In my head, it was perfectly normal to be slumped on the floor of my completely disheveled home when my husband walked through the door at night. I was tired and resting, leaning against the wall with my eyes closed, perfectly happy to stay that way for a couple of hours.
I was unable to move, but not too fussed about it.
My husband became used to walking through the door quietly, greeting me gently, stepping over me and taking over the care of our kids while I enjoyed my time on the floor, my mind completely blank, my body devoid of even a scrap of energy.
I’d eventually get up but I wasn’t the same energiser bunny who had whizzed through her day caring for three children, two of whom were only 16 months apart, and an extra baby courtesy of my sister who had returned to work. I loved my children, I loved all the kids very much, but with a sort of I’m-meant-to-love-them sort of way.
It was buried under what I now realise was post-natal depression. At the time I just thought I was tired, sad, and busy.
My husband was the one who mentioned that I might be suffering from post-natal depression. He was scared to bring it up, unable to gauge my moods. Unbeknownst to me I was a mess and he never knew which version of me he’d come home to. Finding me slumped on the floor was apparently more of a relief than anything. Other versions of me involved sobbing while washing the dishes or entering a manic state where I’d obsess over the tiniest thing.
Life was unbearable.
There was part of me that realised I wasn't behaving normally and I could still pretend to be happy when family and friends paid me a visit. It was a performance and I'd secretly count down the minutes until I could usher them out the door so I could resume my muddled, sometimes fitful style of parenting.
I was never treated for post-natal depression.