Tag Archives: depression

My balls ache. And I didn’t even realise I had them.

You often hear the as old as a leather headbag line when someone says they haven’t been well … shhhhhh ‘mentally’. You get “ Oh but you look great, you would never know.” Or “Oh but I saw you liked Kim Kardashians latest instagram post. If you were that ill you couldn’t do that”. The last few months I have been well aware of the public face of all is well in my world of Eve. In reality it hasn’t – I’ve been off work since the end of april with stress. The reasons for my stress have been difficult and it’s something I will be keeping to myself. Because in the end, for me, it’s the effect of the stress that I’ve been working to deal with that is my priority now. So so much more has happened , but some things will remain mine to know about.

Having had psychosis and anxiety , I thought stress for me would be a lesser known cousin that I could destroy with my she-ra mental health powers. How wrong was I . Stress is a total and utter ballache that hurts so bad , I wanted to cut the balls off. Except I don’t have them. I had to find balls I didn’t own even though it felt like a million of them were flying at my face. And stress while having to carry on like all is well, means the balls hit you in the face and knock you over when you least expect it.

I found myself turning into a coping robot – my child was delivered and collected from school each day. My dear  friends Leena and Nellie acted as on call babysitters for my dear child when I needed to visit the doctors but I showered , dressed, wore my best fringed ankle cowboy boots and even re-applied my crystal finished acrylic nails. Nellie held my hand as i sobbed hysterically about life and was my shoulder to lean on throughout.  I collected Joe everyday with a bright smile and regales of ‘” Ooohhh look at your amazing picture of people falling out of an RAF plane and the swat officers running underneath them. What’s that ? An assassin you say ? Oh how cute and marvellous Joe. Here is an ice lolly”. I bought packets of spiralized butternut squash to continue on my quest for supermodel thighs and phoned the mothership every two nights and duly listened to her moan at me for not sending a birthday card to the lady who lives 8 houses down in another country and why can’t you just write all the birthdays down Evelyn ? I sent flowers on obligatory days and answered all the requests that came through to me. While I was doing the UK Maternal Mental Health Awareness Week.

And then I would close the bathroom door. I would turn on the shower and I would cry. I cried so hard one day I put my fingers through my hair and as they left it I realised I was holding a clump of it in my hand. My hair was falling out. Having been blessed with an already ample forehead akin to the side of a mountain,this was somewhat disastrous and does nothing for what I still assume is my lost modelling career. Ponytails were now a total non option on the school run. I lost some of my hair when I had Postpartum Psychosis and had to live with a fringe that grew upwards upon the hairs return and I looked like something you would want to pinch the cheeks off and give a lollipop to. I sat in the bath one day in my clothes with the shower falling down on me for over an hour and wondered if and when the feeling would wash away.

I then got my period. Thanks for the extra info Eve I hear you say. And you’re not special as we all get them. But then I got another period .And then 2 more. The doctor sent me to blood test after blood test and I weed on a fair few sticks but it seems my body just went totally haywire and had a technical fault . I felt like I did when I was 9 and got my first period. 9. Yes , 9.Life has been a complete barrel of drunk laughs for me from birth. When I hit puberty, it was as though my thighs had been spread with a mixture of butter and cottage cheese, got four boobs as what puberty hit girl knows about bra measurement and wrote swimming in PE and white trousers off until eternity. I also felt murderous to anything that wasn’t made out of sugar for the next 27 years.

Back in the stress diagnosis on 2017, I found myself staying up until 3am as going to sleep was hard knowing I would wake up wired, but a stressed wire where I had to function on a basic level. Hello Mr Checkout man in sainsburys. Yes Joe is still collecting the lego cards. Oh how kind , 35 packets because you like him, wonderful. Hello son, please can you not lay on the floor of the cornershop because they have run out of rump steak. I know mummy feeds you the food of a king but for once, lets accept the organic cows ares still in the field.

To have a stress filled situation in my life that I have no control over has honestly felt like I have been drowning at times. I went through 3 weeks of fainting which terrified Joe and John. After one such incident, John picked me up off the lego helicopter I had collapsed on and spoke to me gently when I came around. “ Are you okay baby” he asked. I opened my mouth to respond but realised I couldn’t . For around 15 minutes , I wasn’t able to form words. Joe was laughing and then became scared – “Daddy, what wrong with mama. Why mummy making funny sounds, make it stop daddy”. I can remember trying to say what’s wrong and feeling very confused why I couldn’t . I had tears going down my face but couldn’t express my upset verbally – John cuddled me until it passed but it was utterly terrifying.

And food. Food decided it didn’t like being digested.  My body was rejecting everything i was eating which resulted in a half a stone lighter me. Usually, this would be grounds for a fist pump but not at the moment. I have to sit for 30 minutes after each meal to allow for my dinner to stay put and not have a punch up with my stomach acid. That stomach acid made cuts at the side of my mouth – if you attempt to cover these with make up, you look like you’ve orally caressed your toothpaste and its dried out. Lovely.

The GP said my body was shutting down. The hair loss, the bleeding, the constant fainting, the no thank you to my lunches- it was saying I needed to rest, to burst all the balls. And so I did. I stopped everything . I got signed off. I stopped it all and that’s what I needed to do. I’ve spent 2 months recouping and focusing on the importance of recovery and self care. I’ve spent 2 months reclaiming Eve . To the naked eye , I always have been. If I hadn’t been off work, no one would know something hasn’t been right. I wasn’t covering it up – I still want to wear make up and false nails but the make up has helped with the terrible black eye bags.

And I am still Eve. I can still drink 87 glasses of wine and butterfly across the dance floor while shouting about how school attendance awards are a total ball ache whilst googling ‘how come I didn’t realise I dropped a stapler in my bra’. That doesn’t go. But that doesn’t mean someone isn’t ill. I have spent 2 months cancelling dinners with friends. My beautiful friend Sarah came over from Australia and I was due to meet up with her and all my uni girlfriends for dinner and I just couldn’t go. They would have all hugged me and been super supportive ( and have been) but my head wasn’t in the place to do it. I’ve ignored my phone , voicemails and social media until around 3 weeks ago when I felt like I was ready to step a little back into the world I lived in before.

I turned my laptop on for work last week. The first time in just over 2 months. I’m on a phased return and I have missed work enormously. I like going in and eating all the biscuits and toddling around in my pink high heels whilst doing very important work type things. I sit at my desk and yell out helppppp like a 3 yr old when my excel spreadsheet isn’t letting me type in capitals. Some nice poor soul comes over and presses caps lock for me. I could play skittles with the diet coke cans all over my desk and I have 7 pairs of shoes hiding in my drawer that I may have bought on the joint account. Thank you royal bank of husband. You haven’t seen the shoes but they are nice and will remain living at work. My best friend now works in the team and its all a jolly good hoot. And work have been so unbelievably supportive during this time , I will personally buy them all a luxury holiday upon my return. If I ever become a millionaire. They may have to settle for a bag of mini eggs and some bakewell tarts.

They have heard me cry, yell and act in despair and cuddled me both virtually and in person. A few little messages here and there but no pressure to respond and that’s what I needed. My brain was so consumed with the stress in front of me that I couldn’t and still occasionally at times cant respond. My lovely manager calls me each week and if I didn’t answer it was okay. Everything was okay.

I feel incredibly thankful to my team for picking up my work with I literally just walked out on and I haven’t been able to answer any questions about how or why to do things. And so with the tiny amount of work I am doing to reintroduce myself back into my normal world, I am enjoying it. I of course wanted to dive straight back in in a dazzling swimsuit and glitterball earrings but the doc has told me to calm my self down. Though it may feel like I can take great strides, small steps are the name of the game at the moment.

These last couple of months have reminded me both how fragile the mind can be but also how strong it is also and how things do get better and they do get back to the normal you know. With the help of the lovely Dr Stephanie, my own GP , my therapist Rosie , all the happy pills, John , Joe and my friends, things are slipping back into place. I have been to the pub. I like looking at johns nice big strong back.I’ve sworn at the train track clogging up the house. I went for a curry. I had some long island ice teas. Just not everyday.

I also found out I had been awarded a British Empire Medal in the Queens Birthday Honours for Services to Mental Health. I am so grateful to whoever nominated me – it’s such a kind thing to do and I truly love supporting people , particularly mums, with their mental health. I felt happy, nervous, a little panicked when I was then asked to do a press conference as one of the 6 people chosen to reflect this years recipients.

The week before, I had been exhausted and then week of the press conference , I was choosing a pretty dress with flute sleeves to wear . I then went to Kensington Palace and sat in a press conference and spoke about my work. I sat next to Doreen, a pearly queen who has done so much charity work, she could write a book longer than the phone directory. I want to be Doreen when I grow up because she is ace – she told of her colourful and selfless life, with all its ups and downs, while sat there looking amazing in her button covered outfit.

The picture attached to this blog shows the difference in my face from one situation to the next. While I was in my pretty flute dress, I was still unwell. I just didn’t ‘look’ like people think you should look. Whereas the other photo of me looking utterly horrific was when I had just had a meltdown over not being able to collapse a scooter while on hold to Boots the Chemist , while ordering Joe a lamb shish having had 3 hours of broken stress filled sleep. I then had to load the boy, the bloody scooter and the kebab into a cab to take Joe to football practice. When we got there , I kicked the scooter, threw it on the grass and collapsed on Leena and asked her to take over everything. She dutifully handed me a diet coke, sat with me for the hour and loaded me , Joe and the scooter in her car and delivered us home so my brain didn’t have to attempt to work out how to do all that myself.

Being so aware of my mental health means as soon as I saw the signs, I took a step back. I knew it was no time to be brave trekking into work everyday . For the first time maybe ever , I told people I couldn’t do certain things and its only when I stopped I realised how bloody bananas life can be at times.

Life now is racing towards marvelous again but it may be a little while before normal service resumes completely and that’s okay as it will happen. Sometimes, it may look like something is all glittery when actually it isn’t all gold. What you see on the outside might not be an entirely accurate portrayal of how things are underneath . But I guess what I have also realised is that in the face of stressville, I still exist. I can still be me. And emerging from this, I think I have learnt more about myself than all those other encounters . I’ve definitely learnt that scooters are the worst invention of all time and don’t respond to being kicked repeatedly.

Maybe that I need a vajazzle . Just to seal the stay away.

The chronicles of 19865788 Lego blocks while not wearing socks.

In three days, it’s my sons 7th birthday. My baby is no longer that and last night , as I looked at him in bed , with his superman pants sticking out of the bed covers, football socks pulled up to his knees, and handmade reward signs for “bad man wanted , dead or aliv” stuck all over the house, I cried. John came over to me and said he is lovely isnt he ? I said he is, and he wiped a tear from my face. Well , it was more than a tear- a monsoon was gushing out of my tear ducts and I was a blubbering mess. As I felt the salty drops , I said to John “ where has the time gone ?”. So much has happened baby , I never thought we would be here . I never ever thought I could feel such a burst of love for him” and my long suffering pretend hubby said , but here you are Eve , you and your boy , the dream team.

And here we are indeed. Joe’s birthday doesn’t just signify his birth. It signifies me becoming a mummy, John becoming a daddy and also makes me remember that seven years ago, after giving birth , my mind descended into a whirling deep pit of the hell that is Postpartum Psychosis . Seven years on, it reminds me that I am here , I recovered , I survived , I am alive and I am happy. Happy to be Joe’s mummy .

I wanted to write this blog to show my boy I always loved him , even during a time when I could barely remember my own name , I couldn’t remember how to wash myself and when I was lost in a rambling head of confused thoughts. I want him to be able to read it when he is older and know how much he means to me and our family but also to show other mums who may be unwell now , that they will get better and their relationship with their child will be okay . More than okay – it will flourish.

Joe watched when I received a Speaking Out Award from the charity Mind in November . I , alongside my dear friend Kathryn , had worked with the BBC and Mind on a storyline about Postpartum Psychosis on the soap Eastenders and were essentially the experts by experience. Mind and the BBC did a marvellous job of accurately portraying the illness and raising awareness and one of the overriding themes of the storyline was of how much the mum affected , Stacey, loved her baby. It was so important to show this and the charity Action on Postpartum Psychosis stress that as serious as the symptoms of the illness are , they in no way mean the sufferer is evil or doesn’t love her child. In no way at all.

Kathryn and I were very lucky to be presented the award , which was a thank for us speaking out about our experiences which informed the storyline . I had told Joe that mummy and daddy were going to an award show ,that mummy would be getting an award and explained to the in laws how to use the modern invention that is the IPad so Joe could watch the live feed. When we got home at 1am, me shoeless but most definitely not wineless , eating a lamb shish with extra garlic chilli sauce and a naan bread hanging out of my mouth, my mother in-law emerged from the lounge and said that they didn’t know I was getting an award but said that Joe sat there for 2 and a half hours staring at the iPad waiting for mummy. As it got to the end , she had said to Joe that she didn’t think he would be seeing mummy and Joe shouted ‘I will. My mummy said she is getting an award and my mummy doesn’t lie to me” and he plonked himself on the floor again and stared at the screen once more. I then did indeed get it , and my mother in law says she looked at Joe, my beautiful little pocket rocket, who has mastered the art of swearing in a non – offensive way ” Mummy – Donald trump is a right ‘ucker isn’t he” and he had tears running down his face. When he woke up in the morning he said ‘Mummy, I so proud of you – you said my name in your speech!’.

