"I lock myself in bathrooms." Polly suffers from postnatal depression. Her child is 8.

I am supposed to be writing the final paper of my master’s degree. Just 6000 words and I will be free of this weight I’ve been dragging around for ten years.

I have taken time off work and ejected my fiercely protesting daughter into a school holiday camp in the misty Adelaide hills where she is supposed to "learn bushcraft" (i.e. give me a break). 

I open my laptop but my plans are obliterated by this one thought: 

Can you have postnatal depression when your child is eight?

I was 40 when my daughter was born. She was a surprise we were told was unlikely to ever happen. The pregnancy was complicated and threw me into a depression caused only in part by the sickness, the repeated prodding and poking.

Watch: Mamamia and PANDA bring you everything you need to know about PND. Story continues after video.

I was elated after giving birth, with a rare sense that I’d completed something. It was everything that came after which undid me. 

My husband had no choice but to leave me alone in the hospital the first night, decimated by a 36-hour labour and with no idea what to do with a newborn. 

I was scolded by a nurse for not feeding her right. The second night I was saved by an angel-nurse who helped me feed her and told me stories of her own daughter, who I still recall was called Ava. 

They discharged me, but at home I struggled to feed our baby. The nurses and midwives came, pricked her foot, weighed her repeatedly. Instructed me to pump, feed, grow her. 

I descended into a sleep-deprived psychosis. All that mattered was keeping this tiny creature who was entirely dependent on me alive, and I was failing. One night I beat my head against a wall while my horrified husband called the helpline.

A month after the birth, I was diagnosed with postnatal depression (PND). She was found to have an anterior tongue-tie which had stopped her from feeding well; this was corrected, but for me it was too late. 

When you say PND, people might think of a mother unable to “bond” with her baby, but it wasn’t this way for me. I was enthralled with her, but the bond was stifling; claustrophobic. 

Now that I was responsible for bringing a person into this world, I felt responsible for every suffering she would ever experience, sufferings which tormented me as I hung out loads of unending baby stuff, breathless with fear she would wake up.

I loved my daughter terribly then and now; but in truth, I hated being a parent and at times I still do.

I am lucky. I married the first boy I loved, and we are happy. I have a decent job. Our child is healthy, startling; a blue-eyed changeling who climbs walls and despite her shyness wants to be a “comedian”.

I know I am lucky.

And yet. I am controlled by her moods, her fearful rages; sometimes I lock myself in bathrooms. Her blood-sugar induced crashes, exacerbated by her lack of interest in food, keep me teetering on edges. 

But it’s the ordinary things too; the tyranny of the lunch box, the screen time fights. For me, the playground was the loneliest place in the world.

For the past three years my husband has worked Saturdays, and my initial Saturday morning relief is followed hard by a crashing sense of isolation, of being trapped. 

My daughter and I are at odds: after working at home all week I need to go out, but she emphatically wants to stay in. The effort to leave the house is often too much.

Sometimes, I stay in bed and turn my face away.

But I must not speak of these things; I am lucky. My mother was a single mother to four kids with no money or support. My older sister and several close friends are single mothers; my younger sister wanted children but it didn’t happen. I am lucky. I must not speak of this.

Listen to this episode of This Glorious Mess, where Leigh and Tegan open up about their very different experiences with PND. Story continues below.

At a dinner one night there is a conversation about a selfish, affluent woman who went back to work when her child was only six months old, even though the husband earned enough money and she didn’t need to work. 

I tried to say: but maybe she does need to. Maybe staying at home with a baby makes her feel like nothing.

One day after weeks of my daughter being home sick with endless viruses and infections while I try to meet work deadlines, we have a terrible screaming match. After finally getting her in the car, as we drive, a thought comes into my head: I understand why a woman might drive her car into a lake with her children in it. 

I know that this is Not a Good Thought and also not something I am actually considering. But I tell my husband I don’t know if I am okay.

This morning, as my daughter is raging about the injustice of day camp and I am frantically shoving snacks into a lunchbox and searching for hidden shoes, I push my anxiety back down by Googling, “How long can you have postnatal depression for?” and at the top of the list is something saying some women have PND for up to ten years.

Having children is supposed to make you less selfish, but I am selfish. I want to live a life unconstricted by battles over food and lost footwear, to get in my car and drive and drive.

I want to float on my back in a waterhole and think about nothing.

In the meantime, I will write my paper and I will see the doctor who will help me find someone I can talk to about my ongoing dread of parenting.

I will start by telling them: I am lucky, I know.

For help and support, contact PANDA (Perinatal Anxiety & Depression Australia) on 1300 726 306.

Polly Flint is a would-be writer who struggles with parenting, step-parenting (currently on enforced hiatus) and thinking of what to have for dinner. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia with her husband, daughter and disabled cat.

Feature Image: Canva.