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
Showing posts with label psychosis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label psychosis. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 October 2014
Saturday, 13 September 2014
Leave me alone
This week has been manic. I mean that in a metaphorical sense, not in a relapse kind of way. One of the ideas that psychosis gave me was stand-up comedy with my baby on board. This week that idea, borne from madness, was delivered. Bring A Bottle, my comedy show for "people who happen to be parents", was born. It wasn't long before the local news and TV were interested, so Albert and I went from interview to interview, whilst trying to rehearse and fine tune the performance.
I watch the appearances. I see myself laughing and chatting with my little son attached to me by a sling carrier. I recognise that me. I am confident and self-possessed. It is very difficult to see myself like this and not remember a time, just a few months ago where I couldn't manage an hour from the safety of the ward. I had been given leave, but didn't know if I could.
Albert is attached to me by a carrier sling. The air hits my face, followed by the noise of all the traffic, followed by the movement of all the people walking by. I am scared by the faces I see coming towards me and that pass me. I am desperately trying to process everything. It feels like there is too much space around me. I have longed for this freedom and now I feel intoxicated by its size. I feel small, tiny. I don't feel brave enough to exist in this huge world. I want home and I don't even know what home is. I don't want to be on the ward, but the streets are too busy and I am intimidated by their pace.
We find a cafe. It is friendly and small. It is a den. I can rest here for a while from the mayhem outside. I don't really remember how to do this. What are the rules? How do we order? How do I choose? I don't want to interact, but I know I need to. They all know. They all know I'm from the ward. They know.
We take more of a walk when we've had our drinks. There's a small market selling local foods and products. The panic is rising in me. The people, the smells, the sounds, the chatter, the ground, the sky, everything is closing around me and I feel a powerful sense of danger that isn't really there. I need to get away. Get out. Get in. I don't know, just get away. How will I ever be normal again?
This isn't me. I can't stay like this. I can't be like this. Who am I now? What has this illness left me with?
I pull my son closer to my chest. He is sleeping soundly. Knowing that he is safe, and protected. I long to feel that. I hold my husband's hand so tight. I need him to lead me back to the ward. I need to be surrounded by familiarity. I need the doors locked.
I realise how agonisingly slow this recovery will be for me. I know I will have to work hard every time I go on leave, so that I can rebuild the broken city of myself.
But that evening, I just want everyone to leave me alone.
I watch the appearances. I see myself laughing and chatting with my little son attached to me by a sling carrier. I recognise that me. I am confident and self-possessed. It is very difficult to see myself like this and not remember a time, just a few months ago where I couldn't manage an hour from the safety of the ward. I had been given leave, but didn't know if I could.
Albert is attached to me by a carrier sling. The air hits my face, followed by the noise of all the traffic, followed by the movement of all the people walking by. I am scared by the faces I see coming towards me and that pass me. I am desperately trying to process everything. It feels like there is too much space around me. I have longed for this freedom and now I feel intoxicated by its size. I feel small, tiny. I don't feel brave enough to exist in this huge world. I want home and I don't even know what home is. I don't want to be on the ward, but the streets are too busy and I am intimidated by their pace.
We find a cafe. It is friendly and small. It is a den. I can rest here for a while from the mayhem outside. I don't really remember how to do this. What are the rules? How do we order? How do I choose? I don't want to interact, but I know I need to. They all know. They all know I'm from the ward. They know.
We take more of a walk when we've had our drinks. There's a small market selling local foods and products. The panic is rising in me. The people, the smells, the sounds, the chatter, the ground, the sky, everything is closing around me and I feel a powerful sense of danger that isn't really there. I need to get away. Get out. Get in. I don't know, just get away. How will I ever be normal again?
This isn't me. I can't stay like this. I can't be like this. Who am I now? What has this illness left me with?
I pull my son closer to my chest. He is sleeping soundly. Knowing that he is safe, and protected. I long to feel that. I hold my husband's hand so tight. I need him to lead me back to the ward. I need to be surrounded by familiarity. I need the doors locked.
I realise how agonisingly slow this recovery will be for me. I know I will have to work hard every time I go on leave, so that I can rebuild the broken city of myself.
But that evening, I just want everyone to leave me alone.
Friday, 8 August 2014
Mirror Mirror
One of the strangest things about being on a psychiatric ward and gradually recovering is that as the mist begins to disperse you start to understand where you are and what's happening. It's at that time you wonder if you might actually rather continue living in crazy ignorance. I remember the first time I realised that staff were observing other patients and that, therefore, staff were observing me. I felt uncomfortable and agitated by the idea, like I was in a strange surveillance prison where everything I said and did was being charted and recorded. It didn't feel like it was to help me at that time: it felt like it was to catch me out and get me into trouble.
I dreaded to think how long I would have to live here. Whenever there was talk of timescales I would panic and become distressed. My resistance made my experience so much more painful. I knew I needed to surrender and concentrate on getting better for my family and for me. I would work hard every day to confront this illness head on and I would not give in. The not knowing was terrifyingly troubling, but I calmed myself with the thought that all any of us have is now. We can't predict what is coming or what will be. All that we know is it will be. What it will be.