He then asked where his award was , when is he going to look around the EastEnders set and why he can’t drink children’s wine to celebrate . Six hours later , after a trip to the trophy shop, I presented him with his own award and he did a thank you speech for us in the living room while dressed up as his self-invented super-hero pants man ( think 18 pairs of pants tucked into another pair of pants , socks on hands , pair of pants on head) .

He then said he needed to talk to me. He kissed my head , asked if I would play shops with him and then said , mummy, when you collected your award last night , why did you say when you gave birth to me , that you were scared of me ? He looked at me and said , I’m not scary mama and my heart stopped a beat. Joe has always known what happened to me and what happened to us when he was born. He knows mummy had a poorly head that made her think things that weren’t really happening , he knows that mummy was a bit muddled up when she thought about things and she needed the doctors to help make her better and he knows that me and him lived in a psychiatric mother and baby unit so I could recover in a safe warm place . We visit the mother and baby unit and go to the bedroom we lived in while we was there. Joe jumps up and down in the cot he was in and helps himself to the biscuits the nurses hand out he knows the mums who are there have poorly heads but that they are there to get better. But what he didn’t know is that I was scared of him.

I have never been one to shy away from telling Joe stuff. I am the parent who explained where babies came from when he was three – ‘What , daddy put his willy into your vangina ???? and the sperm fish raced to the wombs and broke through ? do I have sperm fish? “

We are the family that explained what body parts are which brought about the following encounter one hazy night at 11pm while I was on the sofa in johns tracksuit bottoms , drinking Buck’s Fizz from the bottle. I think it was a Tuesday- totally rock and roll…

‘Mummy , I can’t sleep.

Cue me throwing the bag of chocolate behind the sofa and sympathetically asking why darling ?

“ it’s just that I need to tell you the right word for the vangina . it’s not a vangina or a front bumper. It’s a vulva. Can you say vulva mummy ? you have it so you should be able to.

Vulva darling. I can say it. Thank you for telling me .

No worries mummy, I thought you should know. It’s not a front bumper. We don’t say that”

And off he toddled.

And then there was the epic time we explained how people can love who they want :

“Mummy, why is daddy’s friend kissing that other man on the lips in a movie star kiss like you and daddy ?

Because they love each other like mummy and daddy do. Anyone can love anyone. Boys can love girls, girls can love girls. Girls can love boys , boys can love boys. Anyone can love anyone. And if anyone says they can’t they are idiots okay ?

Are they dicks mummy , the people who think it’s wrong ? Shall we call them the dicks ?

Yes my love, they are the dicks” .

And after allowing him to self-parent and decorate the toilet seat in toothpaste while I spent half an hour attempting to prise my acrylic nails off, he came up to me and said , mummy see that man Bruce on the TV screen ? See him ? He is not Bruce anymore- he is Caitlin. He wanted to be a lady and is now one , so we don’t call her Bruce. She is a her.  She is happy now and isn’t that good mummy?

I was so proud of my boy , so open , so kind to others, so accepting in a world where a man with orange foundation and three mismatched hairpieces has become the leader of the free world. A man who can’t even run his own twitter account is running the most powerful country on earth. But I digress…..

I have always been open with Joe. I want him to know about everything so he grows up being accepting and being aware of himself, his body and be respectful to others who love their differently to us. We have told him what happened to us when he was born so he understands why mummy had to zoom up and down to Nottingham on a train for therapy , so he understands why mummy took 87 pills before bed, so he understands why mummy needs some space sometimes. But I hadn’t prepared myself for him hearing I was scared of him.

I was never scared of you Joe. You with the little sweaty feet, the lovely squishy arms, the cute punky hair. You were and are the most beaut child I had ever seen. I was scared of the thoughts in my head. No one knows quite why but when I gave birth, something happened to my head. It was like someone pulled out bits of my brain , put them in back in with a load of lego blocks and mixed them around like a bowl on Bake Off. I lost the instruction manual to my brain and couldn’t rebuild myself. My head got confused and starting thinking things it didn’t want to – it was like when we were building the Lego millennium falcon- we were putting the pieces together and it got so confusing – so many bags of stuff and we didn’t know where all the bits went and it took 12 hours to build it properly. My brain was a melting pot of mismatched Lego bricks that I kept standing on without socks and hurting myself. I struggled to build my brain back again but I eventually did – and with your help. Hopefull, it won’t break again .Sometimes , some blocks come off and mummy thinks oh ‘ucking hell, why can’t I glue this together forever, but I manage to get the pieces back to where they belong super quick because I know where they should be. Sometimes the doctor, daddy and you help me to put the blocks back in place as well.

So it’s wasn’t you I was scared of– I was scared of my thoughts. I felt like I wouldn’t be a good mummy and when I realised I was to be a mummy forever, this scared me . You know when mummy says she thinks she wants a new job as the one she is in is doing her head in ? Its like that – but I realised my job as a mummy was forever and I was so confused that I couldn’t change this job if I didn’t like it. But I knew I wanted to like to – I had wanted you for so long . I then realized it wasn’t a job, it was my purpose. I am here to be your mummy.

As you get older , you will see and read things about how unwell I was and you may thing , erm , mother , why did you climb out of the window adorned in blue eye shadow while muttering that the clouds were trapping you and why the dickens did you run past Mr Patel’s house with no clothes on and bite daddy’s ankles so he wouldn’t leave the house ? I am aware that your teenage self in a few years will be embarrassed by me and will ignore everything i say even more than you do now but I promise I will try to not run past Mr Patel without my pants again. I would have preferred to not have done this the first time but I can’t change the past. That’s why the woman across the road has her net curtain permanently hitched up day and night – I think she doesn’t want to miss it , should I ever do a repeat performance.

As mummy’s friend Beth says , motherhood has truly been the making of me , but in a way I never expected. I never thought I would give birth and start crawling around the floor convinced I was being buried alive . I never thought I would be asleep in a bed , filled to my gills with anti psychotics In a mother and baby unit . I never thought I would shake when I saw you .But I did , those things happened , but so did my recovery.

I wanted to recover for you. And we must always remember daddy says – even when I was unwell , so unwell, I loved you. I cared for you, I fed you, I begged for help so I could enjoy you , so I could cuddle you. At times I may not have known who or what I was , but I yearned for you. I remember on my discharge from the unit, holding you in my arms , I knew I was getting better. When we entered the unit , I couldn’t close the door and be in a room on my own with you but just a week later , I did just that. It was the biggest turning point in my illness and gave us the first glimmer of hope I then understood.

A few months later , I would travel to Nottingham twice a week with you in a sling on a train – me and you , together. I would go the therapy and I remember calling granddad builder and crying saying daddy, I am getting there , I am getting better and he said , you are hen , you are and its beautiful , me and your man love you . And we don’t just love you , we adore you.

A year later , I went back to work. I had two days off a week with you and spent those days taking you to clappy sing song baby groups. I never knew I would grow to love singing the wheels on the bus 87 times a week but I did . I would count down until my days off with you so we could hang out . Blobs of play dough with raw spaghetti made by your little hands were spaceships and they still and always will take pride of place on the shelves in the lounge.

Seven years on , I could literally inhale you. You have grown from a beautiful baby to the most wonderful independent , caring child. You won your class school council election with a manifesto saying ‘ I think I should be a school councillor because I am a very nice person’ and my love, you are .You give your sandwiches to the homeless man on the street , you waved a placard around at a breastfeeding in public rally and told a newspaper photographer he was rude , you throw lego at the TV when supernanny is on saying that woman is a bell end mummy , take her away and you stood in front of the TV after brexit and said , mummy, what the uck is going on ? .

I could not be prouder to be your mummy. You may be my first child and my last child but you are most definitely my everything . Being unwell after you were born has shown me how much I love you and how much I always have. I was never scared of you mate , I was scared of what the illness did to me.

Always remember this. On your birthday , when I find you in knee deep in squirty cream and a bowl of jelly on your head , I will remember your birthday as the best day of my life because of the family it has made us. Being your mum is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I quite like your father as well.

I was never scared of you mate – how could I be scared of someone who ,when mummies nail glue explodes in her handbag and solidifies over her house keys , doubling them in size meaning they can’t stick in the key hole and she attempts to chisel them out with and toothbrush and a sanitary towel, decides to do their much needed poo in the front garden and wipes their arse with a receipt. You’re just like your mother mate – resourceful, have no embarrassment levels and a quick thinker.

You will go far my friend and mummy will be with you. Remember what I said at the Mind awards? I said you are truly the best thing to ever happen to me. Even when you decorate the house in four unwound toilet rolls.

If I am ever not with you, I will watch this video. With daddy on the drums and you doing your best Rancid impression and I will think , I make a nice chocolate cake , but Joe is definitely the best homemade thing ever.

A spoon full of sympathetic sugar really can help the medicine go down

Sometimes you go to the doctor because a bigger than your average blackhead on your neck looks like it is about to ooze something that could garner 3 million disgust loving hits on You Tube. I don’t know about you , but I have been known to fashion a head torch at 3am to lovingly turn to the husbands back in bed to try and seek out a juicy blackhead for me to squeeze . According to him, the head torch fell out of the camping box above us and my acrylic nail accidentally stabbed him in the back while I was caressing his big strong back , overwhelmed by it in the middle of the night . But I digress…..

You think , hmm, said blackhead is a bit disgusting and is starting to do my head in a bit. I’ve left it a while and didn’t go to the doctor, as who goes to the doc with something that a fair amount of people can suffer from but no one really talks about – you don’t really hear people going ” Susan , look , look at this blackhead booming out of the back of my neck” while at the water filter in work do you ? Unless you’re me maybe . But , it hurts now and you’re finding it hard to cover up and people are starting to notice that you are wearing a polo neck everyday in your windowless office, so no one notices it. You know when you go you the doctor they will may say ,why didn’t you come sooner , ping on the latex gloves and fix your little problem there and then. If you are unlucky, they might say , yikes, that little blighter is gaining some momentum and has surpassed blackhead stage and is now a giant come done and I’m not too sure I can whip it out of your neck here so let’s refer you to the specialist to cauterize it which will fix you up good and proper. Or , at worst , which you most definitely you don’t want to hear is , you have skin, it’s a blackhead , it can happen and even though it’s three foot wide and making your life a misery, you just need to pull yourself together and think how lucky you are that you have skin. Some people would really like skin.

So – why did you wait so long to go to the doctor and pull down your roll neck to reveal your ailment ?

– you were embarrassed and thought the doctor won’t have seen anything so awful in their entire career ?
– You were ashamed and thought the doctor would think you were weak for not being able to get rid of the bloody thing yourself ?
– You were worried the doctor would have concerns about your hygiene and thought they might send you to social services ?
– Not take you seriously and say blackheads are to be expected as you have a face . And to pull yourself together and get on with it. Everyone gets blackheads?

Maybe one ? Maybe all three ? Maybe for another reason ? But its not just blackheads that make us shuffle our feet slowly when it comes to going to the doctor though is it ? What about when we produce a baby and become a mothership and don’t feel the ‘ oh my god isn’t it the best thing ever’ joy the supplement in the Sunday newspaper said it would be? When you are pregnant , we are fed the line that all the pain we go through is worth it , when you see your baby , the moons will align , your heart and head will ping together like sugar and spice and all things nice and life will continue in a more joyous way than ever.

So when this doesn’t happen , your head and heart go a tad haywire. You are a mother now, you have a beautiful child , it knows your heartbeat , your smell, your voice. But you don’t feel quite right. You don’t just feel sad, you feel like your heart is aching in a way you have never experienced. You are beyond tired, you feel scared , you aren’t quite sure if you can do this . This new job you have for life, it’s not just tough, it’s unknown. You have presents and visitors and overly helpful mother in laws coming to stay and bleaching the toilet , ironing your paper maternity pants and eating all your biscuits but you feel more lonely than you have ever felt in your life. Life is whizzing on around you , with balloons and cards clogging up the living room. But soon the balloons start to deflate. And as they do , so do you . Your head doesn’t feel like it’s yours anymore, your mind feels like it’s been taken over and you feel like nature is playing a terrible trick on you.

If your lucky, you may have heard that this can happen when you have a baby. Postnatal depression , anxiety, OCD, psychosis can rear their very unwelcome heads. And rather like your mother in law, they make themselves comfy in your space and don’t go easily. You’ve had enough , it’s time to go now thank you but no no , doesn’t budge. And sometimes it won’t easily without a bit of help. And this help usually comes in the shape of a health care professional.

However , it’s becoming more and more obvious to me, my friends who were ill like me, the fab health care professionals I have met in the last six years since I was unwell and the window cleaner, that lots of mums don’t go to the GP or tell their health visitor when they start experiencing symptoms of Postnatal Depression etc. Scratch when they start – some don’t go or say even after they have been feeling like it for a while. Why the dickens is this I hear you cry? I am a member of approx 37657546 mums groups on Facebook to try and see when a mum feels low and to signpost her to decent help. Aside from being smalltimemum1 , in the real world, I have been known to do a little bit of research and so I thought I would do some digging to see why mums don’t go to the doctor. No fancy sample sizes, no base weights , no blah blah research talk . Instead , just anecdotal evidence from real mums who have suffered. I put posts on some large Facebook groups where I know mums have posted about being unwell and asked them to say why they didn’t go to the doctor or tell another health care professional or if they did , weren’t entirely honest about their symptoms .

This blog is not to throw a pile of used maternity pads at doctors in disgust. Quite the opposite. I want to help mums. And to do that I want to help doctors understand mums whose minds have taken a trip somewhere they don’t want it to be after they have a baby and how their words and actions can impact on them. And I want to do this because when I became unwell with Postpartum Psychosis I encountered many health care professionals who were stumped at what was wrong with me. Some were ridiculous – ‘you have a baby now, it’s what women do, you will be ok soon’. One told me to bake a cake. Some said they had never seen a mum in a state like me before, babbling about cutting through the clouds with scissors and some said, oh my love, you’re not in a good way are you? We need to get you better.

