Tag Archives: Recovery

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.

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.

Exercise makes me happy.As does Gin.As does bouncing around on my hubbys balls.But anti-depressants kept me alive……All hail meds and all who sail in them.

I saw a post on twitter the other day and it struck me. It didn’t make me want to throw chocolate profiteroles at the iPad screen, which would actually be a terrible waste but it didn’t make me want to lick it either. It actually got me quite irritated because it insinuated that I , as well as millions of others had failed in some way,when actually we haven’t . We’ve done what we have for the good of ourselves and those around us.

It didn’t say ‘Jamie Dornan doesn’t love you’ which would have made me throw all my mummy porn into a Sainsbury’s carrier bag and given it to the charity shop down the road. Don’t know about you but I’d happily buy ‘Housewives in Hounslow’ for 5p. My mind is wandering . What it actually said that was ‘you never need anti depressants to get cope with mental illness’ and the article suggested that to take them indicated some sort of weakness, that all they do is blur your mind from the reality of the real torture you are enduring and that if you take them, you aren’t ever actually better and you should feel like a failure as you haven’t managed to ying and yang yourself out of the depressive limbo you have got yourself tangled into.

I have played the game twister and got myself into all sorts of gymnastic poses and managed to fall out of them easily and hysterically. In my younger , wilder days,I thought I was some sort of karma sutra connoisseur and was able to twist my body into all sorts of shapes while swinging from the lampshade. I held back on wearing crotchless pants but you get my drift. However, untangling the wires in my mind that had been jumbled up was not half as pleasant , not at all easy, took two and a half years and it was not something that I could do with simply me,myself and I. I couldn’t just go to sleep in spring and emerge in summer , with my brain in good working order. I needed something to start my recovery,

My recovery and/or management of the mental illness that hit me happened as a result of numerous things. I wasn’t able to just ‘get over it’ or pull myself together. A nice brisk walk and a hot chocolate didn’t sweeten the blow and I wasn’t able to mediate my mind into a state of hypnotic happiness – if I could have , believe me, I would have swung many watches in front of my face.

First of , it took medication. Lots of medication. I’m not ashamed to say that. At one point , I was taking antidepressants three times a day and they were as essential as my three meals. I also took anti psychotics at other points throughout the day, so these were like my snacks, to calm me when I was becoming manic. My friend Rachel reminds of the text messages I would send her while I was in the midst of my psychosis “they were pages long with no punctuation and made no sense. You also kept repeating yourself over and over”. I sense my blog posts may be slightly similar with my keyboard warrior ramblings but you catch my drift. My mind was like a collapsed angel delight. Pink and quivering.

For those of you who don’t know, five years ago, I was diagnosed with Postpartum Psychosis ,anxiety connected to the birth of a child and generalised anxiety disorder. For the first six weeks after my sons birth,I was literally wandering around in another reality. When he was six weeks old, I was hospitalised in a psychiatric mother and baby unit to begin my long road to recovery.

Before I made my not so merry way into the unit, my husband and I spent a fair while attempting to convince people I needed medication. Relatives said I didn’t need it- I mean, imagine , the shame of taking medication to make you feel better, how embarrassing. Then as some of you know from another of my blog posts, certain esteemed members of the medical profession thought that Betty Crockers Brownie mix contained the healing powers of a sunshine happy wizard and encouraged me to whip up a Victoria sandwich. Apparently, devouring it would make me happy, which would stop me feeling sad. Problem is , I felt more than sad . I felt like I wanted to die. As much as I like a moist chocolate sponge , I failed to understand how cracking some eggs would stop me cracking up.

I was, when my son was maybe two weeks old, grudgingly (by the doctor, not me) prescribed an anti-depressant. Yippee. ‘It kicks in in two weeks and you will be right as rain again. No more wanting to flush the baby down the toilet feelings for you young lady” and off we went. I waited two torturous weeks. Torturous for me and my husband who had to endure several of my mini meltdowns along the way. Bar the constant terror I felt as I attempted to live minute by minute , hour by hour, I was having really awful panic attacks. My eyes would develop tunnel vision, my ears would feel muffled. I felt like a great cloud of world ending doom was filling my body and start to shake. I would try to scream and would scratch at my mouth shouting I’m trapped take me away. I developed an unfortunate need to run into the street shoeless,bra-less,pant less and what was becoming painfully clear, mindless, in what I think was an attempt to inhale air into my body to get rid of the dark cloud that was taking over it. John had to carry my naked , wild arm swinging self from the middle of the road much to the curtain twitching amusement of the lady over the road. All this was going on while a small 8lb baby was in his Moses basket gurgling away,oblivious to the fact that his mummy wanted something to take the pain away and was willing to go to any lengths to get it and his daddy was looking after her and him all the way through it.