Whenever I felt my speech becoming more pressured, my thoughts racing, or my Tourettes bursting out I would lean into that discomfort. I would know that my illness hated me getting better and would attack me more when it saw that I was.
During my psychosis I had to write down every single person's name I came into contact with. Missing one was not an option. Neither was not remembering who someone was. To make this process easier I gave everyone code names. There was Helen of Troy, Happy Hat, Shadow, Star, Ed the Head and Mirror to name just a few. There is a story behind each person's nickname and why it was chosen for them, but the one that had a massive impact on me was Mirror. She gave me the biggest problem of all and consequently helped me the most.
Having been a self-help junkie for years, I was no stranger to the idea that what we dislike or find problematic in other people is often what we struggle with or fear in ourselves. For some reason, as soon as I met Mirror there was a clash. All of my symptoms got worse when I was in her presence. We had big arguments. Well, I would shout at her and she would tell me it was unacceptable.
She was clear. I was unraveled.
She was calm. I was frenetic.
She was precise. I was a mess.
She pissed me right off. I knew I needed to spend as much time as I could with her. She was vital to my recovery.
I told her that she was the mirror in which I saw myself reflected. What made me angry in her company was the fact that she had the qualities I had loved in my old self but feared I had completely lost. I knew The Thing didn't want me to make progress, so it took my disorder up a level whenever she was near.
No matter how hard it was, or how exhausted I was after our interactions, I knew that I would only see myself again if I kept looking in the Mirror. When there was psycho backlash I knew I was on the right path. I knew that the more I looked at myself, and the harder I gazed into the reflection of who I had become, the weaker The Thing became and the closer I came to recognising my own reflection again.
Love and (hopefully not) 7 years bad luck,
Mutha Courage X
I dreaded to think how long I would have to live here. Whenever there was talk of timescales I would panic and become distressed. My resistance made my experience so much more painful. I knew I needed to surrender and concentrate on getting better for my family and for me. I would work hard every day to confront this illness head on and I would not give in. The not knowing was terrifyingly troubling, but I calmed myself with the thought that all any of us have is now. We can't predict what is coming or what will be. All that we know is it will be. What it will be.
Whenever I felt my speech becoming more pressured, my thoughts racing, or my Tourettes bursting out I would lean into that discomfort. I would know that my illness hated me getting better and would attack me more when it saw that I was.
During my psychosis I had to write down every single person's name I came into contact with. Missing one was not an option. Neither was not remembering who someone was. To make this process easier I gave everyone code names. There was Helen of Troy, Happy Hat, Shadow, Star, Ed the Head and Mirror to name just a few. There is a story behind each person's nickname and why it was chosen for them, but the one that had a massive impact on me was Mirror. She gave me the biggest problem of all and consequently helped me the most.
Having been a self-help junkie for years, I was no stranger to the idea that what we dislike or find problematic in other people is often what we struggle with or fear in ourselves. For some reason, as soon as I met Mirror there was a clash. All of my symptoms got worse when I was in her presence. We had big arguments. Well, I would shout at her and she would tell me it was unacceptable.
She was clear. I was unraveled.
She was calm. I was frenetic.
She was precise. I was a mess.
She pissed me right off. I knew I needed to spend as much time as I could with her. She was vital to my recovery.
I told her that she was the mirror in which I saw myself reflected. What made me angry in her company was the fact that she had the qualities I had loved in my old self but feared I had completely lost. I knew The Thing didn't want me to make progress, so it took my disorder up a level whenever she was near.
No matter how hard it was, or how exhausted I was after our interactions, I knew that I would only see myself again if I kept looking in the Mirror. When there was psycho backlash I knew I was on the right path. I knew that the more I looked at myself, and the harder I gazed into the reflection of who I had become, the weaker The Thing became and the closer I came to recognising my own reflection again.
Love and (hopefully not) 7 years bad luck,
Mutha Courage X
Friday, 25 July 2014
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
Sunday, 13 July 2014
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
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
Friday, 4 July 2014
A Thing Possessed
I thought you were going to look after me. I thought I was meant to be safe here and fed and cared for and allowed to rest. Stop coming in here trying to give me medication like I'm in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I mean, do you really have to bring in drugs on those cardboard trays and put them in those little white cups? I'm an informal patient, that means I don't have to take anything I don't want to, right? Right? Am I RIGHT? Stop bringing in doctors and medicine and instructions, I can't think straight. I won't take anything until I understand what it will do to me and to my baby and I can't think straight until I have had some sleep. Is the problem that you think I can't sleep without them? I can. I can sleep on my own, naturally. Just give me some space and let me show you. I birthed my son without any drugs, so if you just let me use my relaxation techniques I can show you. I'll show you now.
I showed them alright. I showed them that I could sleep for a whole 8 minutes without medical intervention. That was how in charge of this illness I was. It was a few hours after this that I was put on a section 5(2) which means I was being sectioned for 72 hours. I was no longer in a position to make my own decisions. I was a danger to myself.
