My baby was just eight weeks old when I found myself in A&E, afraid of my own mind and feeling like I simply couldn't cope. It was only a week and a half after a Christmas Day that had felt devoid of that 'baby's first Christmas' magic we hear so much about.
Two years on, and life is very different. The contrast between my son's first Christmas and the one now approaching couldn't be greater. But it still upsets me to think of that time, and to know that there will be many others facing similar struggles this year.
My memory of Christmas 2013 is a blur to say the least. Like many women, I didn't feel the instant rush of love for my baby that I'd seen depicted on countless films and TV programmes. That it-was-all-worth-it glow which seems to descend as soon as a little one is placed into a new mother's arms is something we are all so familiar with seeing. No matter how hard or traumatic our labours, I think it's something many new mums are, on some level, expecting.
But, as with everything else, motherhood is not always like the movies. Those first hours as a mother weren't like that, and - although it's still hard to admit it - I didn't enjoy the first few months of my boy's life. Between feeling traumatised by the birth, suffering from an incredibly painful infection in the first week, and having a hungry baby who wasn't gaining weight, all my hopes for maternal contentment were dashed.
I could see how my husband and parents felt about him. They were totally in love, and I desperately wanted to feel that way too. Looking back, I can see how Christmas compounded the sense of emptiness that had been with me for quite some time.
On Christmas Eve I remember someone saying, "Isn't it lovely having the baby here with us?". I'm sure I smiled convincingly enough, but my honest response would have been "No, not really". I sat there longing for sleep, my body tense against the next crying fit. When it came to Christmas dinner, I was too tired to enjoy the food - or anything, really, including my boy.
I felt awful about it. Oughtn't I to be overflowing with comfort and joy? Hadn't I always wanted to be a mother? I had a healthy baby. What was wrong with me?
These thoughts weren't at the surface of my mind; I didn't let them rise up. I was afraid of them: of what they meant about me and about what kind of parent I was going to be; even if I could be a parent at all. The anxiety and guilt were crippling.
But Christmas placed a kind of magnifying glass over my thoughts and feelings. I wasn't enjoying my baby or the festive season. The gnawing guilt became malignant. What fragile motherly confidence I had started to be eaten away by the corrosive mantra of 'you're not good enough', whispered at the back of my mind.
Still, I did the festive rounds. There was a trip down to London with more of the family visits and the smiles and agreeing that yes, he was gorgeous and explaining that no, he didn't sleep very well. All the while, that malignant guilt was silently doing its worst, leading eventually to A&E and some time spent in a mother-and-baby mental health unit.
By early January, when my husband (a teacher) was due to return to work, I was in a bad way. Even when I was given a break I couldn't sleep; I was plagued by dark thoughts that scared me. I was afraid for myself.
Having past experience of mental health difficulties, I knew that I needed medical help and told my mum I felt that I needed to go to hospital. The level of care I received in A&E, and later in the mother-and-baby unit I was lucky enough to be offered a bed in, was literally life-saving. Two years on, and with the help of therapy, a mindfulness course and medication, it all seems like a bad, sad dream.
The trickiest thing about all of this is that I wasn't wilfully concealing my unhappiness. I was trying to convince myself, as much as – if not more than – anyone else, of my contentedness. I was deeply ashamed of my lack of strong feelings for my son - so much so that I didn't dare admitl it even to myself.
I wish that I'd been able to put myself first and not give in to obligations to dress up or turn up or cheer up. I know now that if I hadn't visited relatives - if I hadn't felt like I could make the long journey - they would have understood. A greater gift for my family would have been my own health and happiness. I needed to soothe myself.
At Christmas, when we can feel even more pressure than usual to experience joy and happiness, many of us don't. I hope other mothers are able to get help, and don't leave it as long as I did to rush to A&E. We are not bad mothers for feeling this way.
Looking back, it's still hard to express the contrast in my feelings over two years. That overflowing love that we imagine magically appears on the day our child's birth has instead gradually, miraculously arisen in me and it is bigger and fiercer and more real than any Hollywood movie could ever capture.