“I just felt terrible whenever I looked at the array of baby cards. They read ‘Congratulations during this happy time,’ ‘a new baby to love,’ and ‘this baby will bring you so much joy, etc.’ It was like a sick joke, as though these people knew how awful it was to have a baby and were mocking me. I was having one of the worst experiences of my life.

I really enjoyed pregnancy, but when labour began I was devoid of maternal feelings. Feeling the contractions I thought ‘Oh no, I don’t want to have this baby!’ I put a lot of pressure on myself to birth naturally at home, in water, and without painkillers. Supported by my midwife, doula and my partner Kevin, my plan was to not have the baby taken from me unless there was an emergency. Things turned out differently. After 36 hours of labour I hemorrhaged, the midwife pulled the placenta out manually, I went into shock and passed out, and the baby was taken from me. It was horrible. When I asked my midwife if I was going to die and she said ‘no’, that meant for me that there was no emergency. I was very upset seeing my baby a couple of metres away, crying whilst they weighed and measured her as I got stitched up. It took me a long time to recover from that.

When I first looked at my baby, I felt complete disbelief. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’d have been no more surprised had I given birth to a guinea pig. Although she was cute and I felt proud of her, I was completely exhausted and void of the waves of love and devotion that I’d expected. Not knowing what bonding meant, I was anxious to bond with her. But how? Newborns don’t do anything and this maternal thing wasn’t coming naturally. I’d often look at her and feel detached. All I’d see was a tiny, helpless little alien who was draining my resources.

You think you’ll immediately love your baby and instinctively know how to care for it. That wasn’t true for me. I wondered had I made a terrible mistake and was concerned I may never feel for her the way I ought to.

For the next 13 weeks I bled, my uterus had trouble going back into place, I was anemic from the hemorrhage and had mastitis. It was one thing after the other. We had no family nearby for support. Initially mum came over and Kevin took time off work, but then it was all downhill.

Being on my own all day with this small baby was really tough. Ruby didn’t sleep much; she spent many hours crying. Anxious about how long before she’d next wake, I’d go to bed at 7.30pm and then just lie there with her, eyes open. I was like a rabbit in the headlights.

Getting out the house was hard; once we were out it became a nightmare. Whenever I went anywhere she’d become fractious. Consequently I became anxious about doing anything, going anywhere. I tried postnatal pilates, but within 10 minutes Ruby was crying. Not having the confidence to let Ruby cry, I ended up breast-feeding her for the rest of the class. I felt everyone was looking at me, judging me for being a bad mother. I wondered if something I was doing wrong was making her cry and scream.

I too was on the verge of crying all the time. I started overeating, became repulsed by the idea of sex and felt hopeless and worried about my feelings towards Ruby.

12 weeks later, Kevin came home with some information on postnatal depression (PND) which he’d downloaded from the Beyond Blue website. I had every symptom except for harming my baby or myself. At that point I went to see my GP, who referred me to the Dalwood Centre.

We tend to have this preconceived idea that motherhood is this incredible experience, a fulfillment of womanhood. Having a baby I realized that it can actually be hell on earth, at least some of the time.

Although I was feeling much closer to Ruby at this stage, I was struggling through the darker side of mothering which no one tells you about. Dalwood helped me overcome postnatal depression. A single visit in that calm and supportive environment made such a difference. They helped me put Ruby to sleep (not the usual 2 hours of pacing), gave me a cup of tea and I got to meet mothers with far worse problems than mine. Realising they too were doing their best helped me feel less isolated. I watched some great videos about baby behaviour which put Ruby’s into perspective (‘ah, it’s not me being a bad mother, babies just do this stuff!’) When I got home that evening, I knew I’d turned a corner. With renewed confidence, I knew I could look after us both.

When a child is ‘difficult’, it’s tempting to spend less time with it. ‘Attachment Parenting,’ a book by Dr William Sears, really helped me overcome the lack of bonding with Ruby. Consequently I fed her on demand, co-slept with her for 4 months, and constantly carried her in my arms or in a sling. I learnt that close proximity to the baby (especially a fussy, crying one who didn’t sleep much) promoted a calmer baby and a closer relationship between mother and child.