I was shocked at how quickly the "Hackney Holiday Home" became a horror home, but before that transformation begun I had momentary respite. It was the deepest peace I have ever felt. When I first arrived I was given an hour or two alone in my room with my husband and my son. Once again I made sure they were both comfortable and sleeping and took several photos to document that my boys were doing well, and then frantically reached out to the real world. I sent messages to my loved ones like a thing possessed, desperately wanting to leave a trail; messages that could trace people back to this moment where I was still alive: where "I" still existed. I sent out messages to the only people in the world that knew what was happening:
"I am safe. We are in our room at the "Hackney Holiday Home" I don't know where that is exactly, because...well...as you can imagine, I've had a pretty tough week (to put it mildly). There is lots of lovely rest and recovery going on here. My boys are both sleeping. I want you all to know that I love you & I need each & every one of you that knows. There are 10 of us in the world, apart from all the incredible NHS staff, that helped me walk through hell to freedom"
There was a tranquility, a peace, and a clarity that I experienced in the silence of those couple of hours. I remember sitting on the big red chair in my room, feeling like Alice after she'd swallowed a "drink me" bottle. I felt so small and yet so safe. I had made it here. It had taken almost everything I had, but I'd done it. My heart swelled with a powerful understanding of what it was to be alive; to be a woman, a wife, a mother.
Not only was I those, I was my husband, I was my son, I was all of creation. I was everything and nothing. I felt utterly insignificant and truly vital simultaneously. My identity had been shaken so deeply that I didn't know what "I" even meant. Was it me doing and saying these ridiculous and profound things? What was "me"? I couldn't take anything for granted any more. It was a moment to moment existence. I was surviving. Just.
It's easy to have the illusion at this point that I was a woman capable of understanding and communication. The reality was that I had, by this stage, virtually lost my ability to speak; my throat was scratched red raw, my speech was so pressured and full of Tourette's that getting through a sentence was agony. I had developed an intricate sign language in the vain attempt to keep myself calm, to reduce the terrifying stress and physical exhaustion my spasms would induce. These spasms would surge through my body if anyone said the wrong thing, and by this stage people only knew what the "wrong" thing was after it was said.
After my sacred couple of hours left to myself in my room, two doctors came in to talk to me and assess my situation. Needless to say my "situation" was painfully clear, as 15 minutes later I was chasing them out of my room screaming at them to leave me alone. As I charged out of my room, running after these doctors four or five nurses all leapt in on me. I was being restrained.
I was a mad woman.
I knew from this moment that there were very real consequences to my actions. I was involved in a very very serious business. All I felt was that no-one was listening to me. That feeling of being restrained is one that shocked me to my core. This was me. I didn't do things like this. But I did. I was. I was doing them. This is me. This is my reality. I am the me I'd never met. The me I didn't expect to ever meet.
Things went downhill. Fast. I almost can't bring myself to share what it was like to go through that next 72 hours. I did things that I'm ashamed of. No matter how many times people tell me that it was the illness and not me, I can't and may never accept that. I know it on an intellectual level, but it is very complex to disentangle yourself from your behaviours in psychosis because they come through you, and you are used as the messenger for its powerful and twisted message. One nurse said to me, "Think about whether you want to do that, think about when you have recovered." That was the most helpful and hardest thing I heard in those turbulent hours. It knifed me to know that I was ill, dangerously ill, but it soothed my soul to hear that word...recovery. It echoed around the vacant corners of my sanity and rested deep in my heart. I was ill. I would get better. I would recover.
But this was just day one.
Love and Fuck off Tourettes,
Mutha Courage x
I showed them alright. I showed them that I could sleep for a whole 8 minutes without medical intervention. That was how in charge of this illness I was. It was a few hours after this that I was put on a section 5(2) which means I was being sectioned for 72 hours. I was no longer in a position to make my own decisions. I was a danger to myself.
I was shocked at how quickly the "Hackney Holiday Home" became a horror home, but before that transformation begun I had momentary respite. It was the deepest peace I have ever felt. When I first arrived I was given an hour or two alone in my room with my husband and my son. Once again I made sure they were both comfortable and sleeping and took several photos to document that my boys were doing well, and then frantically reached out to the real world. I sent messages to my loved ones like a thing possessed, desperately wanting to leave a trail; messages that could trace people back to this moment where I was still alive: where "I" still existed. I sent out messages to the only people in the world that knew what was happening:
"I am safe. We are in our room at the "Hackney Holiday Home" I don't know where that is exactly, because...well...as you can imagine, I've had a pretty tough week (to put it mildly). There is lots of lovely rest and recovery going on here. My boys are both sleeping. I want you all to know that I love you & I need each & every one of you that knows. There are 10 of us in the world, apart from all the incredible NHS staff, that helped me walk through hell to freedom"
There was a tranquility, a peace, and a clarity that I experienced in the silence of those couple of hours. I remember sitting on the big red chair in my room, feeling like Alice after she'd swallowed a "drink me" bottle. I felt so small and yet so safe. I had made it here. It had taken almost everything I had, but I'd done it. My heart swelled with a powerful understanding of what it was to be alive; to be a woman, a wife, a mother.
