Confession time. I’ve been harbouring a deep, dark and embarrassing
secret. I think it’s a secret, although it could be plainly obvious for all I
know.
Ever since my wee Duck was born, I’ve had post traumatic
stress. WHAT? That’s right, no wars have I fought in, no car crashes have I
suffered, nothing even close to “trauma” as far as I’m concerned. It’s
ridiculous.
What is not so ridiculous is the reliance on medication,
pathetic fear of totally ordinary situations, avoidance of friends and the
sporadic bouts of anger and sobbing. Not so funny. And quite embarrassing actually.
And now the Duck is nearing two, I thought I’d better do something about it. So
I am.
Younger Nic, I wish you’d dealt with this earlier, but I can
see why you couldn’t. The thing is, the
longer you let it go on, the more your happiness will dwindle, your holidays
will be ruined, your relationships will suffer, your work will be marred, and your
future will be decidedly wobbly.
My advice is to fess up to all of your pregnant/trying to be
pregnant friends why you’re avoiding them, or why you’re short with them. And
to not be so hard on yourself when you burst into tears at the news of a birth,
when you shudder then shout at your
husband when driving past a hospital, and when you fiercely defend your choice
to have an only child to well-meaning passers by.
Then, enlist more help. The medication is all very well, but
when that runs out you’re a fricking headcase!! Let’s try CBT. And a bit of
honesty.
That. And find that bastard of an obstetrician and beat his
head in with a shovel.
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