So long. Farewell.

The adjustment to being back at home feels clumsy and difficult, but it is a glorious discomfort. I have the building blocks around me that I can build a life out of and I know that this is the dawn of a startling new era.

I go back and forth to Hackney another couple of times and every time I go I feel more like a transient lodger than a resident. I come in with one bag. I arrive at the latest moment and leave at the earliest opportunity.

The mood in the ward has altered. New patients are arriving. I see the fear and panic of these illnesses and it touches a nerve deep within me. I sense that terror and understood it physically. My bones remember and my body will never forget. I listen to the fast ramblings of a new mother that's just arrived and at once feel heartened at my recovery and shocked to the core at the horror of it all. 

The women around me have been a family. We have laughed, cried and argued over food together. The final night at the Hackney Holiday Home contains such a mixture of emotions it is a challenge to give voice to them. I could feel my lost self move around me. I saw her desperately ill. Starving hungry, hideously exhausted. I saw her say goodbye to her husband and son every night and cry silent tears of frustration at being held captive by the Thing. I saw her opening gradually, flower-like to staff, other patients and to the treatment. I saw her fight and work and battle with this tyrannical demon that had taken root in her soul.

I saw her seeing me.

I was all set and completely ready for the off. I had collected my bag of medication and had done all my final jobs. My electrical equipment had been gathered from the drawer in the office and it was time to go.

"Oh Jess" I heard one of the staff call out from behind me as I was walking towards the communal area to say my goodbyes. "One of these is for you".I was presented with a large fluffy white teddy bear. "They were from Mother's Day and you didn't get yours". This type of cuddly toy is not my kind of thing at all, but unexpectedly I was deeply moved by it. I looked down at this soft, kind faced bear and experienced a swell in the sea of my heart. Embroidered on the foot in small letters were the words "No. 1 Mum". It didn't matter that I knew everyone had got one of these gifts, or that each teddy had heralded it's owner as number 1, because it was true. We all were. We had all done everything we could in the face of extreme internal adversity. We had all accepted help. We were all focused on recovering. We were all number one to our babies.

I stood in that dining room, holding my bear by the arm, momentarily orphaned in time. Here I stood alone. With others around me. I looked at these women, I looked at the staff. I have never known gratitude to be so huge and yet so silent. I just said thanks so much. See ya. Knowing that I probably wouldn't. 

I walked out to the car, that was waiting in the same place we had been parked on the 15th February at 7am when I finally made it there. I saw myself being helped out of the car and led inside by three nurses to a place of safety. She looked at me as I drove away.

Love and nothing witty to say,Mutha Courage X

Homeward Bound

I'm so bored of the whole process. I'm bored of recovery. I'm bored of medication. I'm bored of being told what I can and can't do and, you've guessed it, I'm bored about what feels like the longest wait EVER to get home. While I'm at it, I'm bored of being around other ill people, I'm bored of the classes, the food, the staff and my F@#*ing shower that still doesn't work. I'm so fucked off.  Sorry, here are the @#* to put in. I can't be arsed.

I try to reassure myself that anger and resentment are part of the process. That it means I'm coming back, that I'm returning. I am beginning to feel like I don't fit in here any more, which is difficult while I am, but possibly means I'm nearly ready to get out.

The drug levels are going down, the leave times are going up and still I'm caught in psychotic purgatory where I'm not at home anywhere. I just want to be in my house, with my belongings around me, with my clothes and shoes and post and my own space and cups without my name plastered all over them.

I'm ready to go home.

I'm also not ready at all.

I'm so scared.

I've been fighting so hard to get home for the last two months that I hadn't had a chance to think about what it would actually be like to go home, back to the scene of the crime where it all started. Where the unraveling began.

This was all home represented at the moment. I had become so engulfed in the horror of what had happened that I had forgotten that we were also going back to a place of unfathomable joy, empowerment, love and strength. The place where Albert swam into our lives and I would revisit the rooms where I lost and found myself completely. 

The plans were in place. The ward round had spoken. I was going home. We were going home. 

My dad had arranged to collect us and all my stuff, which had somehow managed to accumulate. That is the only issue about having a Primark near a psychiatric ward. The lure is too great, I was repeatedly drawn in like a crazed moth to a particularly cheap flame. 