Not only was I those, I was my husband, I was my son, I was all of creation. I was everything and nothing. I felt utterly insignificant and truly vital simultaneously. My identity had been shaken so deeply that I didn't know what "I" even meant. Was it me doing and saying these ridiculous and profound things? What was "me"? I couldn't take anything for granted any more. It was a moment to moment existence. I was surviving. Just.
It's easy to have the illusion at this point that I was a woman capable of understanding and communication. The reality was that I had, by this stage, virtually lost my ability to speak; my throat was scratched red raw, my speech was so pressured and full of Tourette's that getting through a sentence was agony. I had developed an intricate sign language in the vain attempt to keep myself calm, to reduce the terrifying stress and physical exhaustion my spasms would induce. These spasms would surge through my body if anyone said the wrong thing, and by this stage people only knew what the "wrong" thing was after it was said.
After my sacred couple of hours left to myself in my room, two doctors came in to talk to me and assess my situation. Needless to say my "situation" was painfully clear, as 15 minutes later I was chasing them out of my room screaming at them to leave me alone. As I charged out of my room, running after these doctors four or five nurses all leapt in on me. I was being restrained.
I was a mad woman.
I knew from this moment that there were very real consequences to my actions. I was involved in a very very serious business. All I felt was that no-one was listening to me. That feeling of being restrained is one that shocked me to my core. This was me. I didn't do things like this. But I did. I was. I was doing them. This is me. This is my reality. I am the me I'd never met. The me I didn't expect to ever meet.
Things went downhill. Fast. I almost can't bring myself to share what it was like to go through that next 72 hours. I did things that I'm ashamed of. No matter how many times people tell me that it was the illness and not me, I can't and may never accept that. I know it on an intellectual level, but it is very complex to disentangle yourself from your behaviours in psychosis because they come through you, and you are used as the messenger for its powerful and twisted message. One nurse said to me, "Think about whether you want to do that, think about when you have recovered." That was the most helpful and hardest thing I heard in those turbulent hours. It knifed me to know that I was ill, dangerously ill, but it soothed my soul to hear that word...recovery. It echoed around the vacant corners of my sanity and rested deep in my heart. I was ill. I would get better. I would recover.
But this was just day one.
Love and Fuck off Tourettes,
Mutha Courage x
Saturday, 21 June 2014
Pulling the Rug from Under Me
After 12 exhausting hours of trying to get out of the hospital, I knew that it was going to take a Herculean effort for me to get through those doors and into the car that was patiently waiting to take me to a place of safety. I'd renamed my destination as the "Hackney Holiday Home", so that I could tell myself it was a friendly place rather than a horrifying mental institution. Even my husband, who had seen me run the last few hundred yards of the marathon just months before, didn't think I would be leaving the hospital conscious. Such was the magnitude of what he was seeing happen to me.
I demand a KFC and I'm not leaving until I've had one. We are all exhausted and hungry and I am not taking my 7 day old son on a 3 hour car journey until I have at least had a hot meal. To my intense surprise a KFC soon arrived on the ward. It was yet another meal I would just look at and let go cold, but that wasn't the point. My husband had eaten. My mother-in-law had eaten and I could only get out if my team was strong and, to my psychosis-addled brain, KFC was the answer.
At 2am I will walk out of this hospital and you will all be with me. Do you believe I can do it? Yes. That's not strong enough, do you believe I can do it? YES. That's better. Do you believe? Do You? Do YOU? I needed their responses to fit exactly into my jigsaw. I saw their puzzled faces and demanded they try a new piece, but what I didn't realise was, I was the only one that could see the lid. My team was 5 and a tiny one strong. Two members of the crisis team (Shadow and Hero - they all had special names) my husband, my mother-in-law, my minuscule son and Me. The Me that I had unflinching belief in, the Me that had birthed my son naturally just a few days ago, the Me that ran marathons and did Edinburgh shows, the Me I was terrified I had lost forever.
I coached the team for well over an hour on the minutiae of how we would leave the hospital. It was my walk to freedom and it needed to be exactly right or The Thing would be there to trip me up. I was psyching myself up. I knew that I had something very powerful deep within that could do this and there couldn't be a scrap of doubt from anyone around me that it was absolutely possible.
When the moment came I had the wall of white light taken down from the ward and placed around me. I took pictures of the room and the clock as mementoes of when I took my first stand against this demon I was doing battle with. I had the team ready. I flung the hospital curtain open, shouted "I'm not afraid of you" at The Thing and took the first step of a much longer journey to come.
