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.