Albert had grown, I had shrunk. We were both different people to the two that came through the unit doors all those weeks ago.

There was a mixed atmosphere in the ward as I left for my first home leave; happiness that I was on the next step out of there, sadness that we wouldn't be around for much longer, envy as other mothers at different stages looked on longingly, as I had once gazed at Lucky. I was becoming increasingly absent, my presence leaving ghostly trails of the madwoman that wouldn't be confined to the attic. 

It was the night before I left for home. It was just a couple of nights leave, but it was the biggest step into the known unknown I had ever taken. I had packed everything up in anticipation of leaving. I wanted it to feel like I was going home for good with just a few more overnight stays on the ward left. This was the home straight of a long lonely marathon. I couldn't see any finishing lines, but my faithful supporters were still cheering me on. I saw their faces in the darkness as I forced myself to sleep through the turbulence of my emotions.

Everything blurs past in the morning in a wave of busyness, appointments and checks, until the moment I am sitting in dad's truck. Ready to go. My two boys with me, just like when we made the longest journey into night. The hum of the ignition soothes us all. We've made it. We're here. It's a moment we weren't certain we'd see, that felt too far away to hope for just a couple of weeks ago. The radio blasts out and calms my fractious heart. We pull out of the hospital car park and a familiar tune begins to play. Homeward Bound.

I look out out of the window and experience the strangest mixture of safety and fear I've ever known. The soundtrack makes me feel fleetingly like I'm the off-beat lead in an indie film of my life. Although in that neatly packaged piece of storytelling this moment would probably be where the credits rolled. The end. Neat. Complete. I wish it was.

Homeward bound,

I wish I was,

Homeward bound,

Home where my thought's escaping,

Home where my music's playing,

Home where my love lies waiting

Silently for me.

Love and bridges over troubled waters,

Mutha Courage X

To Pimlico, to Pimlico, to Pimlico

I was desperate to get home. I longed for the comfort of my own surroundings and to be able to come and go as I pleased, without constant supervision, a chaperone, and time restrictions. At this stage in my recovery I wasn't sure if that was weeks or months away. I was caught in time. Frozen in my state of "unknowing". All I knew was that the next big step had arrived. I had overnight leave and I was going to make the most of it.

Just to give it some context, by making the most of it I mean enjoying a cosy night in with my family, not downing jägerbombs until dawn. I wouldn't like to see what a medication and shots cocktail would look like. I'm guessing it wouldn't be pretty. One thing that my psychosis taught me, and there were a staggering amount, was to savour and value the mundane, the everyday, even the down right boring. After experiencing hyper-reality, I realised that plain old reality is a beautiful place to be. 

Coming back to Earth after visiting planet Insania is a scary trip. It requires a very slow and steady approach. I had been desperate to get overnight leave and now that I had it, it was a prospect so daunting I was almost prepared to stay on the ward so that I didn't have to face it. It was an existential lurch and it felt deeply unsafe to my fragile psyche. Each of these hurdles to the finish line of normality seemed too high to jump.  I had to coach myself over each one. I had to believe I could, take off, and hope that a lagging back foot wouldn't trip me up. 
 
"I just need to get to Pimlico. I have to get to Pimlico. Will they give me overnight leave, because I can only use the flat in Pimlico this week" Pimlico dominated my thoughts and feelings. It was my Mecca, my Nirvana, and my Moscow. 

We were very very lucky to have a friend who had a flat there, who said we could stay there anytime in the week, as they were away. We didn't have anywhere else to do an overnight stay in London that could fit me, my husband, my mother-in-law and our baby boy, so it was Pimlico or bust.

I fought so hard for that leave. I knew that, in order for it to be granted, I had to demonstrate that I could take care of Albert overnight, even though I would have the help of my husband on leave. So for the week leading up to ward round I pushed through my very zombie-like state; I forced myself to stand to soothe him in the early hours, even though my legs were numbed, and I prepared bottles while the dressing gown of sedation hung heavy on my shoulders.

The staff could see my struggle. But they could see the effort, the will, and the desire I had to do all of my motherly nigh-time tasks despite the huge obstacles I faced. 