Out of my pocket blasted Imelda May's "Pulling the Rug From Under Me" and as its powerful rockabilly beats filled my heart, I marched out of that ward. My team just one step behind. This was the biggest feat of imagination over mental tyranny I'd ever attempted, as I insisted that everyone walked out behind me as if we were all in Reservoir Dogs. I even had to stop half way to let Hero know that he was walking all wrong and needed to get his groove on. Not only that, but the 2nd track on the album had started to play and as it was called "Psycho" I thought it was best to replay the first one. It definitely did not look like a group of people that had been struggling for hours to make it out of a door. Well, in my head anyway, we looked like superheroes.
I remember walking past a receptionist and breezily saying "We're just leaving, bye". It was such a monumental step towards safety. Hell had had locked gates up until this point, but it looked like I may have seen an opening and I was running for it. I was doing this of my own free will. The first step I took into the night air was the most exhilarating and powerful breath I have ever taken. The coldness shocked the deepest point of my lungs and I felt alive. More alive than I knew a human being could feel. As the full moon shone down on me I let out a howl of euphoria. We had done it. I had done it. The psychic energy that was now coursing through my veins meant that I had to dance, dance, dance and not stop. The charleston was my dance of choice.
I had shut three of the four car doors with everyone going on the journey seated inside, and it only remained for me to say goodbye to my mother-in-law and get in that car. I'm crying as I write this because I can remember how that moment of saying goodbye felt to me; like all things in the history of the universe: hope and fear, love and deep gratitude, pain and loss, elation and guilt, frustration and connection. I was safe, and yet so far from safety I feared that after that goodbye I may never make it to hello again.
As my car door slammed shut with me ensconced in the car, I laughed at The Thing. I laughed that this time it had picked the wrong person to mess with. We headed out of the car park and onto the road. Unfortunately, outside the car The Thing was laughing harder. What I thought was my door shutting was actually him slamming the gates of Hell, and I was still very much inside.
Love and chicken fillet burgers,
Mutha Courage X
I demand a KFC and I'm not leaving until I've had one. We are all exhausted and hungry and I am not taking my 7 day old son on a 3 hour car journey until I have at least had a hot meal. To my intense surprise a KFC soon arrived on the ward. It was yet another meal I would just look at and let go cold, but that wasn't the point. My husband had eaten. My mother-in-law had eaten and I could only get out if my team was strong and, to my psychosis-addled brain, KFC was the answer.
At 2am I will walk out of this hospital and you will all be with me. Do you believe I can do it? Yes. That's not strong enough, do you believe I can do it? YES. That's better. Do you believe? Do You? Do YOU? I needed their responses to fit exactly into my jigsaw. I saw their puzzled faces and demanded they try a new piece, but what I didn't realise was, I was the only one that could see the lid. My team was 5 and a tiny one strong. Two members of the crisis team (Shadow and Hero - they all had special names) my husband, my mother-in-law, my minuscule son and Me. The Me that I had unflinching belief in, the Me that had birthed my son naturally just a few days ago, the Me that ran marathons and did Edinburgh shows, the Me I was terrified I had lost forever.
I coached the team for well over an hour on the minutiae of how we would leave the hospital. It was my walk to freedom and it needed to be exactly right or The Thing would be there to trip me up. I was psyching myself up. I knew that I had something very powerful deep within that could do this and there couldn't be a scrap of doubt from anyone around me that it was absolutely possible.
When the moment came I had the wall of white light taken down from the ward and placed around me. I took pictures of the room and the clock as mementoes of when I took my first stand against this demon I was doing battle with. I had the team ready. I flung the hospital curtain open, shouted "I'm not afraid of you" at The Thing and took the first step of a much longer journey to come.
Out of my pocket blasted Imelda May's "Pulling the Rug From Under Me" and as its powerful rockabilly beats filled my heart, I marched out of that ward. My team just one step behind. This was the biggest feat of imagination over mental tyranny I'd ever attempted, as I insisted that everyone walked out behind me as if we were all in Reservoir Dogs. I even had to stop half way to let Hero know that he was walking all wrong and needed to get his groove on. Not only that, but the 2nd track on the album had started to play and as it was called "Psycho" I thought it was best to replay the first one. It definitely did not look like a group of people that had been struggling for hours to make it out of a door. Well, in my head anyway, we looked like superheroes.
I remember walking past a receptionist and breezily saying "We're just leaving, bye". It was such a monumental step towards safety. Hell had had locked gates up until this point, but it looked like I may have seen an opening and I was running for it. I was doing this of my own free will. The first step I took into the night air was the most exhilarating and powerful breath I have ever taken. The coldness shocked the deepest point of my lungs and I felt alive. More alive than I knew a human being could feel. As the full moon shone down on me I let out a howl of euphoria. We had done it. I had done it. The psychic energy that was now coursing through my veins meant that I had to dance, dance, dance and not stop. The charleston was my dance of choice.
I had shut three of the four car doors with everyone going on the journey seated inside, and it only remained for me to say goodbye to my mother-in-law and get in that car. I'm crying as I write this because I can remember how that moment of saying goodbye felt to me; like all things in the history of the universe: hope and fear, love and deep gratitude, pain and loss, elation and guilt, frustration and connection. I was safe, and yet so far from safety I feared that after that goodbye I may never make it to hello again.