The most helpful were those who let me cry on them , let my poor husband cry on them and who said , I’m not quite sure how to help you but I am going to phone a colleague who I think knows more than me. I’m writing this to give docs a bit more of a clue about how their actions , which may seem inoffensive and slight at delivery time , can have a long term effect on the woman. And what they can do to provide some comfort, some help and some hope to the woman in front of them , who desperately needs it.

There was a brilliant report published last year called ‘Falling Through The Gaps’ ( http://www.rcgp.org.uk/clinical-and-research/toolkits/~/media/0DF1836E7D6B46788519F79E0ACF6EB2.ashx) which surveyed women , asking why they didn’t go to the GP when displaying symptoms of a perinatal mental illness . It’s a brilliant report and I suggest you read it. All of it. And then eat it so it stays in you ( don’t really do that – imagine having to go to casualty with that one). It has a great quote which I think sums up the thoughts of the women of the world – ‘ Once a woman has asked for help and need has been identified, the way GPs and other professionals respond is then crucial to ensure women get the treatment and support they require.’

I was eventually helped when Joe was six weeks old. Hello Dr Ghandi in Psychiatric Outpatients who gently asked me questions about whether I was hearing voices while nodding his head and saying don’t worry, I know this is awful but you will get some help now. Hello to the nurses in the Nottingham Mother and Baby Unit who, upon my walking in , sans knickers with a pair of leggings covering my lady area , yelling that I could smell burning and in the middle of an enormous panic attack at the thought of being in a room on my own with my son, took my hand and gave me a warm long cuddle and stroked my cheek and hair while rocking me on the bed. Hello to Dr Mark, the psychologist who sat and listened to me self analyze about why this happened to me and saw me every two weeks to ensure my rocky road to recovery didn’t turn into a collapsed jelly. Hello to my mental health nurse Gwyneth, who did my EMDR therapy and made me follow her finger around the room so I didn’t fear my memories anymore. Hello to Dr Fraser , my old GP who is now retired who desperately tried to get me help in London when all I faced was brick walls and hello to my health visitor Louise who , upon my discharge from the unit and my return to our home 200 miles away four months later, came and sat with me everyday at home for two hours. Thank you for letting me cry on you, thank you for admitting you weren’t quite sure what had happened to me but sat and held my hand and told me it was going to be ok. Thank you for sorting out Homestart to come and help me get through the day. Thank you for telling me I was a wonderful mummy during the time I felt I had let my own child down. Without all of you , I would not be here , in my living room marveling at my six year olds football skills. I wouldn’t be making a giant Jaffa cake with him after school and I wouldn’t be able to help support other mums who are in the grip of this awful illness.

The medical profession quite simply saved my life. My family and I are forever grateful. But I also know how my recovery could have been started far earlier than it did. I shouldn’t have had to wait for nearly two months after my sons birth for someone to finally listen to me and see what a terrible state I was in. I saw GP after GP, went to casualty, saw different midwives and health visitors , all who didn’t know anything about me and some who didn’t have the time to listen to my husband run through all my hideous symptoms as there were 24 other patients waiting to be seen in reception. I was barely looked at by them. Health visitors came to my house and prodded my boobs and asked ‘ if baby is doing well/ if mum is walking around to help her recovery from her c section’. I was void of a name. I was referred to as ‘ mum’ and treated like just another entity on their very long list of new mums to visit that day.

Women go to the GP when they feel like they have had enough. They don’t want feel like hurling their baby out of the window. They don’t want to feel they would be better off dead. They want to feel happy, to enjoy life again, to not be crying everyday. And to leave the doctors with not any flicker of hope can be truly awful because where do they turn now? They have probably booked appointments and cancelled them numerous times, with nerves kicking in and a fear of ‘ what do I say to the doctor?’ Flashing through their mind all day and night. It’s likely they have scoured the Internet for weeks on end to try and put a name to their thoughts and feelings and the moment they walk into the doctors room if they do make it to the appointment can be so nerve wracking that they can probably hear their heart pounding . They know a magic cure won’t be given to them , they know it may take meds, therapy, time , bad days here and there but they go to the doctor to start their recovery. And when no sense of that is felt when they leave , trust me , it’s awful. You feel like your options are exhausted. You’ve tried to smile, you have tried to live day by day , you tried the doctor and what now ? Where do you go now for help?

Below are some of the reasons women told me they didn’t tell a health care professional how they felt or didn’t return to the doctor after an unsuccessful first trip.

Postnatal Depression ‘isn’t real’ .

“I was told by my health visitor that PND didn’t exist in the 40s and 50s and she doesn’t understand why women have babies if they can’t cope with motherhood. She said that everyday she hears ‘ I have PND’ and that she didn’t hear it this much 15 years ago and it’s Loose Women on the TV putting ideas into women’s heads. So I didn’t go to the doctor as I thought they wouldn’t listen

This is an actual quote from someone who messaged me. So , let’s get this straight – PND is a modern illness that is caused by women wanting to have it all ? In ye olden days , women got wed, got preg, had ten babies and then made a steak and kidney suet pudding for tea. They had no time to be depressed – they had 18 pairs of pants to boil wash ! No time to cry when there is jam to be made for your owner ( husband ) to spread on his crumpet ! Ugh.

We of course know this is ridiculous . It’s been reported that Queen Victoria had postnatal depression and that was a fairly long time ago? Look at this blog about a dear lady in 1850 who it seems suffered postnatal depression and psychosis( http://tmsorangementalhealthcaretreatments.d20blogs.org/2014/02/12/emma-riches-postnatal-depression-1850s/) – not quite this modern illness is it. In short, it’s been around since cave ladies were having a free birth in a rock pool but it wasn’t spoken about. Women were treated for ‘nerves’, had their hands restrained, put in an asylum, hidden from public view and forgotten about.

I’ve heard it all from people as to why postnatal depression is a modern illness over the last few years. Daily Fail articles and the comments sections have some real corkers , such as- wait for it- having a baby outsides of marriage must cause women to feel hysterical as there is apparently no stability. So married women never get it? Hmm. They might as well have said that Postnatal depression is caused by radio signals and for a woman to turn all her electronic equipment off and she may see her mood may improve. I’m no Bill Gates. I can’t even make an excel spreadsheet and have to use a calculator to divide a £20 lunch bill between two people but I am struggling to understand how my wifi password can cause a panic attack. And how turning Radio Four off can stop me from wanting to give the baby to the nice lady next door and walking away.

It’s not a modern illness and for a health car professional to say that is ill informed and dangerous. Not all symptoms show themselves in the same way for some women. Some paint a mask on to show they are coping – dropping one kid at school with another in a buggy to be dropped at nursery while the newborn is strapped to the chest, going to work, cooking four different dinners, waking up 17 times a night to feed the baby . People say oooohhh look at Alison, hasn’t she taken motherhood in her stride- whizzing around and still has her hair perfectly curled in place. But Alison could actually be trying to mask her feelings. The hair and make up could be a cover to how she is feeling and a doctor needs to try and find a way through that so Alison opens up. And so we come to our next section ….

You can’t have Postnatal Depression as your eyebrows are on fleek

One woman told me her doctor said ” I seriously doubt you have postnatal depression . You’re up and out with the baby and have done your face. You look lovely so go out and enjoy your baby” and another said ‘I told my gp for a year that I thought i felt sad and very tearful and has no energy. I told her I had felt suicidal. She said “but you’re able to tell me this and this means you know your own mind. I’m not worried about you”. Not all mothers with PND are wandering around with the look of a life sentence strewn across an overly aged face . Some of them can even put their own pants on would you believe. For some mums , they continue with the grooming they did before baby came along. For some , they apply more make up, iron even more clothes, look swankier than ever because they are trying to mask how they really feel. Inside they feel like a crumpled up bra in the corner but they don’t want everyone to know they are suffering . To the outside world they want to seem to be coping but not to the doctor. They trust that a doctor can see through the layer of foundation covering the cracks in their mind.

However , the Falling Through The Gaps report showed just under half of the GPs surveyed said they ‘received no specific training in this field of work to identify an unwell mum and of those who had received training, just under a quarter had accessed it as part of core specialist training for general practice’. So I can totally see why it’s difficult. Doctors are human, it’s hard to spot things sometimes and we have all had that thing when a friend is sad or low and we say ‘ ooh but she seemed so happy, it’s come out of no where’ . But what you could do is do more than look. Looks can be deceiving , that’s the point of them. Ask questions , glance into her eyes, hold her hand . Tell her it’s ok to be open , tell it that you know having a baby can be hard . Even if your a male doctor who has never had a kid. You might not know what’s it’s like to push a half stone lump of flesh out of your vaginal area or to have major surgery on your stomach to help the baby into the world, but you have a heart and a head. Ask the questions that give you more answers than yes and no and listen to her responses. One woman who sent me some comments wrote ” Mental health is different for us all. Listen to us, listen hard and you’ll hear us telling you”.

Really listen. I was asked if I wanted to flush the baby down the toilet by the first doctor I saw. I actually think in reality that I wanted to flush myself down the loo as my husband liked the baby and I didn’t want to be alive anymore,but as she asked me she laughed . So I let out a fuzzy laugh and said I don’t know. Letting out a laugh when asking your patient if they effectively want their baby to go away forever, as if an answer of yes would be the most ridiculous thing in the world isn’t helpful. And won’t give you a true reflection of the real answer.

Maybe something like this could help ? A fab PND charity in Cheshire called The Smile Group have produced this GP checklist for mums to fill in and hand to their GP should they not know how to or are too scared to verbalize their symptoms. It’s brilliant and has helped many mums. Maybe it could help some health professionals too ? http://www.thesmilegroup.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/GP-Checklist.pdf

I don’t want to go back to the doctor as they said before I can take any anti-depressants, I have to stop breastfeeding.

I don’t wanna go to the docs and talk as I don’t want to feel pressured in to stop breastfeeding to take medicine/ my doctor said he can’t prescribe any anti- depressants until I stop breastfeeding and to come back when I have and he will give me some / my doctor said I can’t expect to be able to take any tablets while I am feeding and to stop reading things on the internet that say I can

I am not a doctor. If I was, I would most probably pin someone’s ears back if they came to see me about an ingrown toenail. I once thought my child had two bum holes when in fact one of them was a dimple so consider yourselves lucky I didn’t have any big ideas about wandering around with a stethoscope. However, knowing some truly splendid doctors now I do lots of awareness raising work for maternal mental health ,I am aware there are some anti depressants you can take while still being able to give your child boobie. For some mums, as it was for me, breastfeeding is key to help them bond with their baby. I couldn’t look at or hold Joe on my own but I could breastfeed him. If I had been made to give it up, it would have been terrible. Thankfully, when I was ill, I went into a mother and baby unit and the docs had libraries worth of info on what meds I could take and I was able to untangle the mess my mind was in while being able to continue nursing Joe.

Obviously , there are some anti depressants you can’t nurse on. And then it’s for you and your health care professional to discuss the best way forward to ensure you get better and what choices need to be made.

But doctors – please please talk to mums who come to you with some care and if you arent sure what you can prescribe , there is a medication fairy called Wendy Jones who knows about medications breastfeeding and who more than happy to talk to health care professionals and or mums – her website is here http://www.breastfeeding-and-medication.co.uk. You can also call the Drugs in Breastmilk helpline on 0844 412 4665 for advice – more details are here on the Breastfeeding Network’s webpage https://www.breastfeedingnetwork.org.uk/contact-us/helplines/.

The doctor said it was normal to feel overwhelmed after having a baby. So I thought wanting to feel like running away was what every mum on the street felt like.

‘The worst thing a GP said to me was ‘its normal’. I believed them and it was ‘normal’ for me to be depressed for a long time. I wish he had listened, I wish he’d said ‘come back if you don’t feel more positive in a couple of weeks’, I wish he’d asked me why I was feeling that way

It’s not normal .Its normal to have the baby blues but these go after a days or weeks. If it lasts longer and it’s causing you to feel like a sack of potatoes that have been mashed while raw, it needs help. It may be common but it’s not normal and it’s not ok to not be well. Mothers deserve more. They deserve to be happy and feeling sad , fearful and at times to the point of suicide,is not normal in any way, even if as a doctor, you have seen four other mums that morning saying the same thing. The Falling Through The Gaps report had this quote – ” At the six week check the GP asked if I felt low and I told her I felt dreadful and she just said “every mum feels that – it’s normal”. I really believe that support in those early months might have changed my life, and my child’s life for the better. I asked for help and felt unheard” .

Read the last sentence again.

She felt unheard. Even though she spoke out.

Do you know how much courage it takes for a mum to come to you and say she isn’t feeling good? As women, we are born and grow up knowing that nature has blessed us with a body to bear the fruits of a loom should we desire. According to nature, we have wombs in case we want to grow a baby, breasts are there as natures way of feeding them and our vaginas are there for a baby to come into the world and so when we have a baby and it all goes a bit haywire, we think , what on earth? My body has done what nature says it can do so why isn’t my mind doing the same ? I would stare at women on the street with a new baby and think , how come you haven’t pulled your hair from its roots yet? How are you smiling ? How can you hold your baby as I can’t hold mine as I shake too much as I am scared of him? We have this perpetuated image of how things should be, having read every single mother and baby magazine going while pregnant . So, when we don’t feel like that and we feel we need medical help, it takes a lot of strength for a mum to book the appointment , attend the appointment and speak at the appointment.

