Yesterday, I checked into the 'Village' hotel for a night away - a mama retreat if you will. 'The Village' - I think it's an apt name for a place to escape to whenever mum needs some respite. As I settled myself in, drinking a sneaky G & T in the sunshine, munching through a bag of Liquorice Allsorts...
It wasn't until Little O's 10 month check, that I got diagnosed with anxiety and post natal depression. I'd been so focused on whether Little O could get a flippin' cheerio out of a plastic bottle or not, that I hadn't expected the health visitor to turn around and ask, "How are you coping?" The floodgates opened in dramatic fashion, a torrent of tears, soaking through a tonne of tissues, eyes swollen and bloodshot, not a pretty sight. Since then, (Little O is now 2) there have been the usual ups and downs of parenting. But every so often I get glimpse at what it's like to return to that dark, depressive state...