As my car door slammed shut with me ensconced in the car, I laughed at The Thing. I laughed that this time it had picked the wrong person to mess with. We headed out of the car park and onto the road. Unfortunately, outside the car The Thing was laughing harder. What I thought was my door shutting was actually him slamming the gates of Hell, and I was still very much inside.
Love and chicken fillet burgers,
Mutha Courage X
Monday, 16 June 2014
Darkest Before the Dawn
I sprang out of my wheelchair and bolted for the automatic doors. I was dying for fresh air. I was determined to show The Thing that I could fight him. It may have only been one breath of the cold night air, but it was my breath. My tiny victory. At the close of play each day of my psychosis The Thing had definitely won, but I was gaining territory. It was hard to see that when I was surrounded with the wounds and suffering of another defeat, but I was determined to battle to the death.
To put this micro-win into context, I had been trying to get out of the hospital for approximately 12 hours. After a massive episode that lasted nearly and hour and a half prior to this the Crisis Team had been called and it was agreed that I needed to be transferred to a psychiatric ward immediately. I only found out a couple of weeks ago that they had asked my husband if he felt he could care for me at home and he had to say one of the most difficult things he's ever had to: No.
In many ways deciding that the transfer to the Mother and Baby Unit should happen was the easy bit. In my lucid moments I would clearly and desperately state that I knew I was ill and wanted to get better, that I would accept any help that was offered to me, and that I surrendered. Unfortunately, as soon as my mania and paranoia was in full flow I didn't trust anything that was being said to me and I was actively hostile to the help being given. I made severe threats if it ever looked like I wouldn't get what I wanted: even when what I wanted was a cheese sandwich. I couldn't bear not having strict control over every single person in my presence.
I had never felt so powerful and so weak in all my life. I could make demands that were acted on in a moment and yet I couldn't speak a full sentence without having my voice box hijacked by this destructive demon. Everything. Everything had to be on my terms. Well, on the terms of my psychosis. For 4 hours we stood by the door of the hospital with me desperately trying and hideously fearful of leaving.
My husband look terrified. This proud new father had lost his glow, dread filled his eyes and his mouth was tense with anxiety. He took me aside, out of earshot of the nursing staff, the moonlight put him in the spotlight, and what he said pierced through the hard exterior of the disease and whispered to the me that was drowning deep inside.
"If you don't do this, they will take the decision away from you"
Take the decision away from me. Take the decision away? Take the decision away! Take my son away. Drug me. Put me on an acute ward. Stop me seeing them.
The threat of being sectioned hung over me like a dangling highwayman. The vision of what could be if I didn't get into the Mother and Baby unit as an informal patient was shockingly real and truly painfully possible. Throughout this whole ordeal my son sits stoically in his little bear snowsuit that swamps his minute frame. Due to my sickness he is losing weight rapidly and needs food and care. All the time I soothe him and tell him not to take any notice of Mummy's silly voices, while I sob within. Desperate to protect and nurture this new human being that needs me. I fight every second to keep us together. To keep my son.
Love and cheese sandwiches,
Mutha Courage x
To put this micro-win into context, I had been trying to get out of the hospital for approximately 12 hours. After a massive episode that lasted nearly and hour and a half prior to this the Crisis Team had been called and it was agreed that I needed to be transferred to a psychiatric ward immediately. I only found out a couple of weeks ago that they had asked my husband if he felt he could care for me at home and he had to say one of the most difficult things he's ever had to: No.
In many ways deciding that the transfer to the Mother and Baby Unit should happen was the easy bit. In my lucid moments I would clearly and desperately state that I knew I was ill and wanted to get better, that I would accept any help that was offered to me, and that I surrendered. Unfortunately, as soon as my mania and paranoia was in full flow I didn't trust anything that was being said to me and I was actively hostile to the help being given. I made severe threats if it ever looked like I wouldn't get what I wanted: even when what I wanted was a cheese sandwich. I couldn't bear not having strict control over every single person in my presence.
I had never felt so powerful and so weak in all my life. I could make demands that were acted on in a moment and yet I couldn't speak a full sentence without having my voice box hijacked by this destructive demon. Everything. Everything had to be on my terms. Well, on the terms of my psychosis. For 4 hours we stood by the door of the hospital with me desperately trying and hideously fearful of leaving.
My husband look terrified. This proud new father had lost his glow, dread filled his eyes and his mouth was tense with anxiety. He took me aside, out of earshot of the nursing staff, the moonlight put him in the spotlight, and what he said pierced through the hard exterior of the disease and whispered to the me that was drowning deep inside.
"If you don't do this, they will take the decision away from you"
Take the decision away from me. Take the decision away? Take the decision away! Take my son away. Drug me. Put me on an acute ward. Stop me seeing them.