‘I never had a diagnosis after my first baby but I was incredibly unwell, I finally plucked up the courage to see a GP and he told me I had the baby blues and to go home have a cup of tea and a chocolate bar and everything would be fine. It was 18 incredibly dark and painful months, filled with a longing to take my own life, the certainty I didn’t deserve my baby and almost the end of my marriage before I found the courage to step into the Dr’s surgery again. Please don’t treat us like silly little girls and suggest chocolate as a solution to mental health issues

Where do I start with this example??? This is familiar to me as I too was told by a doctor, after my husband telling them I thought the duvet cover was dancing and I couldn’t be in the same room as my son, to make a cake and really spend some time eating it and to enjoy it. As nice as cakes and tea are, a slice of cheesecake isn’t going to stop someone from being scared of their child. If it did, the shelves of Tesco’s would be permanently empty and pharmacists wouldn’t have a job. Its not normal. Can you imagine the absolute bravery it takes for a mum to go to her doctor and say I keep having visions of hurting my baby? Imagine her spilling that all out, how she is afraid to be with her baby in case something happens , for a doctor to say go home home and eat a walnut whip ? Eating a walnut whip will not stop you having visions of dropping your baby. I doubt there needs to be any research into this either , it seems fairly obvious. This mum sums it up here – ” I had my third 3rd baby I started to get horrendous thoughts . I attempted to speak to my gp who was really not hearing me and told me it was normal.”

The doctor snorted when I said I wasn’t coping and made mine feel stupid for not being able to cope

“I was feeling no bond with my baby, i had most of the symptoms of PND including the crying all the time, feeling hopeless, useless etc, feeling like something terrible was going to happen etc. I tried to ask the GP for help (i was about 9 weeks PP) my husband was there too. I told him how i felt and that i feared i was battling PND. He chuckled to himself (the DR) and told me that it was normal for new mums to feel this way, then turned to my husband and said its probably just womanly problems. At this point i just wanted to cry. I didnt ask for help again until i was pregnant with my second child, and my depression came back with force”.

Womanly problems eh? Us hysterical women moaning as we are being forced to do more than wash the pots and service our husbands. Can’t cope with a baby when 97 year old Mrs Smith who lives at number 13 down the road , managed to have 12 babies and always had a smile on her face. Didn’t see her depressed did you? She had no time to be depressed! Pull yourself together woman. Chuckle chuckle vision.

I had a doctor ask me if I had planned my own suicide. I said no . Reason being , I was unable to get myself dressed or go to the toilet as I had forgotten how to. My poor husband turned into my carer and the only reason I was able to get to the doctors was because he sat me on the toilet, dressed me and plonked me in a seat at the surgery . I was in such a state i don’t think I could have planned anything let alone my own death. The doctor, without looking at me and staring at her screen said ‘ then you are low risk, go home and get some sleep. All will seem better the morning’ .

Well that morning I woke up and smashed my forehead into a wall. I told john I wanted to go under a bus and at one point locked myself in the bathroom babbling that the razor I was holding was nice and shiny and peaceful . I refused to look at my son and went on fours on my in laws bed and barked like a dog. As you can see, all that rest the doctor advised four hours before at 3am hadn’t made all seem better had it? I thought I was a jack Russell looking for my lost tail…… I was in a psychiatric mother and baby unit a few hours later.

Reacting in a different way however can prove such a difference. Someone sent me through the following quote and my mood shifted from sadness to joy ask read it. Take a look.

I went to docs after speaking with m HV . Doc said I was over reacting, worrying about nothing and I shouldn’t expect to feel the same about my second baby as I did my first!! I was so shocked!! I told him things i had never said out loud!! I came out, called my HV and within 5mins was back in and seeing a different doctor who was amazing. He saw me ay least once a week until my councillor appointment came through. With my 3rd I decided to take the advice of my midwife and saw a councillor every week through my whole pregnancy x so far so good xx hard work and I use the coping strategies I learnt every day. My son’s (12yrs, 6yrs,22mths) are amazing!! Most of the time;)”

Look at the difference with a different approach. And how positive the mum is at the end. Her happiness, her children’s happiness and her recovery happened because someone listened to her and took steps to help her. This my friends is what good looks like.

I don’t want to tell anyone how I feel as I am worried my baby will be taken away by Social Services

” I never talk to anyone about how I feel and the thoughts I have had continuously going through my head because I worry that if I got professional help , they would take my daughter from me.”

“I didn’t ask for help because I had thoughts of hurting my little boy. I’d heard so many stories about Social Services and I just knew he would be taken away and id be called a bad parent. What I had wasn’t normal at all & I would be taken into a mental hospital.”

You can see that mums are terrified of opening one up. They are terrified their baby will be taken from them and that ‘bad mother’ will be written all over their files. An article in the holy grail that is the Daily Fail ( bear with me , yes it’s awful and I usually take glee in chucking into the bin) said that as many as 35,000 mothers each year are suffering in silence from post-natal depression, with many too afraid to seek help in case their babies are taken away from them. To live your life day after day with distressing visions entering your head on loop is like Nightmare on Elm Street crossed with Groundhog Day. They don’t just go. They seep through and stop you in your tracks. And most importantly, you don’t want them. You don’t like them. You want them to go away go away go away.

“Everyone worries about their baby and whether they’re safe so I thought it was just normal, never mind the fact I was washing my hands to the point they would cracking and bleed from fear they were contaminated and something awful would happen to him. That was just the begining. Negative scary thoughts started ruling my life. I was scared all the time but more scared if telling people what these thoughts were o was sure my son would be taken away from”.

Please please please when someone comes to you with symptoms of something like intrusive thoughts, what you should be saying is , well done for coming , I know this wasn’t easy. You aren’t evil, this doesn’t mean you want to hurt your baby and we are going got get you some support. Reassure them that Social Services, if intervention is ever needed in any case , doesn’t mean their baby will be automatically taken from them and repeat repeat and repeat again that they are not a bad parent but rather they are experiencing the symptoms of an illness. And why ? Because this may be the only chance to . And if you handle that chance wrong , that mother may not come back again. And if you read the first example above , that mother sunk to a terrible terrible low where she admits she almost took her life and she didn’t go to another GP for almost two years. And that isn’t good enough. That mother deserves to lead a happy life with her baby. And she deserves to be alive.

The fear of a baby being taken is undoubtably one of the biggest reason mums don’t divulge their symptoms. It is beyond terrifying to think that by opening up to not feeling like you are in a rose petal covered bubble , that a doctor will say, right then, here take these pills, make yourself a cup of tea and pack the babies bag because Social Services will come and swoop them away at any moment. Without explanation and with a fear that they will never see them again. As health care professionals, you need to do all you can to reassure mums what will and won’t likely happen, point them to guidance that explains procedures and also explain that Social Services, if they do ever become involved, actually want to support . A doctor friend of mine pointed me to this page that she shares with her patients when they say they are scared to be honest about their feelings because they are scared their precious baby will be removed from their care – http://childprotectionresource.online/reporting-post-natal-depression/. We know that very few mothers are a real risk to their baby but there may be times of course where extra help , support and intervention is needed. But, by helping to soothe the very real fears of mums would undoubtedly mean we would have more of them coming forward early on in their illness and getting help more quickly.


The doctor said I was too young to have pnd so I left and didn’t go back. I felt stupid for going and wondered what the hell could be wrong with me.

Hmm. Mental illnesses don’t discriminate . They can affect anyone at any time and seeing as 10-15 women in every 100 who have a baby develop postnatal depression,these women can be any age. Maybe it’s the ‘you are young , what have you got to be worried about attitude’ that is sometimes chucked at younger people that made this line come out ? What should this lady have done ? Counted down , sadly , to her next birthday where her symptoms would suddenly be valid? ‘ happy birthday to me , I’m not full of glee. I feel very sad and don’t want to drink tea’. There was some research done into age of mother and risks of postnatal depression which you can read an abstract from here http://www.morrispsych.com/postpartum-depression-are-older-mothers-more-at-risk/ and it confirms that age alone is not a factor for increased risk. So , whether you are 16 or 65. It can affect you .

It would be really nice to see the same person more than once

A massive reason for no disclosure appears to be because people are simply fed up of having to re- tell their story 87 times to 9767 different health care professionals. So you pluck up the courage to see one doc, blurt it all out, doctor is brilliant, supports , talks and books you a follow up in two weeks where they will discuss meds and you go back and it’s a new doctor. Who reads the screen instead of looking at you and nods while you re-tell your tale of wanting to run out of the house at 2am and never return and then says I don’t think meds are right for you . You think , but the other doctor said such and such. And then the health visitor comes round who is different to the one who came and weighed the baby and she throws in that postnatal depression can’t be diagnosed until12 weeks. When the first doctor said it was after six weeks. And this rings true with the Falling Through The Gaps report says that a few GPs said that information sharing did not work as well as it could.

‘Finally screwed up my courage to go to GP when #2 was a few months old. He seemed embarrassed and gave me a helpline number. Couldn’t face opening up to someone again who might also be so totally disinterested, so just decided to soldier on – probably took about 2 years to find my way out. I didn’t have enough spare energy to fight for the help I needed’

‘I had pnd & ptsd after #1 died, whilst pregnant with #2 I asked for mh referral. 3 times I asked my midwife to refer me, 3 times she told me the notes said they had contacted me & I hadn’t responded. Utter rubbish I’d never been contacted but it made me look bonkers so i gave up asking for help’.

‘I lie, put on a front and hide until I trust. That takes time. Apart from my perinatal team, i never saw the same person twice in 3 years’.

Head bang on table. Everyone is saying different stuff and they all have the common issue of not being able to access the same notes. We know this is a problem that cant be fixed easily but its really confusing to mums , at a time when things are confusing enough , to have different ideas thrown at them by a hundred different people. We all know that on one the Edinburgh Postnatal Scale could score overwhelmingly high and the next day not so much so and team this with two different doctors then it all gets a bit out of control. Being able to see the same doctor , HV or mental health professional ensures a consistency of care . I had an anxiety collapse a few years ago when I found out I was pregnant again. I went from being a very happy mummy to my gorgeous three year old, 2.5 years recovered, to a total wreck in the space of a couple of days . The wee covered pregnancy stick had sent my mind into total panic mode at the fear of going psychotic again and the doctor who knew me and what had happened to me after my son was born,after liaising with the mother and baby unit I had been in advised me to go back on to my meds. I went on these when I had psychosis after much trial and error with other pills and knew they were he ones for me. However , a duty psychiatrist asked me why on earth I was taking these meds and wanted to change them. This was the first time I had met him , he had spoken to me for 3 minutes and had no access to any of my notes. He said he was too busy to hear my whole back story ( it was 4am and I had waited 19 hours to see him) and said the meds he suggested would help but if I didn’t want them , then he couldn’t help me.

This was not helpful. The next day , we travelled 200 miles and saw the treatment team from the mother and baby unit I was in three years earlier. They liaised with a doctor I knew and the psychiatrist who was treating me and I went back on my old meds at a reduced dose. And my recovery began. I felt safe with doctors who knew me and my story.

I felt like the doctor wants to get me out of the door and he kept looking up at the time. Tick tick tock .

‘My first baby, we had her post birth gp check (usually at 6 weeks) and my post birth 8 week check combined at 8 weeks as a time/money saving initiative. My partner wanted to be there for my daughters check up. They did the pnd test where you score your mood etc from 1-5 while he was there (it was 4 and a half years ago so pretty hazy now) I remember not scoring as accurately, and negatively, as I felt because I didn’t want my partner to think I was weak’

All the alarm bells should be ringing . One lady said her six week check, which took place at about 12 weeks ,consisted of the doctor washing her hands , saying ‘things will start picking up now’ and then saying to give the baby orange juice to make him poo. It lasted about 4 minutes and she walked out wondering what had just happened. Gps are beyond busy. They are worked to the god damn bone and we should support our doctors to the very end but when you go in the door and feel like you are being pushed out the other twenty seconds later, it can have a terrible effect on that mother it’s happened to. And she may not come back . The Falling through the gaps Rory talked about the time pressures on GPs said they ‘are noted to act as a disincentive to disclosure’ and this is so worrying.

Great things health care professionals did :

But like I said. This blog isn’t to tear Heath Care Professionals down. Its to inform – as the reality is , we know you have to see about 74 people a day , which is why you whizz through appointments We know you are under so much pressure and that can be super stressful. And we know that you aren’t supported enough , and we support you. So , I wanted to include things form people about the brilliant stuff health care professionals have done to help mums who walkthrough their door search for a kickstart to recovery. I owe my life to the medical profession and know how much you do work to get your patients the help and support they need. The Falling Through The Gaps report showed that ‘women appeared most positive about the care they received when it felt personalised and integrated, when they were involved in making decisions about their care and when it was experienced as wrapping around their needs’.

So , where there is a real sense that women don’t feel listened to at times, there is , of course , many many examples of amazing care. There may be no perinatal pathway in your area, you as a GP may not have much knowledge of mental illness or even more specifically, perinatal mental illness and we know that. We know you work like hell in a system that doesn’t support you in anyway and we the patients support you. But what you can do is show kindness and compassion when a mum who comes to you really needs it. You can even say , look I am not quite sure how we are going to get you help but take a tissue, have a cry, tell me your biggest fear. If you can’t tell me , write it down and show me and I will see what I can do. Sometimes, a bit of understanding and kind words are all that are needed to show that mum it’s ok to go to the doctor and open up.

