Walked 1000miles to keep sane!
Little Charlie was a surprise baby!
Saturday 9th August 2008
I was absolutely mesmerised.
'Just look at him,' I said to no one in particular.
My newborn son curled his body into the crook of my arm and squinted up at me.
'I'm your mummy,' I smiled.
Saying the word out loud was strange, almost scary. How could I be a mummy?
Just seven weeks earlier, I hadn't even known I was pregnant. It's funny, you read about women in magazines who go to the toilet and out pops a baby, and you wonder, how did you not know? Well, I can sympathise with them. In August 2004, I'd gone to the doctor with chest pains.
'An infection,' she'd decided, prescribing me antibiotics.
It was an irregular smear test, a few weeks later, that had me hurrying back to the surgery.
'Could you be pregnant?' my doctor asked.
'No,' I replied.
But I'd had a test and, three days later, I almost dropped the phone when I called for the results. Pregnant. Not only that, a scan revealed I was almost 33 weeks gone.
I was 22, still living at home with my parents, Charlie, 45, and Karen, 44, in Belfast.
I'd been dating my boyfriend, John Yorke, 27, an electrician, for a year, but we weren't serious enough to start a family. I'd been on the Pill, but it had obviously failed. Three days after I broke the news to John, he moved to the Isle of Man.
'You've got me and Dad,' Mum said.
They'd been a huge support over the past two months and now, after a 12-hour labour at Mater Hospital, in Belfast, my 7lb 6oz son had arrived.
I called him Charlie-Caleb, after Dad, and three days later, I brought him home.
We quickly settled into a routine and Mum was on hand to settle any niggling worries.
'No, he hasn't got a temperature,' she'd smile. 'Yes, his breathing sounds normal.'
As a first-time mum, it was natural to worry, but I began to feel strange. I was tired and weepy. Then I started snapping. As the days passed, I felt worse, and I had this irrational fear that Charlie-Caleb was someone's else's child, and they were coming to get him. I was too ashamed to tell my parents. Getting up was difficult and I lost interest in my appearance.
With Charlie-Caleb, it was a different story. I became obsessed with him looking immaculate. If there was a speck of dirt on his clothes, I'd change him. His socks had to match his outfit, his blanket had to match his pram. Some days, it was all too much.
There were bottles to sterilise, clothes to wash, toys to tidy. Charlie-Caleb would sit in his bouncer, crying to be picked up.
'I can't cope,' I'd sob out loud.
When I went back to work full-time at Gap, I phoned the baby-minder countless times.
Then one day, when Charlie-Caleb was 7-and-a-half months old, I was at home and I couldn't stop him crying. I could feel frustration building.
'Will…you…just…shut…up!' I screamed at him.
What was I doing? He was just a baby.I phoned my mum in floods of tears.
'I don't know what's wrong with me,' I wept.
'It's going to be OK,' she said.
At the doctor's the following week, I was given a diagnosis that shocked me.
'It's postnatal depression,' the GP said.
I was told to stop work, take antidepressants and start exercising.
'At least you know what's wrong,' Dad said. 'Now you can get help.'
He was right. But a 10-week postnatal depression group counselling session ended, and I just couldn't shake off the feeling that Charlie-Caleb would be better off raised
by my parents. And then, in September 2005, I couldn't take it any more. The walls of the living room felt like they were closing in on me and with Mum and Dad at work, I was terrified of losing it with my son.
'Come on Charlie-Caleb,' I said, lifting him into his pram. 'We're going for a walk.'
I stepped out the front door and wheeled him to the end of the street. By the time
I'd turned the corner, I felt the worries fizzle away. And what was left behind was a calm stillness. Before I knew it, it was nearly 4.30pm and I must have gone nearly four miles to the park. I turned the pram home and made it back just before Mum
and Dad got in from work.
'Good day?' Mum smiled.
'Yes,' I told her, keeping my walk a secret.
Well it was certainly better than sitting and staring at the same four walls, feeling
my sanity slipping away. The next day, we went out on another walk. From then on, every morning we'd leave the house just after nine and walk for up to five miles. As I walked, I didn't think about anything in particular.
I just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
If my feet throbbed or my legs ached, I didn't notice — the depression had me physically and mentally exhausted anyway.
Each day when we got in, I'd feed Charlie-Caleb and put him to bed. Then I'd make sure that his clothes were washed and ironed, that there was food in the fridge for him to eat…So when I did finally fall into bed each night at 11pm, my eyes heavy,
I'd be out like a light. But the next day, I'd be out the door at 9am again. I was walking an average of two-and-a-half miles a day — 12.5 miles a week — so after just two months, I'd clocked up 100 miles. Even if it was raining, I'd put the rain shield on the pram, and wear an anorak. Mum and Dad still had no clue that Charlie-Caleb and I were spending each weekday pounding the streets of Belfast.
But they did notice how quickly we were replacing the pram's bald tyres.
'They've worn down quick,' Dad commented. 'It seems like we're replacing them every few weeks.'
It wasn't just the tyres I was wearing down. The pram looked shabby and
my obsession with Charlie-Caleb looking immaculate kicked in.
I need a new pram, I decided.
A couple of months down the line, when that pram was worn out,
I bought another one. One day, I actually felt well enough to take time over my appearance. I washed my hair and put on a little make-up. Then I slipped
on a pair of white linen trousers. I decided to walk to Stormont Park, six miles from our house. When we arrived, I gave Charlie some lunch. After I'd walked
around the park, I headed home. It was late afternoon by the time
I turned the buggy into the driveway.
'My God!' Mum gasped. 'What have you done to yourself?'
'What?' I asked.
Then I saw it. Blood, seeping up the backs of my white trousers. I'd walked so much that day, my feet had bled.
But that's how it was when I was walking, all the pain I felt slipped away.
I wasn't cured. For months, the dark days still outnumbered the good. I thought about suicide, even planned my own funeral. But one day, I looked into my gorgeous boy's face and realised I had to get better. My long peaceful walks with my son had lifted the clouds of depression hanging over me. And I could see clearly enough to realise I needed to take other steps if I wanted to get better.
When he was 16 months old, I started a counselling degree at Shankill Woman's Centre, Belfast, two days a week. By the time Charlie-Caleb was 2-and-a-half, I'd been walking two-and-a-half miles on average every weekday since he was 9 months old. It's no wonder I've gone through 14 prams. I've had every brand, from Mamas & Papas to Mothercare. Crazy, I know. But it stopped me from going mad.
Getting better was a slow process. But I knew I'd turned a corner when I sat and watched my son graduate from Toddlers.
'I never thought I'd see this day,' I sobbed to Mum.
She was sitting beside me as Charlie-Caleb toddled up to the front of the class to receive his certificate.
'Look Mummy,' he said, holding it up for me to see.
I stopped the excessive walking that very day. Charlie-Caleb is 3 now, and he's my reason for living. I'm still seeing a counsellor and I feel positive about the future.
In two years, I'll qualify as a counsellor myself. I'm a good mum. I know that now.
Even if it did take me 1,000 miles to figure it out.