The threat of being sectioned hung over me like a dangling highwayman. The vision of what could be if I didn't get into the Mother and Baby unit as an informal patient was shockingly real and truly painfully possible. Throughout this whole ordeal my son sits stoically in his little bear snowsuit that swamps his minute frame. Due to my sickness he is losing weight rapidly and needs food and care. All the time I soothe him and tell him not to take any notice of Mummy's silly voices, while I sob within. Desperate to protect and nurture this new human being that needs me. I fight every second to keep us together. To keep my son.
Love and cheese sandwiches,
Mutha Courage x
Monday, 2 June 2014
Twinkle Twinkle Yellow Star
I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but thank goodness my son had jaundice. Ordinarily that may sound like a slightly cruel thing to say about your week old offspring, but the fact that he was in hospital meant that I was, which consequently meant professionals could see that something was wrong. Very wrong indeed.
As much as possible, my husband and I took Albert's admission in our stride, reminded ourselves that there was no way our lives "should" look, and that we could just embrace what was happening, be strong for each other and for our son and keep positive. Albert continued to be calm, resilient and patient; all qualities that would characterise him throughout the whole experience. He was sporting a new orange perspex visor to shield his eyes from the UV lamps that he ended being under for 3 or 4 days and was very good natured as me and his father proceeded to sing Kylie Minogue's "I Just Can't Get You Out of My Head" track at him repeatedly.
I knew two things: I loved my husband, I loved my son, and I would do anything to make sure they were safe, well, fed, and rested. Unfortunately for me the third thing that I didn't know was that while I was feeding my son on one side, psychosis was latching on to the other and was going to drain me of everything I had and held dear.
The journey from our house to the hospital one was a crazy one. I had had to focus all my energy to set foot outside the front door and into the taxi. The poor taxi driver didn't know what he'd let himself in for, nor did my best friend who had just arrived and was promptly thrust in the taxi with us for our big yellow adventure. She already knew from what I'd told her that I was going through something very very intense, but we're both actors and thought that maybe this was just what it was like after you'd given birth when you were experiencing it fully. I remember saying to her "WE. ARE. WOMEN. WOMEN. Do you know how POWERFUL we are?!" Again, it's hard to tell sometimes with me what "normal" looks like. Anyway, there we were in the taxi with me insisting that the taxi driver "breathed with me" before we set off.
I couldn't stop writing, tweeting and texting on the journey. I was in overdrive. I was becoming manic. The pressure of the changing environments was panicking me, I was getting increasingly unstable. I was snapping and I didn't know how to stop myself.
After the initial assessments we were told Albert would need to be under the lamps for six hours, then overnight, then one night became two, then 3. All of this time I hardly slept, keeping vigil over my boys. I took lots of photos of Matt and Albert sleeping at this time, at a time when I should have been sleeping too.
"I see you what you are. We're all just babies really. You. Me. Everyone" I clasped my friend's head in my hands and gazed into the heart of her being. I saw, I understood. I had insight into the soul of humanity. Wow. This is incredible. I've never felt more in my power, more alive, more insightful. I must tweet it. I've got to tweet it now. I'll forget it. I'll save it in drafts. These insights felt electrifying, all-consuming, inspiring, but they came at the cost of another meal going cold and uneaten, and another sleep being avoided.
Days and nights took on a strangely uncanny feeling; a bewildering sense of being misplaced, out of time, out of sync, euphoric and rattled. The nights were painted in the surreal light of the blue UV rays and the days were whitewashed with the strange filter of exhaustion and relief. I was on a strict feeding schedule with my son meaning only 10 minutes feeding at a time, followed by a maximum of 5 minutes burping and back under the lamps. I was desperate to hold him, to comfort him, for him to comfort me, but every minute that I kept him from under those healing rays the worse things would be for him.
As the psychosis began to develop I started to feel less and less capable and confident as a mother. I knew I was being pulled under by a very strong force and I was desperate to cling to anything to keep me connected with my reality. The me I was sure I was. The me I believed in. I asked the nurses to write down how they saw me looking after my son, how they saw me love and care for him, how they saw that I loved my husband and that he loved me. I knew that my perceptions were becoming unreliable and I knew I would need breadcrumbs to lead me out of this foreboding forest. I begged them to leave these notes for me at the end of their shifts, just in case I lost myself entirely.
Love & hospital grub,
Mutha Courage X
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Cabbage Leaves & Oblivion
I'd heard so many people talk about having a baby being like running a marathon that I thought I'd run one before I became a mother to find out. Obviously that's not the whole reason I ran the London Marathon. I also wanted a medal. I'd also made a pledge with my 15 year old self that I would run it before I was 30 and as my 29 year old self kept reminding me that didn't leave much time. (My 29 year old self was a bit pushy for achievement and self actualisation.)