I struggled when I was on leave. How could anything live up to the image I'd created in my head? It was freedom and a step closer to home. But it was a home that wasn't mine, in a bed I didn't know, surrounded by things I didn't recognise. It made me feel further from home than ever. If I found this hard, how would I ever get back to my house, with my bed and my things?

I had to pause. To re-evaluate. To congratulate myself on this monumental and minuscule step. We cooked a meal and sat together in front of the tv. There was no negotiation with other patients about what to watch and it was delightful to have a meal that wasn't cooked in a plastic bag. This was all strangely normal. Here we all were together, and there was no-one calling time on visiting hours. I didn't have to hand Albert over to anyone apart from his dad, and I could be beside my husband tonight, all night, for the first time in weeks. 

We watched Frozen. We laughed, sang and held each other on the sofa. Tears silently fell down my cheeks as Let It Go blasted out of the speakers and I knew that that was what I needed to do.

Love and lovely boring little things,Mutha Courage x

Drug War

Every day that I was in the ward I was getting better. That meant that I was swimming closer to the surface, regaining consciousness. The better I got the harder I found recovery. I could see what had happened. The evidence was all around me. It was like being the lead detective in the murder case of myself.

I was still on a massive cocktail of drugs, but I was finding out that psychosis was not my ideal holiday destination. I started to hate and resent the medication. I resented how they made me feel, and I hated that I had to be on them. I knew they had bought me back to reality, but it was not the reality I wanted. It was a reality I had to try desperately hard not to fight.

I was in the midst of a drug war and my body was no man's land.

It's 10pm, I've just taken my medication and I can already feel the sedating effect moving down my limbs. I am holding my crying son, trying to soothe him so I know he is calm and happy before I have to leave him to go to bed. It's not going to happen. Again. Again I will have to leave him with staff, agitated and upset, reflecting my emotions as only a baby can. Again I will have to listen to him cry and not be able to go to him, and again I will wake up without him by my side.

I hate these drugs. I hate what they're doing to me and what they are turning me into. I don't care if they are what's helped me and what's helping me, they are ruining me. I can hardly speak, everything's numb and I feel like I'm locked into my body. My mind can't live here. I need them to sort out my levels. I'm not on the right levels. I can't live like this. I can't be this person. I can't be a mother. Not like this.

It would be weeks and weeks of ongoing reviews, level alterations, blood tests and ward rounds before my intake would be reduced to just one drug, rather than 3 or 4 and months of alarms going off every few hours to remind me to take them. 

I can honestly say that I've been miserable only a few times in my life, and this was the single most miserable time of them all. I felt like I was being punished for a crime that I hadn't committed. I was desperately trying to stay positive when everything around me felt soul crushingly bleak. 

I felt like I was walking a tightrope in wellies. I wasn't equipped for this. I knew I needed to get off the medication, but didn't know the full extent of what would happen to me if and when I did. I knew I had to trust the professionals around me, but I was sick of feeling like everyone else was in charge of me. I longed to be the boss of me again. I wanted to get out. Desperately. Painfully. I needed to get out, and although I didn't know it at the time, it was going to happen. Sooner that I knew.

Love and Lithium,

Mutha Courage X

Mad Muthas

One of the best things about being mad in a psychiatric ward is that you are not alone. One of the better things about being mad in a mother and baby unit is that, funnily enough, there are mothers and babies there.

All of us had different illnesses and all of us were at different stages of recovery, but what we all shared was that they had all struck post-natally and so, luckily for us, we could have our babies with us.

It only struck me a few weeks after I had arrived that the pain for some women was that the baby they had with them was not their only child like mine was. I shared many painful moments with other women who cried over the separation from their other children. Families sometimes miles from the unit. They were there because there was a bed, not because it was convenient.

The ladies I spent two months with were my joy and my frustration. The way we loved and supported each other was staggering, but regardless of my love for them they were also a perpetual reminder that I was there. Trapped. Unwell.

During the group therapy sessions we would talk, share, draw, occasionally be tossed around on a blue sheet (the drama student in me was loving it!) and I was honoured to be a part of the healing process of others. The emotion was so raw, the memories so distressing, the future so often overwhelming. We became each others' "can-do sisters" and reminded each other when we were at our lowest ebbs that we could do it, we were doing it, and we would get home. 

