'I had a baby. Then I ended up in a mental health facility.'

"I don't want this baby." 

It was a recurring, intrusive thought that was appearing daily — no, hourly — in the first few weeks of motherhood. It came alongside other painful thoughts. I wish I'd never gotten pregnant. I've ruined my life. I hate this. 

People talk about an instant connection with your newborn, that they'll be pulled into this world, placed on your chest, covered in blood and vernix, and your heart will swell. You'll be besotted from the moment you lay eyes on them. 

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This wasn't the case for me.

After a complicated labour during which my son's heart rate dropped with each contraction, I ended up in an emergency C-section. I'd always been open to cesarean birth, but what I hadn't processed was the claustrophobia that would hit me when I was paralysed from the waist down on an operating table, about to be cut open while awake.

I was so terrified, I was begging the surgery team to put me under general anaesthetic. I did not want to be awake for a surgery. I did not care that I wouldn't be the first to meet my son; I just couldn't fathom getting through surgery while awake. In the end, I had to be sedated. 

I got through the C-section awake, but totally out of it. I'd disassociated – I remember barely caring when my son, Joey, was placed on my chest. I couldn't handle his screaming because I was internally screaming, anticipating being sewn back up while awake, trying to reckon with the trauma I'd just experienced. 

I asked my partner, Tom, to take him away. I shut my eyes, gripped the arms of the operating table, and didn't speak for 20 minutes while the surgical team closed my wound. 

With hindsight, I really believe I had PTSD from that experience. I carried the mental and emotional load of it into those early weeks of parenthood. I had so much to process, and no time to do it. I was thrust straight into the relentless cycle of feed/wake/cry/sleep. I wanted to care for Joey and keep him alive, but I didn't have an emotional connection with him at all. It felt like someone had dropped a baby on my doorstep. He didn't feel like "mine". 

I went through the motions. I fed him, I burped him, I rocked him to sleep. I forced myself to smile at him and talk to him, even though I didn't feel like it. This disconnection started to erode my mental health further. I wanted to love my baby, and I couldn't work out why I didn't. I found myself crying constantly, spending Joey's naps curled up on the couch, staring at the wall, wishing I could go back to my life before having a baby, then feeling guilt and shame for having those thoughts. 

My partner, Tom, was a constant rock, but it wasn't enough. Eventually, he encouraged me to call the NSW Mental Health Helpline. It's a 24/7 number, and it was like a life raft. Two support people visited me in my home to assess my mental health, and from there, I was connected to the NSW Perinatal Infant Mental Health Service. Within days, I met with a psychiatrist and a mental health nurse.

The original plan was to keep seeing them regularly, but my mental health wasn't improving. Eventually, it was suggested I try a stay at Naamaru Parent and Baby Unit.

Naamaru is one of two public Parent and Baby Units in NSW. There are others around the country, as well as some private options. Designed to be a nurturing space where parents can get help with pre- and postnatal mental health issues without separation from their babies, patients get access to psychiatrists, psychologists, child and family health nurses, occupational therapists and social workers. 

I was terrified. I had no idea what to expect — my understanding of mental health facilities extended to One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Girl, Interrupted. I anticipated a cold, clinical environment where I would be heavily sedated. I thought I was going to be locked up.

But things were not improving. I was at rock bottom and couldn't see any other way forward. So we packed our bags, and I was admitted a day later. 

Naamaru Parent and Baby Unit was the complete opposite of what I expected. We were shown around by two kind, caring mental health nurses. They didn't speak to me like I was a child, or like there was something wrong with me. I felt respected and welcome, like a guest who needed TLC, not a crazy person. 

Image: Supplied.

The space reflected this same energy. There were large, open lounge areas with baby play areas. Outdoor spaces bathed in sunlight. My room was huge, with a queen-sized bed and a private bathroom. It felt warm and inviting, not cold and clinical.

Only eight patients are admitted at a time in Naamaru, and I quickly found myself bonding with several other women who were going through similar experiences. There was a mother of three who found herself suffering from debilitating anxiety when her youngest reached three months. Another mum, like me, who was struggling to bond with her baby.

After a few days, I felt comfortable. I didn't feel like an inpatient; I felt like someone getting a little extra support during a period of acute intensity. None of the staff ever treated us like we were patients – they treated us like people. I believe this was a significant factor in my recovery. It didn't feel like taking a huge step backwards with my mental health; it felt like starting the road to recovery with people who cared, holding my hand.

Still, it was a hospital. There were jarring elements to being admitted, like having all your charging cords stored in locked cabinets, so you had to ask to charge your phone and laptop. The rooms were warm and designed to feel like home, but nurses did shine a light through a window throughout the night to check you were in bed and all was okay. We had our vitals checked every morning, just like in a hospital. 

I spent five weeks in Naamaru. During that time, my antidepressant dose was adjusted, and that, alongside psychologist sessions and learning how to care for Joey thanks to some incredible child and family health nurses who taught me invaluable tips for settling him and reading his cues, led to my recovery. I left Naamaru a completely different parent — and yes, I found my bond with my beautiful Joey.

Image: Supplied.

Now, four months on, I feel like it was a fever dream. Was I ever that low? The dark place I found myself in feels like it was a million years ago. I don't recognise that new mum, so desperate for help and so overwhelmed by her newborn. I'm so thankful I was able to get the help I needed.

In a way, I view the Naamaru Parent and Baby Unit like the village that no longer exists for new parents. I have amazing support — grandparents on both sides who dropped everything to get us through the newborn phase, for example. But the village's new mothers had in the past involved round-the-clock support. We weren't battling through intense sleep deprivation and figuring it out alone; we had wise women constantly around to teach us how to parent.

At Naamaru, I had that, and as I became more confident, I found myself able to breathe freely again. As the fog began to clear, I found that bond with Joey. It was always there, I just couldn't feel it through the shock of a difficult birth and my existing anxiety disorder, which ramped up in the aftermath.

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If you're reading this and you feel like you are drowning as a new parent, reach out for help. I promise you, it seems scarier as a concept than it is in action. Call your state mental health helpline. Contact the hospital where you gave birth and tell them you're struggling. Don't be afraid to admit it's too much. For a lot of us, it is! And there is no shame in that. There is never shame in reaching out for help. 

I did, and it was the best decision I ever made, not just for my baby, but for myself.

If you are experiencing issues in postpartum, help is available from PANDA's helpline on 1300 726 306 and The Gidget Foundation.

Feature image: Supplied.