‘The best thing my GP did was praise me for seeking help. When you’re in a bad place it’s very difficult to view yourself in a positive light so the fact she’d made a point of saying it was very thoughtful. She also highlighted the various ways I could keep myself safe (Samaritans, a&e, back to her, family help) whilst I waited for antidepressants to kick in, including satisfying herself I had a good support network in place. She also liased with pharmacist to work out the best ad’s to take whilst breastfeeding. She really was exemplary in her care, in fact my whole GP practice are fantastic no matter who you get, I’ve been really impressed’

‘My health visitor was amazing and really helped me, took me to the doctors because I didn’t want to go alone/leave the house by myself with a very unhappy cmpa & reflux baby’

‘The one thing the GP told me that I’ll never forget and what helped me through the shittest of times is ‘You are all that little baby knows, he’s been inside you for 9 months and is now in the big world all by himself, he just needs his mummy and that’s okay, but it’s okay for mummy to need time’

‘When I was feeling even worse a few weeks later, I called my HV in tears to tell her what had been happening – she came round to see me in person, sorted a CBT referral there and then and put a complaint through to my GP about the way it had been handled. I don’t think I can thank her enough for how she dealt with it!’

‘I’m currently 35 weeks pregnant and have had antenatal depression during this pregnancy – I spotted it early, self referred to the counselling service after chatting to my husband, updated my midwife and HV and avoided going to the GP. It seems to be under control at this point, but if it comes back as PND after the baby is born, then we know what we’re looking for this time and the best way to get what I need from the system round here’

There is a harsh reality that mums avoid going to the doctor or don’t return to the doctor because of a previous negative experience . and this is so sad as its at a time when its vital for a mum to feel supported and comforted . Without doctors, health visitors etc, I know I am not alone when I say I am alive because of them ,which is why when I hear of a mum not wanting to go back to a doctor for help and is slipping more and more into a state because of a previous experience or because of fear , that I feel like something needs to be done to show mums they can come back.

Perinatal Mental Health Toolkit

I was lucky enough to be able to , as a survivor of perinatal mental illness, review and contribute to the Perinatal Mental Health Toolkit , a resource for GPs which is here http://www.rcgp.org.uk/clinical-and-research/toolkits/perinatal-mental-health-toolkit.aspx . It’s Brillo- pads and I am delighted Carrie Ladd invited mums to view it and review it . It is designed to help doctors support women who come to them displaying symptoms of a perinatal mental illness and contains details on clinical resources for professional, details on medications and breastfeeding, resources that can be shared with the patient and their families, best practice info and details of support in the community that can compliment mums while they are suffering and in recovery, as well as a whole wad of other stuff. I urge you to read it and have a scan if a mum comes into you tomorrow. It’s a wealth of info in one place that’s easy to guide yourself around. If you do have any questions , there is an email address you can message and I think it’s brilliant that there is a specific resource that is bursting at the seams with great info to help not just women, but doctors, who have a hard enough job as it is , seeing so many people day to day with so many different medical issues.

The fabulous Judy Shakespeare did a presentation on International Women’s Day and advised that if a woman consults a GP saying she thinks she has a perinatal mental health problem, she is almost certainly right. It’s a big step to go the doctor or open up to a health visitor about how you are feeling and when it feels like you leave the doctors 4 steps backwards , that can be truly terrifying.

Do not send her away without a flicker of hope or tell her it’s normal when , if you really listen, it isn’t. She might look okay. It it doesn’t mean she is. She is sat in front of you because she wants help and more importantly, needs it.

Well melt me in butter and roll me in nuts, this illness will release its clutch.

One of the best quotes I have heard about recovery I read while I was ill and in hospital. It said that recovery is like a game of snakes and ladders. Sometimes you slide down the snake or fall off the ladder but you never go back to the start . And it’s right . This week , I have been reminded that as well as I am , I still suffer from anxiety when things get too much. I’ve been attempting to be superwoman in a pair of pyjamas and stilettos and have been so busy in work, I may have to wear ear muffs to catch the steam coming out of my ears . I have been saying yes to every interview that health professionals and journalist who wants to talk about mental health have asked me for and while this is wonderful, it’s exhausted me. I’ve decided that this is obviously also the time to become a school governor as well and read 678 pages of guidance on the optimum temperature in class rooms and attempting to work my 33 hours a week in work. Which I have done 42 of this week so far. It’s also the anniversary of my last pregnancy which didn’t work out a couple of years ago. It’s no surprise I’ve had a little wobble really is it ?

I’ve cried this week. I cried last night. I’ve had two panic attacks. But I’m ok. A few yrs ago I would have thought , oh god, John can’t go to work and leave me because I might have an overwhelming urge to cook 6 battered fish fillets in the oven for three hours before throwing them in the garden alongside ordering 8 juicers from the shopping channel again. What if I decide to throw myself in the middle of the road holding onto his ankles not letting him go to work because my head felt like it was being used as a drum by the mental illness drumstick. Again.

Last night , I said to John , it’s too much. I’m doing too much. My little head is telling me it’s time to slow down.and then I said, are you worried about me? And he said no, I’m not at all. Instead of staying on the train and waiting for it to crash into the wall and breaking into little pieces that will take a hell of a long time to cobble back together again , this time, you jumped off the train on to a soft landing. You have realised something isn’t right before loco kicks in. Yes, you are crying and yes , it’s not nice feeling like this but we are going to write a list of what is overwhelming you, what you can cut out and how we can make things better.

And tonight I feel more in control. My list is complete and there is a fair amount on it I need to tell to jog on . And that’s ok. The world isn’t going to stop turning because I might slip some deadlines. And that’s ok. Tonight , I’ve had a night on the sofa with my little boy and I’ve drank some Buck’s Fizz and eaten a chocolate croissant. I may have also eaten a Hershey’s chocolate bar and some skittles but that isn’t important . I’ve been on a spinach juice diet for four weeks and have lost the grand total of half a bloody stone.i should be a bleedin supermodel by now with all this green shit I’ve been drinking and literally shitting but no, I’m still folding my stomach up like a parcel. I’ve had a blocked milk duct and dug out an old electric toothbrush and have been on all fours in the doggy style position on the living room floor massaging said milk duct with my buzzing friend , resulting in my child’s train set being sprayed all over. Slightly different to last Saturday night where I think I was drinking a piña colada out of a coconut shell balanced on my bustville.

I feel a little more like eve. The last few days has made me understand that I need to keep a slightly open eye on my anxiety but in a strange way it’s also made me realise that I am ok. I have always feared feeling anxiety again as I have feared getting really ill again like I did after I had Joe. But what the last few days has made me realise is that I am ok and if I’m not , well , that can be helped and sorted like it was before. I need to do my best to ensure I stay as healthy as I can but also remember that if and when things do feel like they are a bit like a tangled up hair brush, that I seek help the unravel those hairs as soon as I can.

So tonight I feel,happy and healthy. I’m going to take some self care days off work and if I feel things creeping up on me again , I’ll take some time away to sleep and preserve my marbles.

And all this shows me how recovery is possible. I’ve said on a blog post before, I’ve totally recovered from psychosis and the catastrophic anxiety I had when I was unwell but I’ll always have a level of anxiety. But I have recovered to a point where I can lead a normal life. I am sometimes medicated but I am always mighty. I have no shame in taking meds to get me through my bad times and still being on meds doesn’t mean I’m not recovered. Meds gave me my life back and they helped me find myself again . The crazy,loud,wild girl is back and is better than ever in some ways as I truly do know my strength. I am a bloody warrior. I was incredibly ill and now I’m eve , with a light sprinkle of once yearly anxiety. I can cope with that if I deal with it right and recovery feels legit. I feel like I have combat force!

I am back at work, I go out with my mates, I bleach my hair, I shave my legs, I have no shame, I do ridiculous things and find myself in situations that no one else thinks are real until they spend some time with me. Two weeks ago I spent some time with my #pndfamily girlfriends at elaine hanzaks book launch. I hadn’t even got to the venue and I was almost knocked out cold by the taxi door. I couldn’t work out how to open it , launched myself forward and banged my enormous forehead towards it. I feel sorry for the taxi really – I have quite the forehead and it was quite the bang. I fell backwards careering towards my friend Pauline and then fell out of the cab. Not ten minutes later , I walked out of the loo with my cardigan tucked into my frilly knickers and Pauline the fairy godmother came to my rescue again and retrieved and saved my cardigan from being eaten by my arse and my dignity from being ruined in front of 200 other people. Off I toddled without a care in the world, diet coke in one hand,lipgloss in the other with Pauline laughing behind me.

It’s mental health awareness week. And from a personal point, I kind of feel like I have a duty to raise awareness of the mental health condition I suffered from, which was postpartum psychosis but also all perinatal mental health illnesses. And then all mental health conditions. I was incredibly lucky to eventually get help- I say eventually as it took two months of me being completely off the planet in my mind and us having to move 200 miles to get me into a specialised psychiatric mother and baby unit. I had been ignored by health visitors , midwives and doctors for those first eight weeks of my sons life and had spiralled into a midst of such horrific psychosis that I thought I was locked in a coffin alive . I had hallucinations that I was trapped in the world and felt terrified of being alive . The only logical way out , or so I thought, was to die. To end my life. I felt an uncontrollable fear all day every day and night for two months of living . I was afraid of being alive and being near my son and could think of no other way out.

While in this hell, a doctor asked me if I had planned my own suicide to which I said no. She then told me , after hearing how I had been dreaming of death , thinking I was in a coffin , scared of my own baby and felt like I was trapped in the world , said I was therefore low risk and sent us home. Nil points for that Dr of the year as the next day, John took me to psychiatric outpatients in Nottingham , 200 miles from where we live and refused to leave until I was assessed . One hour later I was in the mother and baby unit.

And my recovery started there. It was a psychiatric ward but I had my own room,there was a kitchen with chocolate biscuit filled cupboards, a TV room and curry menus to order dinner from. My own room sounds like a hotel away from home but for me this was terrifying. I couldn’t be on my own with my son as I was scared of him so the very idea of sharing a room on my own with him was beyond scary. So the nurses let me keep my door open . Throughout the night , a nurse would sit on a chair that held my door open and cuddled me when the panic and fear took over or when I felt my mind going into another world. This level of care ,support and love that was shown to me ,alongside a wonderful concoction of medication meant that just a week later, I felt brave enough to to close my bedroom door with Joe in there with me . Yes I shook, yes I sat on the bed terrified but I was in there on my own with him and it felt amazing. A little while later , the nurse knocked on my door and came in . She gave me an enormous tight cuddle and said well done eve , that’s bloody brilliant . I cried into her shoulder and let out a wail. I had done it. I had been on my own with Joe and it was the biggest turning point in my illness.

My recovery went on from there. I went up and down the game of snakes and ladders in my brain and have to say , I felt a little like i was constantly laddering some expensive pairs of tights. I’d carefully broach things like I was putting on a pair of thigh fat sucking tights and then when they were on , they were bloody ladder all down my leg. I would feel devastated if I had a bad day but my therapist worked very hard to show me that a bad day in recovery doesn’t mean you won’t get better. I think bad days have that weird silver lining of making you stronger. It doesn’t feel like it at the time but when i emerge from bad days, I feel that little bit more hopeful that I’ve beaten it again .

Of course I would have preferred to never have got ill but I do feel like I have gained a massive understanding of my own feelings and thoughts and this week has certainly made me realise that when the chips are down , it’s sad and a little scary at times but that it does pass and it passes pretty quickly with the right care and management. I feel blessed that I have come out of the worst time in my life but that that time has now had a profound impact on the life I lead now. I know my own capabilities but what I think I have gained is a compassion for others and understanding of people’s thoughts and feelings that I didn’t ever consider before. I want others to read my story and to think, well melt me in butter and roll me in nuts, if she managed to get better after attempting to climb out of her window, dress up as Mary poppins, bark on her in laws bed and consider ending it all for good, then maybe I can get better.

I stand up and yell my story from any roof top I can . I jump on health professionals at mental health conferences and harp on about how people in the midst of mental illness need help, compassion, a hug, someone’s shoulder to cry on , a listening ear , a lets get better plan from a doctor because I hear so many stories of them and their feelings being brushed off. I was told the most ridiculous things from doctors who clearly didn’t give a flying caboodle what was wrong with me and wanted to get me out of their room so they could go back to buying a zigzag sleeping bag of eBay and that isn’t good enough.

If you are suffering , have hope and remember it can and will get better. You may recover completely or you may recover to a manageable level and either of these are ok, I promise you. Dont feel bad about feeling bad – it’s not your fault and with the help of meds, therapy,kindness, love and support from family, friends and health professionals , you will get there.

I am terrible at board games. I never understand the rules and always end up back at the start wondering why everyone else is at the top of the board and I’m at the bottom , all sorrowful but that’s not the case in the game of recovery, which is the hardest game I have ever played. It is however , the game I have won the most.

Happy mental health awareness week. If a GP isn’t listening to you, write I don’t feel well across your face with lipstick. They won’t ignore you then. Do it with the doctors lipstick and you really will get their attention. You deserve help , you are entitled to it and you need it. And there is nothing , absolutely nothing to be ashamed about.

Eeny meeny miny mo , where in this postcode lottery shall I go ? Sprig of lavender anyone ?

Around one in four people in the uk will experience a mental health illness each year. Whether mild or severe ,short or long term, these can be scary, upsetting and soul destroying . Especially if you can’t access help to recover from or manage it.