It was always a sensitive navigation with the other women. When I was first admitted I was oblivious to the needs of others, but slowly, as I began to function as part of the group, I gradually became self-aware again. Wow. Self-aware. That meant that I had a self to be aware of again. This was a monumental step for me. 

Tuesdays were always an interesting dance of joy, disappointment and caution. After ward round everyone would be checking in with each other to see what had been said, what had happened to medication levels, what had been said about your progress and the most important question of all, how much leave did you get? In hospital terms "leave" was the litmus test, the progress report made physical. 

I learnt very quickly in the unit who to share my joys and successes with and who to play it down to, who to laugh with and who to lend a shoulder to. We all needed such different things at each stage of our time in there. One lady called Lucky got increasing amounts of leave until I hardly saw her and I always thought she had exactly the right name.

No matter what we were going through we ate together. I never could have predicted, just months before, that I would be here, in a psychiatric hospital, sitting around the table with my new family.

Love and dramatic blue sheets,

Mutha Courage X

See You Next Tuesday

Being a resident of the "Hackney Holiday Home" was a massive privilege for me. I will never forget the overwhelming sensation of safety and peace I felt when I arrived there in the early hours of the morning on February 15th. It was a balm to my sore soul and gave me hope during that terribly frightening episode in my life.

I remember the sheer joy I felt at seeing an A4 sheet of paper attached to the back of my door with a timetable of activities that were on offer during the week. Yoga, baby massage, cookery, weaving, dance & movement therapy, relaxation and art classes. I seriously thought I'd won the psychosis lottery. Who knew there were this many perks? This wasn't a psychiatric ward, this was a holistic commune! Not only because of all of these brilliant workshops that would give me a reason to get up in the morning, but because I was NOT in Chelmsford. Phew.

To begin with I was utterly bewildered by life in the Mother & Baby unit. I had no idea how things worked and was intensely upset and distressed about the seeming complexity of its daily rhythms. Time there was divided into two main categories: medical and psychiatric, and the more holistic, alternative therapies. For some reason completely unknown to me, I was very suspicious and resistant to the medical treatment, but was much more happy to comply with talking, drawing and movement therapy. Having been a self-help junkie for over a decade I was completely into all of the classes. I can't think of many more things I'd like to do of an afternoon than being held in a giant blue cloth and given permission to be completely in touch with my feelings. For people walking in on a class like that it would probably look like I was in the throws of yet another manic episode, but let's be honest...it's a thin line, people.

It took a while for me to even have the foggiest clue what was going on in my new clinically enhanced home. I had so much to learn. There were so many timings to remember and rules to follow. All of my cups and plates had my name on them. Believe me when I say that giving me a labelling machine when I was psychotic was a brave decision on the part of the nurses. You had to order your food at certain times; eat at certain times and in certain places. Visitors were not allowed in the kitchen, which sucked big style because no-one could ever make me a cup of tea AND I had to wash up! I was told recently that I used to insist visitors brought me tea from Costa when they came, so I didn't have to clean up after anyone, including myself. I wish I could be as demanding in normal life. Babies weren't allowed in the Kitchen or Milk Kitchen either, which made carrying your child in a sling pretty tricky. It becomes a real palaver if you realise you've forgotten to butter your toast or milk your bran flakes, which is easier than you might think when you're on a massive cocktail of anti-psychotics and mood stabilisers. You only hope that you don't come out of the kitchen one day with a baby covered in butter and a sling full of bran flakes.

At one point I had so many alarms on my phone I no longer had a clue what they were reminding me of. Wake up, meds, food, class, visiting times, baby feed, meds, food, medical observation, baby feed, class, meeting with psychiatrist, meds, food, visitor leaving time, meds. This was my new reality, my new life.

Part of this new life was a weekly visit to "Ward Round". This happened every week, in my case, every Tuesday. It was one of strangest, most surreal and intimidating experience I may ever have. During that first ward round I was heavily medicated, still extremely ill, paranoid, emotionally volatile and couldn't retain or process information. I think we can all agree, not the best set-up for a meeting about the intricacies of your own mental health.

In some ways I'd love to be able to tell you what happened in my first ward round. I can't. My mind was not functioning in any linear or rational way. nothing was being processed how I would normally. I was in utter chaos. It wouldn't be until my 6th or 7th ward round that I would begin to understand what had happened to me, was happening to me and what would happen to me. What I do have are several very powerful sense memories, of how I felt and what it was like from where I was standing.

