The Three Way
If I wasn’t a parent I’d embrace the mental illness.
Perhaps I’d rock the ’emo’ look. I’d most certainly wallow more often. I could be self indulgent and lay in bed for days at a time. I could comfort myself with whatever food I wanted and spend all my money on clothes to try and find that natural high. Or I could just be a drunkard. A couple of cans of cider would take the edge off nicely. Maybe I’d try something a little stronger. Fuck it, who cares, it’d only be me I’d have to answer to.
Or maybe I’d spend my days campaigning. Better and more efficient treatment for mothers with postnatal depression. I could blog and tweet to my hearts content, a crusade aiming to normalise the discussion of mental health. Fight the stigma! I could write to MPs for support, fundraise to provide services, maybe I’d push the boat out and write a book.
But I am a parent. One that’s constantly fighting to balance it all in a three way stand off. The want, the need, to go bat shit crazy, pack a bag and leave in the search of total mind obliteration. And the desire to claw back something positive from this mess, to raise awareness of mental ill health, to challenge stereotypes, to support others if I can. And then there’s the ‘being mum’ bit; wiping noses, pumping breast milk, hiding from dinosaurs in blanket caves.
The mum bit has to come first. With a side order of frenzied mental health hash tagging.
Washed down with one small glass of cider.