Dear Jonas

[Diesen Brief habe ich an meinen sechs Monate alten Sohn geschrieben. Manche Dinge sind so schmerzhaft, dass es für mich leichter ist, sie in Englisch zu verfassen - als wenn die Sprache noch eine Barriere zu den aufwühlenden Gefühlen birgt. Und doch, wo ich es jetzt noch einmal durchlese, kommen mir die Tränen.]

Dear Jonas,

today, we were lying next to each other in bed. Me - hoping you would fall asleep after you have had your lunch. You - laughing your head off when I opened my eyes. Your sweet baby laugh that immediately makes everyone laugh around you as well. You were wide awake, finding everything, literally everything, interesting and worth exploring. And even though I would have loved a couple of minutes of sleep I was just laughing along with you and enjoying this moment.

There was a time when I didn’t think I would ever come to this moment. I was so deep down in the well. There was no exit, no hope of a change. I was feeling … just plain pain. I didn’t want just another moment. I was convinced that I would always feel this way. You were just born. Your birth has been so different to what I have hoped for. And the first few days you had to stay at an intense care unit at the hospital. I was making my way over to you every 3 hours, for 3 days, with no sleep, after having gone through c-section. And I knew I should have felt something for you. But all I could think of was “I have no strength left”. Your start to life was so different to what I had hoped for. You were there, on your own, lying with strings attached to you. You were so tiny, yet so big. How had you ever fit inside me?!

And then we were allowed to go home. Finally! It was the day with heavy tears and the start of the milk production. And I was in a chaos of emotions. Of what I thought I should feel and what I was feeling. And I felt desperate that I couldn’t find “oh, he is so sweet”, “this is the best day of my life” or “I love you with all of my heart” inside myself. There was pain. Physical pain from labour, mental pain from labour and knowing that I didn’t want to feel like this made it worse with every day. I wanted to love you, to see what seemingly everyone else could see: a cute, little baby. I saw you and I saw a baby. But it didn’t feel like you were mine. You were never in danger. Even though I was hurting so badly I would always function. I would take care of you. And I was hoping that someone else would come and take you in order for you to have a chance in life. Because I was so convinced that I wasn’t the right person for you. That I should have never gone this way…because I should have known: I am just not right. There is something wrong with me and there is no hope that I can change. I will always feel like this. And now I have condemned an innocent life, yours, to this outlook. I was devastated. I was overwhelmed. And I so desperately wanted to feel differently. But I didn’t.

We didn’t get the start that I had read about in books and listened to in podcasts. All the bonding from hour one. All the love and sense of wonder. Just family quality time in bed. Instead, I was fighting through the pain while breastfeeding. I was fighting through nightmares from giving birth. I was fighting to push all the unwanted emotions down. And there I was: totally exhausted, overwhelmed, feeling like the worst mother. A mother who didn’t want to be one.

And all this time it had nothing to do with you! I mean, obviously, you were there and caring for a newborn was a shock to my system. Yet, you were perfect from the beginning. And with perfect I mean: You were fully human, with cries, needing closeness, little feet and tiny hands. I have never wished for another baby. I wished for another me. A me that could do it. Who wasn’t such a failure. Who knew what it wanted in life. And who would not always go down the spiral challenging the very own existence.

But this is who you got. This is your mum. And it isn’t. Because after all, I am ill. I have an illness called depression which makes it hard to like yourself. Instead it throws the worst statements at you, hurts your feelings constantly and then tells you that you don’t deserve better and that you are alone and that there is no hope and you will always feel this pain inside. I have known this before. But it was set off to another level with your birth. And the shame and guilt that I was feeling all of this while you were lying in my arms. A healthy baby! We have been so happy when we found out that we were pregnant, the day before my birthday. And now it was all different. And it felt so wrong. I felt wrong. I was wrong. There is something wrong with me. And the shame and guilt about knowing all of this and still not being able to change it. Still not being happy to be a mother. Do you remember when I was carrying you through the house just crying? Or when I was hiding in the corner behind the curtains wishing I wouldn’t be found?

And all the while I was hearing “enjoy this time” while I wanted to fade away.

We have come a long way since then, my little Jonas. Thanks to you I was forced to take the next step. Besides therapy I am now also taking the little pills. Every morning. Your mum is great at giving advice but when it comes to herself…well, there is resistance. But we won. Despite all the contras and all the fears. And hell, there were quite a few! It was a constant inner battle for weeks before I went to see a psychiatrist. I didn’t want to belong to “that group”. I mean, I would happily advise everyone else to go, but me? What a failure…But this was no longer only about me. There was you. And you gave me the strength. To be honest, it was probably more you showed me that I needed to do something; that I needed a new route. Because I literally couldn’t go on anymore. And now I still despair when you don’t sleep at night, but I don’t automatically go down the shame spiral. I am still overwhelmed when I cannot even get five minutes to myself, but I don’t attack myself right away for it. I have friends, family, a therapist and a husband who I can inform once I feel triggered. And then there is you. Thank goodness! You have the biggest cheeks, the cutest feet and the loudest voice. And I love you.

I mourn the lost chance of a wholesome start into your life. I mourn that it all came different and that I couldn’t do it the way I wanted it. It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance and now gone. I need to learn to forgive myself for it. And I hope you forgive me too. And everything that I will mess up in the future. Believe me, there will be quite a few things. I will do my best, fail and still, learn to be okay with it. Because I want you to learn that you are enough, always.