The door shuts behind me. Bang. Silence. Eyes looking at me. Not one pair, not two, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. All these people staring at me. I take a seat. I am at the head of this table. I am off my head at the top of this table. The formality. Why are they speaking to me like this? They introduce themselves and their role. Why? I know who they are...Dr M, Ed the Head, Helen of Troy, Mother Mary...I don't understand the words that are being said. I don't know the names of these drugs. Write them down, write them all down, I must write them or all will be lost. Everything will be lost. You haven't been responding to...change of medication...benefits...help...recovery...unfortunately. It. Means. You. Will. No. Longer. Be. Able. To. Breastfeed your son. 








I cry for 11 seconds. Fully. Powerfully. Then turned to my husband and said "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't"

To give that phrase some context. My husband and I use this mantra in our life whenever anything happens that we could see as "good" or "bad". When something we perceive as "bad" happens we say "maybe it is, maybe it isn't". This allows you to remove the judgement from it. We never know what will come of what we experience. We can't foresee how we will use what happens to us in our lives. It helped me so much to remove resistance and judgement from what was happening to me, not by forcing it out or blocking it, but by allowing it to be what it was. Whenever I resisted my situation I felt deep pain and sadness, whenever I allowed it to be what it was it gave me a sense of calm. We just don't know where life will lead us, but even in my darkest times I remembered "maybe it is, maybe it isn't".

After you have discussed your prognosis, medication, thoughts, feelings and recovery with these professionals, made up of consultant psychiatrists, psychiatric doctors, psychiatric nurses, nursery nurses, psychologists, student nurses and social workers, it was time to return to the ward and resume your day. But not before I had left with the last word. From that very first, massively scary and hugely intimidating ward round, to the penultimate one before I was discharged I would always take in each person around that table, just before I left the room and say with a cheeky smile "See You Next Tuesday"

Love and buttered babies,

Mutha Courage X

The Observed

16 Feb 2014, 00.53

Patient "J" arrived on the unit at around 07:00 as an informal patient, escorted by the Crisis Team. She is 10 days postpartum. I approached her to introduce myself with another member of staff. She presented as very labile in her mood, at times becoming irritable and tearful. Despite various attempts to discuss her care and inform her of her informal rights, staff were unable to interrupt her conversation due to the extent of her pressured speech and her refusal to allow staff to speak. She repetitively stated that staff were not listening to her, when staff had been reduced to silence. She became increasingly distressed when staff attempted to answer her questions, making it impossible to have any meaningful conversations with her. She would at times say she was in her "safe place" and that she "loved staff", but this would change quickly when again staff made attempts to engage with her.

Patient J was seen by Duty Drs. During this time she became increasingly hostile and aggressively asked them to leave the ward. She followed the Drs. out of the room and appeared to make an attempt to grab them, but staff intervened and were able to prevent this happening without the use of any form of restraint techniques. She then became tearful stating that the Drs. had spoken about medication and the need to sleep while they were both sat on her bed. She felt they were preventing her from sleep and she felt as though they were trying to enforce medication on her. I remained with Patient J for 3 hours following this and made various attempts to disengage due to the repetitiveness of the conversation and the continued unwillingness to listen to me or other staff when attempting to speak with her. She then went on to say she had not been given food as promised and hadn't been offered a shower/bath. I attempted to explain that I had made various attempts to go and get her food/fluid and towels to have a bath, but that she would not allow me to leave the room to complete these tasks. She repetitively spoke about a "spasm" that we would cause her if she was interrupted and if we left the room without her "permission", which was granted in the form of a finger being placed on our mouths. I stated that I had to leave the room to speak with another service user as there were both staff nurses within her bedroom and I needed to complete other tasks. She became increasing hostile and aggressive towards myself, stating our "trust" had gone and that she did not wish to speak with me again today, subsequently slamming her bedroom door.

Attempts made to engage with her husband independently to inform him of the importance of medication and the possibility of being placed on a Section if she continued to refuse her oral medication. Patient J became distressed when she was not with her husband, making it impossible to have a 1-1 with him.

