I am nearing the end of my second pregnancy, and peering over the abyss. My last pregnancy ended with a gorgeous child, but also a deep and prolonged depression. For me, it is the memory of postnatal depression that has precipitated its vicious antenatal equivalent.

I was unable to play with him or smile at him in the way that I knew good and loving mothers should. His hungry or tired cries solidified the knowledge that I was useless and incompetent. I wept daily, shunned my husband. I couldn’t be bothered to prepare food for myself or eat it, and I didn’t want to leave the house.

I felt angry for not being more capable, and I was angry at anyone who looked concerned. I avoided my friends and family. It was hard enough just to keep myself functioning. Slowly things got better, though, over months and years.

But when I found out that I was pregnant again, I was consumed with two things: delight, quickly followed by dread. Was it all going to happen again?

In most respects, last time round I was my own worst enemy. When I filled in the postnatal mood questionnaire that the midwife gave me, I was determined not to be seen as anything less than the ideal mother – I wasn’t going to portray myself as guilty, hopeless or, indeed, low in mood in any way. I was absolutely fine, and even made sure that my questionnaire replies included one or two minor “blips” just so it didn’t look as if I was lying completely.

Three months into this pregnancy, I could feel my mood in freefall. I had lost the initial hopeful sparkle; the joy of knowing that another baby was on the way was replaced by a dark slide into the memories of before.

How could I have forgotten the feeling of being paralysed on the sofa, feeling that the walls were pressing in, knowing that my child was subjected to having the worst mother in the world? The feeling of abject misery stuck to me like permanently wet clothes. I could not take them off. I became numb to hope. The possibility that this baby would be a good thing, or that I would be a good mother, vanished.

Four months into the pregnancy, my husband came home early and found me weeping into my pillow. I ended up admitting every one of my fears. He took me to see my GP, promising me that: 1) the social services department would not be allowed to take my baby away; and 2) there was surely something my doctor could do that would help.

Shame, shame. I sat in the waiting room and tried to formulate my speech: I would say that I might have been a little low last time; maybe something I could do would help, this time . . . actually, I’d probably be fine. In the event I went in and sobbed, using up most of a box of Kleenex. My doctor did not seem perturbed. She said that I’d get better and referred me to a specialist perinatal psychiatrist.

When I sat down in the psychiatrist’s office, which was painted in institutional cream and green, I became aware of several things. One was that I was now a psychiatric patient. But also, I knew that I was being helped. The act of “admitting” to feeling depressed was the beginning of getting better.

It wasn’t so bad. At times, it was even very good.

Kindness seems a woolly word to use when talking about the professionalism and attitude of a doctor, but it rapidly became clear to me that the psychiatrist thought that I had antenatal depression – and that I could be helped. It also became clear that, even though I thought I was a terrible mother, he would not be letting social services know.

For the first time in a long while I felt safe telling a stranger how scared and miserable I was. Hearing my own voice talk about such despair was hard to accept but was also, very cautiously, liberating. I was offered time to talk at a series of paced appointments; I was offered medication. A psychologist helped to challenge, gently but definitively, the negative thoughts that I had about myself as a mother, and my worries about the future for myself and my children.

Initially I declined medication, despite my psychiatrist feeling that it would probably help a good deal. At the time I felt so hopeless that I really didn’t see the point. A month or two on, and trusting in the judgment of experience, I changed my mind. The medication – an antidepressant called sertraline – has helped. What has helped even more, however, is reassurance.

I feel cared for and supported. I have started to see a chink of light somewhere down the antenatal corridor. I am beginning to think there is a reasonable hope that I will be able to be a half-decent mother at the end of it.

Where to go for help

Tommy’s, the baby charity, helps expectant mothers to explore and manage anxieties about childbirth or motherhood: tommys.org or 020-7398 3450. The National Childbirth Trust puts expectant mothers in touch with experts on antenatal depression and anxiety: nct.org.uk or 0870 444 8707.