Tag Archives: Postpartumpsychosis

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.

I’m a mum,I went mad and I get myself into all kinds of muddles

I’ve been tasked with making a blog. I can’t remember what I’ve been promised now I’ve succeeded with this mission, but if it’s not champagne for breakfast, then I won’t be happy.

For those who don’t know me I’m Eve.I’m a 34 yr old mum to a four year old boy. I have a husband who isn’t really my husband but we live together, have conjugal relations when we remember that’s what’s couples do and have an equal love for our child. I’ve just read over this and see I’ve declared myself 34. Which isn’t right. I’m definitely 33 .

I’ve had a fairly normal life. I spent my twenties living in a pub with a group of marines who spent the majority of their time sticking bits of their anatomy into the top of vodka bottles. I wandered around in a semi permanent Merlot daze for most of this time and once jumped over a kebab shop counter with my friend Catherine, put Mr kebab man’s hat on, sawed myself off some donor meat,fried myself some fries and ran out declaring my undying love for the 16 free chicken wings I had been allowed to run off to the sunset with.

And and then I met john. I say met, but I mean, became a couple. We sat opposite each other in work. He sent me a text one morning at 5am after dancing bare chested in a gay nightclub and being propositioned by a man called Sergio dressed as a sailor. He says it made him realise he loved me , even though Sergio seemed like a very nice fellow. The text read ‘ I think I love you’. He had me at ‘I’.

That was in 2006. Then in 2010, I gave birth to our little boy Joe. I discovered I’m a rare specimen in the medical world and I’ve been blessed with not one, but two wombs. Doctors loved me. I was prodded and poked by every medical student in London and by the time my c section came round,I don’t think there was a single person in the whole of East London who hadn’t seen my nether regions. All was wonderful in the world.

We didn’t know whether were having a boy or a girl. The first we learned of it was at the end of my c section when I felt a tug and saw a jet stream of wee flying over the consultant’s head. We heard those heartwarming words ‘he is pissing all over me’ and I turned to John and said, I think it’s a boy. I looked up to see a child screaming. He looked like he had a halo around him and I thought it was the second coming. John remarked that he looked like Jesus surrounded by a beacon of light.

And then we were wheeled out of theatre. My mum arrived and before she had even looked at Joe , she yelled ‘ what’s wrong with you Evelyn, you look glazed over’. I declared I was fine  and went back to checking my facebook status. A few days later, after my c section scar unravelled, a meltdown in the gp’soffice where I lay on the floor in tears begging a nurse to take pity on me and the reality of owning a child who fed 57 hours a day and slept for precisely none of this time, I experienced my first feelings of psychosis. I looked at my duvet cover. It looked like it was dancing, the colours were changing . I asked John why he kept washing the bedclothes and changing things around. And then I wondered why I was totally utterly devastatingly afraid of my son. My own child. Terrified.

By the time Joe was three days old, I had decided I didn’t want him. Even worse, I felt trapped by his very presence. The reality that I was now a mum forever hit me in a catastrophic way. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of blue congratulation cards and would wake up feeling smothered. The terror of anxiety when I opened my eyes in the morning time is still a feeling that was so intense that I struggle to describe it.

I began to think I was floating in the corner of the room. I would wake up feeling as though I was in a coffin that was bolted down. I would spend ages staring at my mummy wardrobe of leggings and then struggle to put them on. And not even because my dough like stomach was in the way. It was because I couldn’t remember how to get dressed.

And then there was the day I trussed myself up a la Mary poppins. Neat bun piled on top of head,apron on , going wild with the antibacterial spray. I did hold back on singing to the birds but  I don’t think I was far off climbing out of the window and letting out a crazed version of ‘the hills are alive’ . John came home to find me standing in the kitchen staring into space holding a frozen packet of stewing steak. I was muttering ‘ must make stew’ on repeat.

I couldn’t get anyone to take me seriously. At the point where I had started to think that death was the only way out of this world I was trapped in, a doctor told me unless I had planned my own suicide , I was ‘low risk’.  To make me feel even better about my world crashing down around me , a family member said ‘ I know you feel like you’re going mad,but you look better than ever’. Wonderful, so I’m too terrified to be in the same room as my own child but I can rock a bikini for the first time in my life.

The day I was hospitalised in a psychiatric mother and baby unit came six weeks too late. I should have been in it from the day Joe was born. And we had to move from London to Nottingham to get a doctor to pay attention to me and accept that ‘putting some mascara on and making a nice Victoria sandwich’ was not going to stop me from feeling so terrified of Joe.

But then I went into the unit. And I started my recovery. I went on meds, my lips went blue,I met a woman who made coconut ice with vodka and spent her days sucking on it while trying to get me to break out of the unit to play bingo in Bradford, and I discovered that when you are in hospital, always order from the Caribbean or Indian menu. The food is amazing and I would highly recommend it.

The unit was wonderful. It took me a week to be in the same room as Joe. The night I closed my bedroom door and sat in my room on my own with Joe was the biggest turning point of my illness. I would never have thought , years before, that I would have to learn to be near my child and not feel fear. This was the greatest challenge of my life . And I was winning it.

And win it I did. It took a long time. I had blips. I phoned the crisis line and was spoken to by a nurse who said she would call me back once she had finished her pot noodle. Must have been from Waitrose (other supermarkets are available) as she never called me back. I had to endure nosey neighbours leap out in front of Joe’s buggy speaking to me in a vveeerryyyy sllllow vooiccceeee “Hel.lo Eve. Doing well aren’t you? Isn’t she Peter? Doing welllllllll”. I’d take Joe to baby groups to see Mavis telling Maureen ‘ Do u know she wanted to die?’ And see them elbow each other as I went past.

I had been told I was fine,that meds were wrong,that I was just tired. All these were wrong. Very wrong. I wasn’t fine, I took so many meds I could have made a shop full of rattles and even though my child didn’t seem to understand the concept of sleep and still doesn’t four years on,I was actually very very ill. I had postpartum psychosis and postnatal anxiety. I needed the meds to help my mind clear so I could focus on recovery. I could handle the blue lips if the meds stopped me from thinking the clouds were suffocating me and most if all, if they stopped me from fearing my own son.

Nearly five yrs on, I’m back to the old me. I’m a mum. A good mum, a happy mum. Joe and I share a love of noodles and chocolate and we are best mates. I do tire occasionally of having to pretend to be a green goblin superhero who destroys people with green farts but I like the sentiment behind it. He is definitely my son.

And now I’m doing what I can to raise awareness of mental health after having a baby. No one told me that it’s possible to feel like the world is crashing down around you to such an extent that you may feel like death is the only way out. But now I know it is possible and that it’s not just possible, but that you do recover. And can lead a happy life.

I’ve met some fab people over the last few months who I’m working with the create an awareness campaign for ante and postnatal mental health for mums and dads. Just because men don’t give birth through their bits, doesn’t meant hey can’t feel sad too.

You can and do get better xx