Five yrs ago , I was admitted to a psychiatric mother and baby unit to begin my recovery from a postnatal mental illness. I had such catastrophic anxiety that I couldn’t be near my child, dress myself without help and became partial to running into the street a la a wild animal screaming ‘I am trapped in the world I am trapped by the clouds take me away please’ . One of the worst memories of my illness however was the need to travel 200 miles across the uk to access treatment as no one in my area knew how to treat me and there were no treatment options available.

Thank god we did travel and get me into a specialist psychiatric mother and baby unit because if we hadn’t I would be dead. My son would have no mother. And this is not good enough. Getting treatment shouldn’t be a cruel game of lotto , depending on where you buy your ticket but it unfortunately is in the uk. It’s as though you need to ensure you aren’t hit with a mental illness that can’t be treated where you live . Maybe the government could make treatment scratch cards ? Three matching hospital icons and you’re a winner! The papers could come and take your picture with you dressed up in a hospital gown with your antidepressants in your hand . Ooh lifechanging !

Prior to me getting ill, the 89 year old local legend that was scooter lady, complete with gold lame jumpsuit , blue permed hair and a 50 yr old toy boy balancing on the back of said scooter was the local talking point as she zoomed around and then the lady who lived to the left of us who used to hang out of window between 11-1 everyday throwing frozen fish fingers into her garden for fun was a close second. But they were knocked off their platforms of fame by me , Eve , the girl who had a baby,who regretted it, took all her clothes off,tried to climb out of a window and then eventually was diagnosed with postpartum psychosis.

And I’m all singing and dancing recovered now. Which is a good thing as experiencing a mental illness is the single most terrifying thing I have ever and I guarantee will ever face in my little life. And this life is one I hold so precious as it’s one I seriously considered ending. The day I went into the unit is the day I announced to my partner john that I wanted to die and I meant it.i could not face the endless feelings of terror,not wanting to sleep at night because I feared the fear I would feel when I would wake up in the morning and I simply couldn’t cope with the prospect of battling these feelings forever.i couldn’t live for another 60 yrs feeling like this as I couldn’t even get through one day at that point.

I was very very ill.I wasn’t only scared of my son, terrified at the sudden realisation that he was here forever and there was no running away from that except through either adopting him or me ending my life but I was also confused. I thought I was floating , I woke up thinking I was in a coffin, I was convinced at one point that cling film was over my mouth stopping me from breathing. All while my newborn son was lying there needing me . This was the most important time in my life, his life and our families life and I was experiencing the worst possible time, so bad, you couldn’t make it up.

I needed help. Urgent help and so I went to the doctor a couple of days after my son was born to say I was feeling odd.i had flashes in front of my eyes and felt very scared of something. The doctor said, let’s wait and see how you are in a week. I went back this time with john who said I was acting odd, pacing up and down the living constantly and wouldn’t look at the baby. ThIs doctor said I must be tired as motherhood can be draining “sleep when the baby sleeps” was uttered to me and I was told to jog on in a more clinical , fake smile way which I think actually meant , you have just had a baby , deal with it , I have 57 more patients waiting to see me me bye bye.

For the next six weeks, I went to see a gp approx three times a week,joke I do not. I was honest about my feelings and john was continually saying ‘she is saying she has made a terrible mistake in having a child,she tried to climb out of the window to get away for the walls in the house,I had to carry her in the house after she ran into the road with no clothes on and she thinks she is trapped in the world’. Little game of mental health roulette here … Do you think the docs said a) what the dickens, get this woman to the hospital and some specialist mental health help straight away or 67) make a cake and put some mascara on and shown the door? Bingo bango, if you chose a – I appreciate that but it’s a shame as it was wrong. Doctors told me I was fine and to go home .

We hit the realisation that no one could treat me for my illness as it appears if you live where I do, there is no specialist perinatal support. That’s good isn’t it . So we got on the train and travelled the 161 miles to Nottingham, where we had found out there was a unit and where johns family live , complete with our five week old baby, me wandering around muttering ‘I can’t look at the baby,can’t look at the baby,can’t look at the baby’ and the pet hamsters, little elvis and turnip. As we walked into my in laws house I moved their armchair into the middle of the room. As much as I would love to say that I secretly yearn to be interior designer and I moved the seat to get the ultimate feng shui in the room , this is wrong. I wasn’t trying to ying and yang the energy to harmonise the room. I have no clue why I did it but I did and then sat in it and demanded an ambulance be called to take me away from the terror.

A week later, I woke up in the night and john found me sitting up in the dark,staring into space.I started scratching myself on the face and said I felt like I was in a coffin.i said I wanted to die and didn’t know what else to do. John phoned nhs direct who advised we went to an out of hours clinic to be seen. It was probably about 3am , john couldn’t drive then and the baby was crying. John woke his dad up, joe was bundled into his car seat and I sat slumped in the car in the front seat as I didn’t want to be near the baby.in my pyjamas and a pair of flip flops.

We waited ages and eventually were seen by a lady doctor. She didn’t look at me once during the consultation, spoke to john almost the entire time and just stared at her screen , tapping away on her keyboard. John blurted out everything I had been saying and doing and I was rocking back and forth. Face at the screen she asked if I had planned my own suicide as yet and I said no. Wrong answer, I didn’t win the mystery prize which I had hoped would be admission to hospital. No no no. The million dollar drop question had been answered incorrectly and she delivered her response. “As you haven’t planned your own suicide , you are low risk. Go home get some sleep,things will be better in the morning .” She opened the door and waved us out. Is this the time to take an ,ahem, mental note? Note to self, next time I am too scared to breathe because I’m frightened of living , I will sit down how I plan on ending things. Should I start researching ? What about if I show the doctor the plan and they critique it? What if they say, nice try but not good enough, there is no way doing that will end your life.come back with a better plan and proof you have tried to action it and now were talking! Back to the drawing board for me on that one then.

The next day is when I totally flipped my little lid and john had had enough of it. Not of me , though he probably had at that point , who could blame him, but with the total lack of anyone knowing how to treat me. He took me to psychiatric outpatients and refused to leave until I was seen. Within the hour I was admitted to a mother and baby unit and my recovery began.We stayed in Nottingham for a few more months while I got to the stage where I could be on my own with joe and then made a move back to London. I worked very hard to get better, I did everything that was asked of me . It wasn’t easy it was actually terrifying. I was scared to be near my own child and that’s the biggest thing in the world. But I worked hard- I had to spend thirty seconds a day on my own with him at first,then walk around the garden, then walk down the street with him. I had a few public meltdowns at the postbox ten steps from my in laws house as fear struck me . But, I did it and was so pleased to be going home. And I was proud of me. And rightfully so.

So, when the unit agreed I could go back to London, they wrote lots of very good explanatory letters to my local mental health team, saying they recommended therapy for me. Coming back however was problematic – as soon as the mother and baby unit discharged me from their outpatients and my care was taken over by the local mental health team in London, things turned sour.

I still to this day, over five years after my son was born, haven’t been seen as an outpatient at my local London mental health team.I was seen once after john called them to try and set up outpatient care but it was never set up.I don’t need it now, I’m better, but give me strength. This is ridiculous. This was my life in their hands. The mother and baby unit sent numerous letters asking for me to have outpatient care – but this never happened. I was very lucky that the mother and baby unit agreed to keep me on as an outpatient for a year due to the fact that the team in London basically filed all the letters about me in the bin but this meant I had to travel up there once a week to see the doctors there. This was a massive expense to us as a family , around £200 a week, but one that was essential to ensure I was fully supported while my recovery was on-going.

Before this happened though, on our return to London , I went to the doctors clutching my notes from the mother and baby unit. They had all the info on the doctors needed. “We recovered Evelyn is referred for CBT as soon as possible to build on the good progress she has been making while in the unit and on her discharge”. I saw a GP. I’ll call him Dr Baldy Head. I crept in with Joe and started talking. “I , erm, I haven’t been well. And erm, I felt really low when I gave birth and then started to have all these weird thoughts and feelings and basically cracked up. And I saw lots go doctors here and no one knew how to treat me because it turns out I had postpartum psychosis . So we moved to Nottingham and I registered temporarily with a GP there and went into a mother and baby unit. We were there for four months and we are back now and the psychiatrists there have written this letter to show you the medication that I’m on and to refer me for counselling”. Baldy Head took the letter off me, scanned it flicked it with his finger and scoffed. Actually scoffed and said “and you expect me to do what with this?”. I started crying. I didn’t want it but I felt so embarrassed. I’d just told him something that was really difficult to say and he just made me feel like a child on that god awful Super Nanny programme. I felt like I was sat on the loathesome naughty chair as he said ” who am I supposed to refer you to ? It says you are on tablets so wait for them to kick in”. I said but they have kicked in and how I am now is because of the meds. Four months ago I couldn’t look at Joe without feeling cold all over and cemented to the ground with fear. Now, I’m nervous and scared but I’m getting through the day.I just need to learn some coping techniques. That when he said ” women become mothers, that’s what happens young lady. Perhaps you should have thought of this before you got yourself pregnant”. He handed the letter back to me , laughed and said “refer you for counselling ,is that what I’m here for” and said we are done here. Thanks doc. Next time, I’ll cross my legs and chew on some smarties to ensure i never get myself in this situation again.

I talk about perinatal mental health as it’s what I suffered from but issues around treatment aren’t just in this field – it appears people with illnesses that fall into the mental health bracket struggle to get help more than if they were to have a physical illness.

There are currently 17 specialist psychiatric mother and baby units in the uk equalling 125 beds. If you think ,over 1400 women a yr in the uk get postpartum psychosis and this is deemed as a medical emergency and mothers can be treated in the units. Combine that with the amounts that get other perinatal mental illness that requires in depth treatment and you’ll see this isn’t a lot of beds at all. I got an e for gcse maths but even I can work out without the use of a calculator that we are a few beds down. There is no unit in Northern Ireland and over the last few yrs some units have closed. But there are still lots of ill women. Tis does not make sense.

There was a recent report from the Maternal Mental Health Alliance that revealed that “more 1 in 10 women develop a mental illness during pregnancy or within the first year after having a baby. If untreated, these perinatal mental illnesses can have a devastating impact on the women affected and their families and that In the UK, mental illness in pregnant and postnatal women often goes unrecognised, undiagnosed and untreated.”

They created a map which showed how ridiculously patchy the current provision of services is. The precise words about this are ‘This means a postcode lottery determines whether women receive the care they need or not’. Have a look. It’s not coloured in red because it’s a fabulous colour. It’s almost all red to show where there are no services – http://everyonesbusiness.org.uk/?page_id=349

This is beyond ridiculous. I have now joined up with charities and others with lived experience of perinatal mental illness to form the perinatal mental health partnership and we are creating an awareness campaign. As a result if my work in this, I now get to go to lots of conferences and see lots of medical bods saying how wonderful things are . Yes, having been to approx 47 mental health conferences this yr where I have met countless nhs chiefs and leads in suits nodding with a fixed smile , I am aware our government are cash strapped. I have a few in tact brain cells that refused to budge with the illness. I’m stubborn like that.i know we have no money as it’s all gone on duck houses and moats and pay rises to people who don’t really deserve it . However , have we really reached that ludicrous point where people actually have to plan their own suicide or fail at the deed working before we can offer them any help??? This isn’t masterchef , it’s not a gameshow,its not winner takes all but it feels like it. And I’m shit at quizzes, I always lose. Surely, in the midst of pathways and processes there could be a fairly simple overall, hello doctors, please don’t chuck a patients mental health symptoms in the dustbin and leave them to rot which will eventually mean they disintegrate into nothing. If someone says I am feeling so low I can’t see anyway out, do something.

If I went to the doctor and said erm, my vagina smells bad and I’m worried about it , I doubt the gp would say, ooh, why don’t you hang a sprig of lavender off it, let it breeze slightly in the wind,spritz it with a bit of air freshener and then say and we can’t help you anymore until you have reached the point where you have ripped said vagina off and flushed it down the toilet. Thankfully, this particular scenario hasn’t afflicted me and I’m not sure how to attach lavender to my lady garden , and how on earth would you do your jeans up but you know what I mean.

I was prodding my boobs one sunny day two years ago. They are massive anyway and have dribs and drabs of milk in them and seem like one big mammory as it is but I felt a lump previous prodding investigations hadn’t found. Hmm, this means I should book a doctors appointment I said to myself. I phoned the docs and was given an appointment that afternoon – “can’t take risks with these things can we darlin’ ” the receptionist told me. On seeing the doctor and her have a prod, she said , ya there seems to be a lump but I’m no expert on these things so we must send you to the breast cancer clinic urgently to get you seen. She wrote out a fax in front of me ( a fax , in 2013) and helpfully put the words “suspected cancer” in big bold black capitals at the top “so no one misses it”.

I was called into an appointment the next day and had all sorts of tests and spoke to lots of experts. I was given the all clear in a fairly short space of time and I left the experience feeling very thankful for our wonderful health service , which it is and the doctors dealing with a possibly awful situation so quickly. Even more startling though as this was six months after I had gone to hospital after having a relapse of really bad anxiety when I found out I was pregnant again. I was treated in such a slap dash appalling way that I had lost all faith and bang my head on the table of all the nhs chiefs who, after people kill themselves because of a mental health problem say “lessons will be learned from this”. Lovely words chief but I’ve heard them oodles of times. When will these lessons be learned? Maybe they should be learnt in school for the chiefs of the futures so it’s embedded in them.