I went back to the doctor, the start of many many many GP visits to say I didn’t feel right. Nothing was questioned, nothing was changed. I was starting to spiral out of control.

I had been experiencing deep psychotic feelings. They were terrifying and I remember the terror very well. But they also seemed logical. I would say to John ‘I’m trapped in motherhood. He has trapped me forever” and John, after a million attempts at trying to soothe me eventually would say ok , he is here forever but we can work with this. He can go to nursery you can go back to work early, you don’t have to spend all your time with him. And then I’d say ” but I’m trapped in the world John. And the clouds,they are getting closer everyday . I need to climb the tree and cut them with scissors and then I’ll get to space. But what will I do when I’m there?”. I would claw at my mouth with my hands as I felt like cling film was over it, stopping me breathing. I got some rather attractive looking cuts at the side of my mouth and developed a need to try and pop the little white heads at the top of my arm. I was living the dream everybody. Living the dream.

My first meds were not the ones for me but thank god my bad experience didn’t put me off trying another anti depressant. I won’t say the name of the med and for good reason. I know many people it was the right med for and has been life changing and life saving. But when I went into hospital and was given some of the magic blue calming pills, I realised how good life can look when the pains in your brain can be soothed by the right concoction of pills. I was like a pharmacists personal bank roll I was on so many meds at one point. Anyone need a rattle to soothe the baby ? Give me a shake. Maracas over there sir? I’m on my way. But who cares- I was starting to feel better. I was starting to feel like Eve again.

I admit that I would read glossy magazines when there was story about a celebrity who had suffered from mental health issues. I read a fair few about those who had suffered postnatal depression or other perinatal mental health problems and I would become enraged when they would say ‘no, I didn’t take anti depressants. I think that they just mask your feelings and I’m proud to have got through it with out turning to meds”. I realise now that my anger was unfair in one way but also I think justified in another. Unfair in the sense that if people don’t want to take meds, of course that’s fine and of course there are instances where you can do get yourself through without the need for medication but I think saying its bad for mums to ‘turn to meds’ is wrong. They aren’t turning to crack. They aren’t weak. They want to be better so they can lead a happy life with their baby. If this means taking some tablets to sort out the bits in the brain that have gone awry then so be it. Nobody has a go at someone with a physical illness taking meds to get better do they?

That well known beacon of medical advice Katie Hopkins came out with quite the corker a few months ago. She sent out a tweet that read ‘Once I was given a sick note and a prescription for anti-depressants. I threw the note in the bin, ripped up the script & went back to work.’ Good for you Hopkins. I’m glad that for your experience , you didn’t need to take meds. Katie could have looked at this in a different way. Going to the doctor and admitting you feel shit is a big step and it’s actually pretty disgusting for someone to suggest its a weakness. And ripping up the prescription ? Fine , your choice. But don’t mock those who don’t turn it into confetti but instead take it to Boots, take the tablets and attempt to start their road to feeling better.

It doesn’t matter how we get better , it just matters that we do. And this may mean you are not ever totally ‘recovered’ .Getting yourself to a manageable point ,where you can live life without the symptoms that stop you being able to enjoy it, I think, is ok. I don’t have postpartum psychosis anymore and for me , the psychotic part of my illness cleared fairly quickly once I started on anti-psychotics. Hurrah. Gold medal for magic pills. They gave me my mind back. But I probably will always suffer with some kind of anxiety.

For those anti meds, I can’t explain the feelings of having to live in terror everyday. I got to such a point that I thought the sky was the ceiling of a film set . I thought the clouds were suffocating me. I would claw at my mouth as I felt trapped by ‘something’. I at one point woke up and thought I was in a coffin , being buried alive. Let me tell you, at that point, there is no way ‘ thinking positively’ would have gotten rid of these feelings and thoughts. I thank the medicine gods everyday for inventing anti psychotics as they helped save my life. I was then able to think positively once the fog had cleared a little.

