The World Comes Rushing In

I’ve been feeling very emotional recently. I drove, sobbing, to playschool this morning, listening to a poignant song on the radio, then shed embarrassing tears of pride as the Very Small Boy inelegantly rearranged the Playschool office while I discussed with the owner when he could start attending. I’ve come to the conclusion that this excess of emotion is all down to the fact that two weeks ago, I decided to stop taking the anti-depressants I put myself on when the Very Small Boy was six months old.

And if I haven’t mentioned this before, or made any reference to the daily dose of pills that have kept me sane for the last eight months, it’s not through some misguided sense of shame, but merely that it seemed of little relevance.

I knew as soon as the headaches began that I would need medication. The same thing had happened after the birth of the Small Girl in India; apart from the other, more obvious symptoms of unhappiness, I began to suffer with migraines. These were of such awful intensity that the face of the person to whom I was talking would appear to be melting; the mouth turning down at one corner and a single eye drooping alarmingly. There, I didn’t even bother with a doctor, but went to our local chemist stall (dustily doing business at the corner of a raucous intersection), where I handed the shopkeeper a slip of paper upon which I had written the name and dose of an antidepressant researched on the internet. I bought a six month supply: thankfully, the regulation of prescription drugs in India is somewhat lax.

Two and a half years later, the Very Small Boy was born. Less than two weeks after I first met my chubby, beautiful little boy, DH had to return to work and suddenly I found myself utterly exhausted, recovering from a cesarean and alone with an extremely headstrong and disgruntled toddler and a constantly screaming baby (the Very Small Boy had both colic and reflux). I had thought the enormous mental adjustment I made after the birth of the Small Girl would enable me to cope, but apparently being a parent requires an almost continuous modification of one’s sense of self.

So often, friends have said to me of motherhood “why does no one ever tell you how hard it will be” and “I didn’t realise it would be so difficult”. But the truth is that nothing can prepare you for the sheer selflessness that is necessary to give your life over utterly to other people, no matter how much you love them. Being a person of extremes, I feel the lows of parenthood as acutely as I feel the euphoria of the highs. And, for eight months, my pills have taken the edge off both.

I was handing out milky drinks to the children one evening last week, when the Small Girl heard DH, home from work, closing the front door.

“Pootle” she cried, leaping up and holding her hand out to the Very Small Boy, “It’s Daddy!!”. Holding hands, they dashed off together to greet him, both shouting “Daddy! Daddy!” as they ran, and I busied myself over the stove so he wouldn’t see my tears of pride when he walked over to kiss me. Because now I’ve stopped taking my pills, I find the world comes rushing in at me in vibrant technicolor, and sometimes the beauty of life overwhelms me.