I found out I was cheggars again one boring office afternoon when thought I had a wee infection and the gp wanted me to do a pregnancy test before I was put on antibiotics.i announced to my friend Julie who sits opposite me , I’m going to get a brownie from pret and then I’ve got to piss on a stick to make sure I’m not with child. Oh how we laughed! Pregnant , imagine , lol!!!

But oh how I wept when, brownie in mouth , pants round ankles, stick wet with wee , I saw two blue lines appear. My three years of recovery from anxiety from that very second kicked in again. Another baby , another baby,no no no. I can’t do this. I’m well, I’ve got used to having joe.

Within a week, I had developed such a terrible fear of being pregnant, John found me slumped next to the radiator talking to myself having called the Samaritans. Who were fantastic. I was back in the fresh hell I was in after Joe.I was in such a state ,I had been signed off work and was finding being near joe too much to deal with. In the midst of all this , we were then told the pregnancy wasn’t forming properly anyway and actually had to be removed . It took three attempts to remove it as it was growing in such an odd place and the three operations took six weeks altogether . By the end of this awful time of finding out I was pregnant,not wanting it, to finding out I couldn’t have it but knowing it was in me , growing to think actually I think I do want to have it ,to then having to have three termination attempts , I had completely lost the plot. And ended up in accident and emergency again.

What a fun day that was . We arrived at midday and I left at 4am the next day- having received no help. Casualty had no idea how to help me , after spending four hours there and sent me to the local inpatient local psychiatric unit. We saw lots of people with clipboards saying in whispers ” what are we supposed to with her” and the fixed smile brigade came out again. “Let’s go home and get some rest shall we Evelyn,will all seem a bit better in the morning , promise”. No no no no no no no no,I wasn’t leaving until someone helped me.

John had to leave at 5pm to get our son. He was in tears leaving me , I was in tears him going but was assured the duty psychiatrist would see me ‘soon’. I then sat on a chair of the foyer of the unit for twelve hours. Twelve hours.i am prone to exaggerate but there is no need to now as it was that bad. I was spoken to three times by staff , where they informed me they were sure I would be seen at some point and also to say “do you think you could stop crying , you are upsetting the staff”. I.do.not.joke. I had a lovely conversation with a young girl who had tried to take her life a week earlier – a beautiful clever girl who simply said ‘I don’t know why I tried to do it , I just don’t want to be here in this life’ and a man who told me he was Jesus. I wish he had been – he could have saved me.

The duty psychiatrist turned up 11 hours after I got there and spent less then five minutes with me. Was told they didn’t have the facilities to help me and they didn’t know who could but they would pay for my cab home. And that was it. I arrived home at 4.45 am and four hours later we were on our way to Nottingham again and went straight to casualty. Within two hours I saw a psychologist who arranged for me to have emdr therapy, I was put back on meds and my journey to full recovery started. Again , I had to travel to Nottingham every week for my emdr and thank god I did.it saved my life and it made me truly recover. Thank The Lord . The Lord who runs Nottinghams mental health services.

I was in the audience for the brilliant Victoria Derbyshire programme a couple of weeks ago about mental health. Check it out on I player if you haven’t seen it – almost two hours of brave people from all walks of life, all backgrounds, varying professions, discussing their mental health. While they were all doing this, I was adjusting my boobs as the photo above shows. I also delivered a gold medal hand up in the air performance. A common theme was the struggle for treatment that doesn’t seem to happen to people with a physical illness. And it genuinely seems to be because people think having a mental illness is literally all in your head . Broke an arm? It gets set in plaster to fix it. Small willy ? You can get it made longer! But problems in your head , oh , well getting help for that depends on the pathway of care your area offer and blah blah blah postcode lottery blah blah.or we could just all pull ourselves together couldn’t we ?

Thee was one amazing girl called Jo who made me and everyone else cry with her brave story . I am in awe of her determination and her openness. She had been diagnosed with anorexia and was around four stone. But wait for the bombshell . She got community care with her local mental health service pretty quickly, but it was not until her BMI had dropped below a certain low point that she was admitted for the care she needed. Might as well dear, sorry , I can see you are a bit on the thin side but not quite thin enough to get help. Can you starve yourself a bit more please? This is ridiculous! Jo says. “Why should I need to get as ill as that to need inpatient treatment?” And she is right.

I know there are all these lines around how mental health services are organised in each local area and how this may differ across places. As the NHS say on their webpage ‘This means some may not cover all mental health conditions, or only deal with people of a certain age’. This .must.change. I know resources are a problem, money is a problem but people have problems that need help. Surely treating things before people get to considering suicide is better than them getting to that point. Because if you have planned it , you might bloody well do it which is devastating . And once someone is gone , they can’t come back.

Simon Stevens , chief executive of the NHS says in the Achieving Better Access to Mental Health Services by 2020 report that “Mental health problems are the largest single cause of disability, representing a quarter of the national burden of ill-health, and are the leading cause of sickness absence in the UK.This makes it all the more indefensible that there is such a large “treatment gap” with most people with mental health problems receiving no treatment and with severe funding restrictions compared with physical health….That is why, achieving “parity of esteem” between mental and physical health services is so important for the NHS, and for the nation.

This document therefore sets out some of the concrete next steps we are committed to helping lead over the next five years. NHS England looks forward to working with our partners to deliver this critical agenda” and I hope this indeed plays out as planned.

Getting help shouldn’t be a flip of a coin decision. This isn’t like a supermarket saying sorry we have run out of flapjacks but our branch down the road has some , this is people’s lives and they deserve better.

I have made a vlog of my experience http://youtu.be/Kn6pgSUP5YI

‘You can’t be depressed dear, the forestry commission don’t have to be called to trim your bush’

You can’t be depressed dear, you’re wearing mascara ! Said the wizard to the fairy one summer morning when the sun was shining, the birds were singing , the grandparents were gazing at their new glorious grandchild and the new mother was crying in the corner albeit with a slick of heather shimmer across her lips and a slide of liquid liner across the peepers . Little did people know the made up face hadn’t been done because mummy as she was now forever known was having such a delightful restful time that she had three hours to put her face on .no, the perfectly applied make up was applied as a mask, a mask to cover up how she was really feeling. Give her face a stroke and the layers of foundation will crack and will reveal what’s really underneath – a desperate woman who isn’t revelling in motherhood, but who in fact is so sad she cries until her mascara runs down her face .

Over the last year since writing my blog and talking to women who have been through perinatal mental health illnesses , it has become really apparent to me that there appears to be some bizarre notion that some people dismiss mothers experiencing these illnesses as they ‘ don’t look depressed’.

” But you don’t look depressed”. Hmm, what does someone depressed or with a mental illness look like? Are they walking around with weights in their sleeves dragging them across the ground? Are they wandering around the park with a parrot on their shoulder talking to the trees? Are they a sad jabbering wreck? Have they not shaved their bikini line lately ? Well you, know , maybe. But they also may look like you do when you look in the mirror, leave the house and go to work. Shock horror, they may shower,wear clean pants , shave their tash and wear the entirety of a make up counter on their faces . I know I do. I have a vast knicker collection ( my friend Sophie and I used to buy each other the wildest pants we could find at Christmas. Even though I am ow three sizes bigger and all the ribbons and mini poms poms – I have a pair of Mrs Christmas pants that fall off when you undo the strings at the side that hold a rather beautiful metaphorical unwrapping a present theory behind them- catch in my spanx these days, I refuse to chuck them out) , I wax my tash ( I recommend reading the label clearly if you do this as I have it on good authority , ahem, that if you do this in haste, you may accidentally pick up the bikini line wax. This is somewhat painful on the face and though you may indeed remove all the hairs, you will also remove 7 layers of skin, look as though you have dipped your face in ketchup and come out in welts and ingrown hairs ) and I adorn my face in beige elastic lip gloss and lather myself in fake bake. I also had postpartum psychosis , postnatal anxiety and generalised anxiety disorder . Being able to look the dolled up part therefore doesn’t mean you are exempt from feeling sad.

I often talk about the day I was told that I couldn’t have a perinatal mental health illness because I had mascara on. It’s almost as though make up has some kind of medical attachment to it and people think if you wear it , it means you can’t be feeling low. To be wearing it means you must feel like the hills are alive with the sound of music and though obviously for some this is the case but for so so many others, this isn’t true. Make up has the great power of being able to conceal a pile load of flaws, and not just physical. Concealer might cover up spots , but it also covers up eye bags that are embedded into your face from the pained crying you have been doing. Sometimes mascara helps open up those eyes so people don’t notice they have been worn out with tears.

I know that the day I was caught putting mascara on while in the midst of my psychotic breakdown , I think I was actually trying to find the old me. Before having my child, I loved looking my best. Now, in the fresh hell that I was finding motherhood, I wanted to try and gain back that normality . I had a fear of the future to such an extent that I had started to consider that death was the only way out. I had a realisation that this child was now here forever and I was hit with the hammer of a feeling that I had made a terrible terrible mistake in having him. I would wander round chanting ‘I just want it to go back to me and john,I want things back to how they used to be’ but of course this wasn’t going to happen. A baby isn’t something you put into the recycling when you have finished with it , it’s here forever and my mind found that very concept beyond terrifying. I was too scared to be in the same room as him so when he wasn’t attached to my boob with john sitting next to me to ensure I didn’t drop the baby because of my shaking, I tended to just sit on my own on the end of the bed staring at the floor trembling. I did this a lot. I did this almost all of the time.my teeth would chatter with nerves at his presence and I just wanted the baby to go away and get my old life back.and I think painting my face not only took up time to ensure I could avoid my child, but it also gave me a glimpse of what I would do in my former child free life.

And this mask then can fool people into thinking you are fine. That you are embracing motherhood with gusto, that the baby has come along and you wouldn’t even know it as you are doing all the things you used to do . I found this. I have mentioned this in a few blog posts but I and john most certainly won’t forget get the day that I woke up , manic , and basically in the midst of a pretty bad psychotic episode. John had gone to work as I had insisted I was ok ( this was fairly early on) and on his return , he found me in the kitchen holding a packet of frozen stewing steak mumbling ‘must cook stew’ on repeat. Bar the fact that stew takes quite a long time to make and unless we were planning to eat at 10pm the next day, I don’t think the frozen lump of meat was going to be doing anything useful , I looked very bizarre. I have very muddled memories of that day and john has thankfully filled in the what I can only say I must now say are amusing blank spaces. If I don’t laugh at them , I may cry. Again. I was apparently in an apron ( because obviously I always wore one of them and didn’t just fry the bacon in my pants) , with a bun on the top of my head so solid with hairspray I may have been flammable , and more worryingly, with blue eyeshadow and coral orange lipstick adorning my face. John says I smelt of bleach and then attempted to climb out of the window. As you do when you are completely well obviously. He called the health visitor and said ‘ she is acting , erm , weird. She looks like , erm, Mary poppins’.

The health visitor arrived . And informed john that I was nesting and clearly just wanted the house to be stick and span for my new precious bundle of joy and wasn’t he lucky that I was making him a nice meal , Mmm, yummy stew a la psychosis with a sprinkling of blusher. At this point I will repeat – I had blue eyeshadow on and coral orange lipstick. I looked like a 1980s glamour shot .This was 2010,blue eyeshadow was not en vogue and my mother who is nearly forty years older than me last wore coral lipstick in 1989. This wild makeover should have been evidence enough that I was losing the plot but no, it just showed I liked scrubbing according to the professionals.

And it’s not just make up that covers your feel emotions up. That’s just the imagery I’m using. It’s the fake smiles, the well timed laughter, the omelette over your face to make people laugh when you’re actually feeling awful.

Mental illness can be like the invisible illness. Often , you can’t see it but because you can’t , it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Just because someone appears to be going on with their life at what looks like to you , in the way they normally would, it doesn’t mean they aren’t suffering. And for me, I obviously relate this to mental illness after having a baby. I don’t care what people say, there is a massive stigma attached to this kind of mental illness. Having a baby is supposed to be the most joyous thing in life you can ever endure. It’s supposed to be all rose petals and gurgles, with deep joy at being able to stare at your baby for hours on end thinking , it’s all worth it. And when you say , look , I don’t think I like it,what the fuck have I done , people recoil in horror. Because having a baby is the biggest thing nature does. Women have babies, women make milk to nurse babies, women have the ability to survive on one hours sleep a fortnight , and some women have 13 children and are back cooking a pork shoulder for the other 12 two hours after giving birth .

But for a fairly large amount of women , the experience is not initially this magical fairy tale. I have heard postnatal depression described as the ‘fluffy mental illness’ and one that people think women make up . There are the ‘in my day we were too busy to be depressed’ brigade who shame women into not wanting to reveal they don’t feel like their antenatal class told them they would do. And if you are faced with this stigma , what do you do ? You cover it up in any way you can in the hope that if you paint over the cracks whether it’s with make up , fake smiles, forced laughter, forced love towards the baby you aren’t sure you want, that it will go away. In some cases , these feelings do go quickly, your thoughts sort themselves out and the sad feelings while away on their own. Hurrah. But for some women, this isn’t the case. I hear stories of women who have babies over six months old saying they have been wandering around in a glazed daze of anxiety and depression but have been keeping up appearances as they are too ashamed to tell anyone how they feel . Everyone thinks they are fine as they are going through the motions but they aren’t . It’s like a scab that looks like it is healing but with one tiny pick, all the blood comes pouring out and this needs to change.

