and soul changing moments of your life. And in the very same breath it can be the most magical, fulfilling, heartwarming and rewarding moments of your life. Each experience doesn’t invalidate the other.

I have postpartum rage, but postpartum rage doesn’t have me.

Kaitlyn

www.instagram.com/holding__mama