T/C (Telephone Call) with Dr. around 15:00. He was informed of Patient J's refusal of her medication and her unwillingness to consider medication.

T/C from Dr. at 18:15. Informed of continual refusal of medication and chaotic presentation. She has agreed to place Patient J on a Section 5(2) and has completed a capacity and consent to treatment form, highlighting that she is unable to retain information, unable to understand information and unable to weigh information as part of the decision process.



16 Feb 2014, 01:08

New Admission.

Entered room, patient is operating a system of sign language and is very particular about "her safe place", people speaking when permitted and listening to her. She uses the sign language she has come up with to show this.

She was using her husband to speak for her, as she could only whisper.

Feels she has postpartum psychosis. Doesn't know how long she has been in, but feels scared, smelly and degraded. Embarrassed. Stated she was initially happy to take advice and try "whatever medications as you are the experts."

Vey labile in mood, tearful, aggressive and very irritable at times, calm at others, pleasant, joking. First became irritable when we suggested she should "calm down" then later if we could discuss medication. "I don't want any medication from you"

"I am a lioness protecting my husband and cubs"

Would not let us leave the room without her permission, kept on wanting to tell us the rules but never got round to them.  
"If you don't calm me down I will have a spasm in 10 seconds"
"All I need is sleep and food, no one has bought me food. You must be thick if you think I need medication before these things"

Suggested medication could help her sleep "Shut the f-up"

Appearance and behaviour: casually dressed, tired looking, calm at times, joking, then irritable and both verbally and physically aggressive. Overfamiliar. Overstaring wide eye contact, made physical contact and squeezed both Drs. hands when upset. Wanted full control of the interview.

Mood: Subj: "exhausted, tired, scared, degraded" Obj: irritable, labile.

Speech: Pressured, formal thought disorder, flight of ideas. Whispering at first, then shouting when irritated.

Thought: Not able to assess as wouldn't let us talk.

Perception: Not able to assess as wouldn't let us talk.

Imp - postpartum psychosis, manic episode.

16 Feb 2014, 15:27

To be put on 1:1 observation today

The Lost Plot

I normally have quite a clear idea of what to write next. I can see where I am in the story of my experience and I know what follows in the sequence of events. But here is where the narrative fails. The plot is lost and I am free-falling with no idea which way is up, or if I will ever feel my feet on the ground.

Between medical notes and what my family tell me I can piece something together, but most of what they tell me may as well be about another wife, daughter or friend. I can't knit together a comfort blanket from the tattered remnants that are handed to me. My mum told me recently that at this point she feared she'd never see me again; that I was lost. All I could really tell you is that at this point she was right. Everyone could see my body and hear my voice, but I was not there with them.

It would be easier to talk about what everyone has told me happened in these lost days, but it fundamentally avoids one of the biggest traumas of this illness. There are horrible things I said and did that I don't have a clear picture of. These episodes haunt my memory and float in and out of focus, elusive ghosts using my mind as their repossessed stately home. Many of my recollections have strong feeling attached to them, but not the details. I couldn't tell you the sequence of anything that happened. From this point my life becomes a sketch, and I am reduced to a line drawing of my former self.

One of the most devastating blows in the early stages of my treatment was being told that they had to put me on anti-psychotic medication that would mean I could no longer breastfeed my son. This was such a severe knock to my self-esteem. I wasn't fit to feed my own baby. I had failed him and now anyone with a bottle in hand could be his mum. In those terrifying days, feeding him and knowing I was the person he needed was the only thing that truly made me feel like I mattered. Now this was being taken away too. I only found out recently that during my psychosis he lost 40% of his body weight and was now weighing just a few pounds. He was a tiny bird-like creature. He needed sustenance and I couldn't give it to him. My illness meant I was in survival mode, and the stress meant there was nothing in my milk to help him. My body knew it was him or me.

Everything overwhelmed, overstimulated and overpowered me. I couldn't write emails or text messages, I couldn't speak on the phone and could only just deal with seeing people face to face. I think that psychosis can often feel even more distressing as the recovery process begins. When I was so ill, I was just existing, surviving moment to moment, but looking back is to see a reflection of yourself that sends shock waves through your once certain sense of self. The face staring back is unrecognisable.