Anyway, I digress. What I realised soon after giving birth is that labour is not when the marathon begins. If anything, labour and birth is like the end of the marathon; running down Pall Mall with everyone cheering you on and telling you how strong you are and how well you're doing. Everyone coming to visit the baby immediately after the birth is like all the photos after, holding the medal or the well deserved tub of Carte D'or ice cream. Having a baby is a reverse marathon. After all of that excitement and glory has subsided, and each member of the family goes off with enough photographic evidence of your success to keep them in screensavers until 2026, that is when the marathon truly starts. That is where the isolation of those long training runs sets in, where hardly anyone is cheering on the sidelines. Everyone, quite rightly, wants to give you time to settle in and nest and become a family, but that is when you start to know what you're really made of.
I've always been an achiever, I think I've always needed it to validate my existence. I have a certificate, therefore I am. But babies couldn't give a shit. Well...they do give a shit. Plenty, but everything you thought you knew about work and reward fades into the pages of your life's history once your child arrives. For a start, there's feeding them. I was not prepared for that experience. Absolutely not. The milk coming in. It was insane and intense and it hurt. Now for a woman that didn't want or feel the need for any pain relief during labour that means something. I went from looking like an Amazonian milk goddess one moment to a wonky milk maid that had seriously asymmetric teats the next. Not having a particularly big chest anyway, I was astounded to see my ballooning bazongas. In fact, it was at this time, around day 3 after having my son that my postpartum psychosis heaven and hell began.
I spent the next 3 days with my udders permanently covered in savoy cabbage leaves (refrigerated for her pleasure!) and could regularly been seen sporting a very fetching tits-out-of-the-nightie look. I'm sure they'll be featuring that in Vogue soon. My hormones were having a 90s rave and I was not so much invited, as invaded by some seriously drugged squatters. I had various visits from midwives, but I became increasingly aware that something wasn't quite right with me, as I was saying things like "I mean they call it the baby blues, but this feels more like oblivion" and "I feel like a cosmic cow". Yes, definitely the sign that something was going somewhat askew. These comments were made during a conversation with a midwife on a home visit. I say a conversation, it was just me talking. Non stop. For TWO HOURS. This, my friends, was one of my first hyper manic episodes, the first of many that would grow in intensity, darkness and pain.
It's hard to look back on that time, the week after my son was born and assess what was "normal". I was falling into a psychosis black hole on the one hand, but on the other hand I was having the most incredible time feeding and bonding with my baby and working out how to function in this brave new world.
I've never ever gone through such intense emotions, feelings and physical sensations and this was just the beginning of being a parent. Holy shit balls! If that's the beginning what's the rest like?
Love and nipple cream,
Mutha Courage X
Anyway, I digress. What I realised soon after giving birth is that labour is not when the marathon begins. If anything, labour and birth is like the end of the marathon; running down Pall Mall with everyone cheering you on and telling you how strong you are and how well you're doing. Everyone coming to visit the baby immediately after the birth is like all the photos after, holding the medal or the well deserved tub of Carte D'or ice cream. Having a baby is a reverse marathon. After all of that excitement and glory has subsided, and each member of the family goes off with enough photographic evidence of your success to keep them in screensavers until 2026, that is when the marathon truly starts. That is where the isolation of those long training runs sets in, where hardly anyone is cheering on the sidelines. Everyone, quite rightly, wants to give you time to settle in and nest and become a family, but that is when you start to know what you're really made of.
I've always been an achiever, I think I've always needed it to validate my existence. I have a certificate, therefore I am. But babies couldn't give a shit. Well...they do give a shit. Plenty, but everything you thought you knew about work and reward fades into the pages of your life's history once your child arrives. For a start, there's feeding them. I was not prepared for that experience. Absolutely not. The milk coming in. It was insane and intense and it hurt. Now for a woman that didn't want or feel the need for any pain relief during labour that means something. I went from looking like an Amazonian milk goddess one moment to a wonky milk maid that had seriously asymmetric teats the next. Not having a particularly big chest anyway, I was astounded to see my ballooning bazongas. In fact, it was at this time, around day 3 after having my son that my postpartum psychosis heaven and hell began.
I spent the next 3 days with my udders permanently covered in savoy cabbage leaves (refrigerated for her pleasure!) and could regularly been seen sporting a very fetching tits-out-of-the-nightie look. I'm sure they'll be featuring that in Vogue soon. My hormones were having a 90s rave and I was not so much invited, as invaded by some seriously drugged squatters. I had various visits from midwives, but I became increasingly aware that something wasn't quite right with me, as I was saying things like "I mean they call it the baby blues, but this feels more like oblivion" and "I feel like a cosmic cow". Yes, definitely the sign that something was going somewhat askew. These comments were made during a conversation with a midwife on a home visit. I say a conversation, it was just me talking. Non stop. For TWO HOURS. This, my friends, was one of my first hyper manic episodes, the first of many that would grow in intensity, darkness and pain.
It's hard to look back on that time, the week after my son was born and assess what was "normal". I was falling into a psychosis black hole on the one hand, but on the other hand I was having the most incredible time feeding and bonding with my baby and working out how to function in this brave new world.
I've never ever gone through such intense emotions, feelings and physical sensations and this was just the beginning of being a parent. Holy shit balls! If that's the beginning what's the rest like?
Love and nipple cream,
Mutha Courage X
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