Mental illness is not a look. It’s not something you see in the pages of a magazine because if it was visual, it wouldn’t look very nice. So if you see someone who has just had a baby, offer to help,ask how things are, be gentle with them. Please refrain from the ‘HOW ARE YOU’ in slow loud tones like your friend has suddenly regressed to pre-school age though – I don’t believe there is any research to show that people experiencing mental illness need to be spoken.to.like.they.are.stupid. Just make it aware that if they want to talk , you will listen. If they need someone to go to the doctor with them to explain that even though they are smiling and laughing , inside they feel crushed. Upon asking they may of course find they are genuinely loving motherhood and that is wonderful but they may not be . They may be desperate for someone to say, I know you have painted toenails but I just wondered how things are ?

I’ll throw in at this point that there is a wonderful charity in the UK called The Smile Group. They have this fabulous tool on their website which is a GP checklist which can help you if you are don’t know how to tell the doctor how you are feeling. I have spoken to two women recently who have been holding an invisible mask over their emotions and felt like they couldn’t reach out for help from their doctor as they didn’t know what to say. I showed them this checklist which is here http://www.thesmilegroup.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/GP-Checklist.pdf . You can fill it in and ask the receptionist to get the doctor to read it and call you or make an appointment and hand it to them. They will then see that even though you look ok, that looks can be deceiving . You have been putting on an oscar worthy performance of utter joy but you can’t stay in that role forever.

It’s had to tell people how you feel when you feel betrayed by your mind. That awful feeling that your mind has shifted form you controlling it to it controlling you and not in a good way is terrifying but let me tell you , it does get better. One day, you won’t look in the mirror and think , Christ alive, another day of gritted teeth with a fake smile in public , I promise. One day soon you will look in the mirror and think , I feel a bit better I feel like I can face the world without that metaphorical mask and I feel ok.

Let’s go Greek and take these masks off and smash them on the ground like plates , crash ,bang , wallop. And kick them out of your way as nothing will stand in your way of happiness now. If you actually do this in a restaurant you may have to pay for the damage though so maybe refrain from launching your carbonara at the wall and just be content in the knowledge that you are going to be ok. More than ok, you are going to be happy xx

If there ever was a reason for a harness in between your fandango, then this is it

On Monday 22 June , after work , after collecting my son from school and eating three brownies and a lemon ice tea, I’ll be trekking across London to take in the lovely views across canary wharf and Greenwich. How delightful I hear you say. However , I forgot to throw in that I will be taking in these views from on top of the 02 centre, 52 metres in the sky. Tis quite high.

image

This isn’t my normal after work activity. That normally involves wine and crisps but this is no normal Monday. This is because I am part of Team London for Postpartum Progress’s Annual Climb Out Of Darkness http://postpartumprogress.org/climb-out-of-the-darkness/. Take a look at this and also the website for postpartum progress http://www.postpartumprogress.com.

When I was ill, well actually , not when I was properly ill as when that was going on, I was in terror at the thought of every second, minute and hour. The chiming of the clock would not just signify another hour going past, but another chime to what was the life sentence of motherhood that lay before me. The pure terror I felt about being trapped by this child forever filled me with such dread that I genuinely thought the only way out was death. I could see no end to the fear that I felt. I could see no end to waking up in the morning and feeling as though I was in a nailed down coffin , gasping for hour. Gasping for an air that would lift me up out of my bed, into the sky , above the clouds into space. I began to think , only then will I be free. I would run out of the house saying I felt like cling film was pulled across my mouth and was stopping me breathing. I was desperate for a way out. I had spent nine months waiting for my child to arrive which such hope and glee and when he did, within an hour of his birth, I felt a hazy sense of dread. My mum said I looked glazed over and kept shouting ‘Evelyn , Evelyn , why are you staring into space? Evelyn, put your phone down, the baby is here’. I was looking around the room looking for the exit and wondered if the windows were open. I think I have sub consciously started planning my escape then but little did I know the pit I would fall into just a few hours later.

Over the course of the next three days , I slipped slip into a deep deep fear filled state. I was scared of my baby. He had amazing squidgy arms and the smallest cutest little toe in the world, and the little toe nail on that little toe was so tiny yet so perfect. He did lots of yawning and seemed to like me but I found myself not even being able to look at him. I peered his cot a few times and felt my hands clam up. My head would start buzzing , I would start breathing through my nose , my teeth would feel like they had pins and needles and I would start looking for a fire exit. I felt like I needed to get out. Out of the ward, the hospital and what became very obvious, out of the life I had been dealt. How could I have wanted something so much and as soon as it was here decide I not only didn’t want it , but that I was scared of it ?

I realised I felt trapped by being a mother. This gurgling lump of squidge belonged to me ,forever, and the idea of that sent me into such a spin that I eventually couldn’t be in the same room as him. I would shake at the thought of his presence and the idea that he was now here and was staying here. I couldn’t unbirth him now.

When he was six weeks old I woke up one day, smacked my head into the wall, told john I was getting the baby adopted while pacing up and down the room, screamed so much that blood poured from the side of my mouth, began chanting and walking up and down the stairs over and over and over and crawled around the bed on all fours screaming ‘someone has to help me ‘ while John was on the phone to a psychiatrist at the hospital. This day culminated in john finding me in the bathroom holding a razor saying the sun was hitting it in such a way that it glistened really beautifully. For those few minutes holding the razor, in the midst of that morning of meltdown and the previous six weeks of hell, I just sat there , staring at the floor. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I was planning on doing with the razor. I think I went in the bathroom to get away from everyone ( john was on ohone to the hospital trying to get me admitted , his mum was on the phone to the doctors trying to get my pregnancy notes for the hospital ) and the baby just kept crying for me , my boobs ,my smell and my warmth. I can remember being in the bathroom , I remember it was really sunny,I remember I squeezed a little spot at the top of my arm and I remember opening up the cabinet and picking up the razor. Even though my lady locks down below had reached such catastrophic proportions that the forestry commission would need to come along with an industrial lawn mower to fashion a Brazilian on me , I was most definitely not getting the razor out to prune my nether regions. I don’t know why I got it out. I don’t think I wanted the physical pain of ending my life but I had reached the point where I thought death was the only way out. My son was now born. He was here forever and the idea of that I couldn’t cope with.

The previous six weeks had seen me have continuous panic attacks, I’d experienced hallucinations which made me feel like I was floating in the corner of the room looking down on myself. If only I’d have brought the broom up with me I could have attacked the cob webs while doing cartwheels in the corner. I frequently talk about the day I turned myself into a picket fence housewife complete with powder blue eye shadow , coral orange lipstick and a slicked up born that Mary poppins would break a sweat to steal of me. I also put an apron on and then proceeded to stand in the kitchen for the next few hours holding a piece of frozen stewing steak , chanting . When john returned home , joe was asleep in his bouncer, I looked like I had just let the three year old next door pretend I was a girls world and draw all over my face with a crayon and I think I might have tried to climb out of the window. That was a fun day girls. It surely was painfully obvious that I wasn’t well – I was wearing coral orange lipstick that was that seen in 1985 on women with quaffed fringes hairsprayed into place with concrete strength . Who in their right mind wears coral lipstick I ask you ?

I was eventually hospitalised and diagnosed with postpartum psychosis and anxiety. In the uk we have what I will call a ‘light sprinkling’ which translates to , not a lot at all and we need loads more but the government is shutting them all down anyway , of mother and baby units. These are specialist psychiatric wards where mums and their babies can go to manage the mental illness they are suffering since the birth of their child and to kick start their recovery. My lovely pretend hubby – nearly ten yrs together and a bare finger over here but you know , I really have made him stick through the for better and for worse even in the absence of those official vows and he still loves me god bless him – fought tooth and nail to get me into a unit as we had to endure nearly two months of ‘oh , your wife is just tired / she is wearing mascara she can’t be depressed/ get her to make a cake , that will cheer her up/ didn’t she realise having a baby was hard’ type comments while everyone brushed aside the absolute horror I was going through.

When I went into the unit, my recovery started. I was put on lots of happy pills,anti psychotics and anti anxiety medication which I will now forever say saved my life. I don’t care that I chewed them like smarties, I don’t care that I put on approx 67 stone in weight, I don’t care that they seemed to give me , ahem, sulphur burps (yummy, I’ll be winning miss world 2016 won’t i ) and I don’t care if people say , oh just eat some raw paw paw and cut an onion in half and hold them against your ears. They will clear out the toxins and all your sad feelings will be absorbed by said onion and then you can bury it in the garden and have a funeral for all your old sad emotions. I needed medication and I took it. And it helped me get better . Hurrah to scientists and their magic potions to help us feel better. Without them I don’t think my son would have a mother alive today.

And when I was in the unit, I was able to take the time to focus on my recovery. It forced me to be in joes presence , something I had not only avoided but feared so much that my vision had blurred. In between my panic attacks , I would read . The was a wonderful book called ‘life after birth’ by kate figes which gave me my first glimmer of hope. Then I would read articles on the internet.

I read one that will always stay with me . It said , recovery from perinatal mental health problems does happen but like it’s a game of snakes and ladders. You will have a pile of good days and then a bad one will pop up. But that like snakes and ladders, you may slip down the ladder but you never go back to the beginning. That gave me hope. I would have days where I would think , I’m doing ok, I can look at joe without vomiting , I can lift him up and nurse him and then it would hit me , bam , like a cold fish had just been smacked around my face. I would shake , my teeth would chatter and I’d say , oh god oh god, it’s happening again john , you don’t understand, I’m going to die , it’s him, I can’t be his mum , I can’t do this , I can’t , how can you do it , why aren’t you terrified and then I would have a massive panic attack and all the nurses would have to come into the room and help me calm down. I would feel like it was never ever going to get better but the snakes and ladders analogy gave me hope. I might feel shit sometimes. I may feel more than shit sometimes, I may feel like I want to be six feet under ( I had hallucinations of being locked in a coffin frequently) but you know, that thirty seconds yesterday where I felt ok meant something . It was more than thirty seconds of oh I feel ok, it was thirty seconds of hope . And that’s what I needed to cling on to.

And then I would read blogs and survivor stories online. I saw that people had felt like me. I’ll be honest that I struggled to find anyone saying what I felt , the whole , I’m trapped in life as a mum and feel so bad about it I think I want to end my life, but these were women, admitting they felt awful after having a baby and even though it took a while, they got better. Some thought they were going to hurt their baby, some thought they had developed OCD but what they all had in common was that they had experienced something really shit but that they had got better. This hope was like a carrot dangling in front of me. Or rather like a bar of chocolate saying look how good I look, but you can’t quite grab me , but one day you will and you will devour me.

And I did. It took about 2.5 years but I eventually grabbed that chocolate bar and didn’t let go. It took a lot of meds, therapy which involved me watching a clicking finger move side to side and a stint in a psychiatric unit but I got better . I’m a bloody warrior . I have clawed back from wanting to end it all to wanting to inhale life with my son so much that I could smother him in kisses and still want to give him more. He is my light, my love, my soul. He is most definitely my child. The afternoon after the uk election he stood up in class to tell all the other five year olds about it and how he is so clever. Apparently all was going well until the path where he announced ” and so that means that the conservatives are still in power and David Cameron is still out prime minister. And that is a fucking ballache. ” I can’t think she he got that from. Similar to when I had my annual check up at the doctors and was asked ‘ and so , just for our records as we ask everyone now, how much alcohol do you consume”. I of course said , oh you know I might go out once a month and have a glass of some nice French red wine with a nice fillet steak and he nodded and said good good. My darling child then pipes up ” mummy, you love getting drunk. You walk like this when you have had too much wine”. I mumbled a few yes yes darling , that’s a nice story for the doctor to chuckle and say , ooh what’s your favourite drink joe ? Water , apple juice ? No , my five year old child’s response – ” I like jaguar bombs ‘. I’ll just point out that he doesn’t have jaguarbombs to the best of my knowledge unless the dinner ladies at school have taken to pulling pints while serving up macaroni cheese.

I did climb out last with my other uk warrior mum girlfriends beth bone and Kathryn grant. They both have blogs you should peruse and they fought similar battles to me . We walked across London last year and spent those hours together laughing , remembering and realising how lucky we are . We remembered those women who have lost their lives to perinatal mental health and vowed we would do what we can to help others who had been in a similar position to us. And we have . Us three , along with some other amazeballs people have formed the perinatal mental health partnership in the uk to create an awareness campaign. We are doing some great work and our experiences are and will help others.

And this is where postpartum progress and climb out comes in. Postpartum Progress and it’s founder, Katherine Stone is the most brilliant resource for mothers and their families. It posts hopeful blog posts, easy to read symptom checkers,lists details where you can access support and shows that you aren’t alone. There are whole communities who can and want to help you if you are feeling like it’s all too much. You can and do get better, I promise.

Climb out signifies something beautiful. It signifies you climbing out of despair back to your peak. No matter how low you get , you can climb out of it. And it may be a hard climb , it may be one where you feel like you have no choice but to give up but dig those nails in and you can do it. Take whatever help you need, you don’t have to do it alone. Your friends and family can help you, people you don’t know can help you and you will get there.

I will be climbing this year with beth who is our team leader , Kathryn and another survivor , Tracy Robinson. We will scale the 02 and reach the top and think , that was as easy as drinking a glass of prosecco bra use have climbed harder mountains than that- we beat perinatal mental health problems. I have no doubt that when I’m clad in my delightful blue jumpsuit with a harness around my fandango staring up at the great height in front of me that I’ve agreed to climb , I will shit my pants. But this is fine really as I should be used to it – I have the bladder control of a newborn since having my little sunshine.

Dust off those walking boots, strap your boobs down and wear some comfy pants. Find somewhere high and gather your family and friends and ask them to take a journey of hope with you. image