My days now consisted of visits to the medicine room, having blood tests and observations of my heart rate, temperature and weight. Punctuated by hospital meals for lunch and dinner. As well as these regular commitments, there were frequent visits from, and talks to, health visitors, doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists. This was not what I would have said I'd imagined for my first couple of weeks as a mum, but here it was. This was my world.

Even thinking back to those days now exhausts and distresses me. I've always been someone who has prided themselves on an ability to organise my life efficiently, communicate clearly and make new friends easily, but here I was completely debilitated by this shocking disease that had been rotting me from the core. I scuttled around the ward avoiding people one moment and shouting my thoughts and feelings the next. Loudly. Very loudly.

I clung desperately to every self-help mantra that I'd ever practised, if there was a time when my self needed help the most, it was now.

All this shall pass.

It is what it is.

Say yes to your universe.

I knew one thing. I couldn't change what had happened to me and I certainly couldn't control what was going to happen, but I was going to fight. Not with anger and frustration and pain, which although I felt in abundance, I knew weren't my best weapons. No, I would use presence, love and positivity. I was going to say yes to what was happening to me and, no matter what, I would find the lining of this cloud, whatever colour it was. Somewhere very deep within, I believed in myself, my family, love and joy and I wasn't going to let psychosis rob me of what I had worked so hard to obtain; a love of life. The Thing's days were numbered, I was ready for this war.

Love and positive affirmations,

Mutha Courage X

Gretel's Breadcrumbs

I must start by explaining that everything from this point gets extremely confused. The events, conversations, and chronology are entirely as I remember them. I am the most unreliable of narrators to report what actually happened during these lost weeks, but what I do have are very powerful imprints of what I felt and said, the people that were around me, and the effect the staff had on me. Those closest to me would come to correct me on most details over the process of my recovery, but this was my life, my reality.

I was distraught when my husband left the unit. I was holding my tiny baby, wrapped in the folds of my dressing gown. I was told I should eat. How could I? I was being harassed. Continually told I should eat and drink. I'm trying, you keep stopping me! Stop talking to me. Leave me alone. Every mouthful I forced in fell back out as I sobbed. Never had I felt so utterly alone. Who were these people? How long would I be here? Is this what my life is now? Thank the god of mental illness that I was oblivious to how long it would take to recover. I was surrounded by strangers and couldn't even say I knew myself.

I don't remember exactly when I first met Gretel, but I do remember the powerful effect she had on me. We shared a two bed apartment in Hackney. To outside eyes she was patient occupying the room next door to me on our ward in Homerton. We shared a bathroom and an illness. The first time I saw her she told me that it would get better. I believed her. I trusted her. She had only been admitted two days before me, but to me she was the experienced guide I needed to survive. We moved around like dressing gowned ghosts, fragments of ourselves, full of medication, but we had each other and we had plans.

First on the agenda was that we deserved some pampering. We were demanding beauticians to come in, for manicures, pedicures, massages and haircuts. Due to our separate delusions we had vastly different expectations of what would happen, but we were determined that it would. Every day. It didn't. It was just another trick of psychosis. 

My writing was at fever pitch by now, I carried a notebook and masses of post-it notes with me wherever I went to write down everything that came into my head. One morning I found myself with Gretel at the dining table. We had so many ideas about what the ward needed, we were inspired. It was then that we began coming up with all sorts of amazing ideas, including our name. We were the psychosis(ters). 

At this time I was still very suspicious about medication and I was extremely confused about how the ward worked. It often felt like a prison to me; you had to hand in your hairdryer, razor and iPhone charger, you weren't allowed plastic bags, there were set eating times, visiting hours and security measures to get in or out, no toilet seats and no proper mirrors.

While we were sitting at that table, Gretel said three words that really saved me in those first few days. She said: just do it. Whatever they give you, take it. They know what they're doing. Just do it. Her words spoke straight to me. The me that didn't want to fight everyone. That's what I would do. I wouldn't give The Thing a look in. I would take anything I was offered immediately with no question or fuss and as soon as any resistance came up I would remember to follow Gretel's advice. This is how I would get better. "You're my breadcrumbs out of here" I told her. The problem was, no matter how many breadcrumbs could be laid there were always birds waiting to swoop and stop me finding my way home.

Gretel was just one of a cast full of characters I was about to meet in the psychotic film of my life. 9 women. 9 babies. All struck down with various acute mental illnesses. All determined to recover. It isn't much of a movie pitch, but it was the narrative we were living. The thought of them all now makes me want to laugh and cry. I owe so much of my recovery to each one of them. They were part of my life now, my Hackney family, my story.

Love and gingerbread houses,
Mutha Courage x 

Valentine's Day (Take two)

It was the 15th February. It was the longest day. It was internal warfare, and there were people being caught in the crossfire every minute. I was perpetrator and victim, captor and hostage, violence and peace-fighter. I couldn't understand the simplest of sentences being spoken to me and yet believed I had true understanding of all humanity. I saw how everything in the world fitted together, I knew how to make myself rich and create an entire empire. But all this time I was also starting the fire that would set anything I valued ablaze.

I didn't leave that tiny room for about 14 hours. I must have gone to the toilet, but I really can't remember doing that. I was in the same clothes I'd been in for over 24 hours. I'd only had my son just over a week ago, so my body was still in a massive period of adjustment. We had been travelling for 6 hours in a car and I felt disgusting. 

My psychosis was stopping me being able to do the most basic tasks without being distracted or aggressive. My moods were adrift on the stormiest sea and my sense of reality was drowning. No food. No water. No medication. No washing. No changing clothes. No sleep. No release from this living nightmare.

What was making everything so much worse was a belief that had slowly been working its way into my consciousness as my illness was escalating. These people are meant to be looking after me and they're not. They're trying to humiliate me. Harm me. Break me. Kill me. 

I was constantly screaming at staff about how they had let me down and weren't welcome in my presence. I wouldn't let them enter my room unless they completed a complicated sequence of knocks and was frequently forbidding them to leave, because of the catastrophic consequences it would cause me if they did. One member of staff remained in my room for hours until an emergency took him away. When he returned I screeched: GET OUT. GET OUT. I don't want to look at you. You have broken my trust. Get out.

My husband didn't fair any better. He was my closet ally. My worst enemy. I remember us being allowed to have food in my room as I couldn't make it to the dining area. I was so angry when the wrong food delivered to me I thrashed around the room, collapsing in the corner. This was yet another tactic of my insanity to stop me getting anything to eat. My husband was desperately trying to encourage me to take a mouthful. Why aren't you helping me? If you want me to eat why don't you make me? I can't do it. Sure enough, one mouthful at a time, he fed me my cold jacket potato and beans. 

After hours of threatening all kinds of legal action for a violation of my human rights and many consultations with all kinds of doctors and nurses my husband was called out of the room. This was real crisis time now. The last mediation. 

You think that you know each other so well. You're husband and wife. Friends. Lovers. Companions. I'd never seen this version. He had no more composure left. He was frantic, teary eyed, pale. Please. You have to take the medication. Please take it. Just take it.

Ok.
I will.
I'll take it right now.
They're running me a bath. I'll take it in the bath. Tell them to bring it to me.

Action. Everything is happening at what feels like lightning speed. There is a lightness suddenly. Everyone is focused on what to do. I am in the bath. The hot water soothes my sore body. I wash quickly. Visiting time is nearly over and he's already been allowed to stay for longer. I am jubilant. Laughing. I tell Bridget, one of the nurses, to tell him that I'm coming to see him for a date. I'll be all fresh and I'll see him in a few minutes. I'll have taken the medicine. Tell him I'm coming. It's date night. It's Valentines day take two.

I step back into my room. Clean. Exhausted, Hopeful. My husband is not there. He was having constant talks with the medical professionals. I see his bag lying on the side. I see red glitter. My heart swells.

He comes in to get his bag. The time for him to go is here. He sees what I've found, out on the side. This wasn't the Valentine's day either of us had imagined.

"I'm sorry I didn't have time to write anything in it." he says

"That's alright. It means more than the world to me that even with all this going on you found time to get it."

I look into his eyes. A flash of me connects with the love in him. Tears roll down my face. I am lost at sea. In him I see a shore. 

And then he has to leave. The longest day must carry on without him. He can come back in the morning. A real terror clutches at me.

He is gone.
I am alone.
With the most beautiful present I've ever received.
An empty Valentine's card with three words on the front...
You & Me.

Love and Olanzapine,
Mutha Courage X