Meds can help your mind clear so you can focus on ‘recovery’. Once out of my psychotic phase, I had deep deep anxiety. I heard a nurse in the unit I was in say it was one of the worst cases of postnatal anxiety she had ever seen and in my diagnosis and subsequent discharge from being an inpatient , my notes talked mostly about the anxiety I was suffering. I was put on an old style anti anxiety drug having been weaned of the med that want working. I think I was on175mg three times a day and it was quite simply, wonderful. I initially found that it numbed my mouth and turned it temporarily blue which was slightly startling. John walked into my room and said ‘what the fuck is up with your lips?’ And looked at me as though I was just about to whip on a Star Trek outfit. And then I looked in the mirror and saw my intergalactic state. It made me retain wee resulting in a lovely bloated like appearance and the husband being let loose on Primark ON HIS OWN to buy me some new pants and trousers, and gave me slightly jittery legs, but it stopped my mind jitteriness.

The meds didn’t turn me into a zombie. I had worried about this. I worried that I may become void of feeling and I wouldn’t know if I was anxious as my brain would be numbed but. They didn’t do that. I definitely still experienced anxiety but not in the world stopping why I had before. Before I was on them, I couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as my own child. I shook at the idea of his very presence and the notion that he was now here forever, completely and utterly terrified me to the point where I was almost catatonic. I became frozen with fear,my hair was coming out in chunks,I forgot how to get dressed,John had to wash me. I vomited all over myself in the shower one day and John rinsed it all off. That’s love for you right there. Your good lady has run around the block naked, said she wants to die, said she wants to give the baby away and is now stood naked in front of you covered in sick. And you’re clearing it up kissing her forehead saying it’s all going to be ok.

I would frantically fold up and mess up and then refold clothes. Having never understood the concept of folding in my life before having my child and having a somewhat natural ability to have the clothes in my bedroom resemble the floor of Primark during a sale , my behaviour was most definitely that of someone who was trying to avoid being near her baby.

I was scared of him. I was scared of opening my eyes in the morning. And when I did , I could only see properly through one eye as the other had blurred so much due to my anxious state. I would start wailing when I woke up as I realised it was another day of terror, another day towards the forever of being a mother, being a life source. So, I will never forget the day I woke up in John’s parents house when I was on home leave from the unit. I opened my eyes and awaited the flutter in my chest.I waited for my hands to calm up.I waited for my breath to do that thing where I would breathe really quickly three times and I waited for me to start shaking. I waited some more. And more. And I realised it wasn’t happening. I got out of bed and still didn’t want to look at Joe in his Moses basket but things felt okish. One step at a time.

I wasn’t instantly cured. My recovery took two and a half years in all. My recovery to a manageable place but that morning ,for the first time in nearly three months, I remembered what it felt like to wake up like I had in my life before Joe. For the next few months, well for the next year really, my emotions were snake and ladderesque . My emotions went up and down but I kept remembering that I didn’t always go back to the start. I would be able to spend time with Joe but it was very hard. Upon my discharge , I had to spend a few minutes on my own with him each day . I would have to walk around the garden on my own with him, walk to the post box with him and then had to build this up to walking to the local shop. A few weeks later, I had to spend the afternoon on my own with him in the house -‘exposure therapy’. I was to then spend all my time with Joe to accept that he was here,forever.

We spent nearly four months in Nottingham all together, with John having to take compassionate leave from work, to get me to a point where I could come back to London. If I hadn’t gone into the mother and baby unit and prescribed the medication I took, I would never have been able to return to London. I know that I was going to kill myself, I could see no other way out. I thank the unit for admitting me and I thank medication for starting the rewiring of my brain. If this hadn’t started, I then couldn’t go on to the other things necessary to help me recover.

What I needed next was therapy. Ultimately, the main thing the psychiatric and psychological doctors I saw said was that I continuously using the word ‘trapped’. I felt trapped in everything. I found myself feeling that I was not only trapped in the role of motherhood forever, but that I wouldn’t lock doors in case I got trapped in a room. I wouldn’t be in windowless rooms as there was no escape route. At one point when I was saying we should give the baby away , I said to John , what if I’m arrested ? The area of being trapped in handcuffs scares me. And what if I’m put in a cell? I’m locked in it. I refused to get into cars that didn’t have back seat doors,I refused to sit by the window on buses as I couldn’t get out when I wanted. I wouldn’t have fared too well in fifty shades would I ? Thank goodness the hubby doesn’t have a penchant for pink fluffy handcuffs. I would be screaming but not for the right reasons.

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 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.

So, the wonderful team in Nottingham arranged for me to have therapy. And this ladies and gentleman was totes amazeballs. I had an amazing thing called Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing,commonly known as EMDR. There was a school of thought that my incessant ramblings about cutting up the clouds with scissors to climb into space to get away from my child and the fact that I wouldn’t even go to the loo on my own , meaning John had to stand outside so I didn’t have to lock the door , meant that I may have PTSD from my perinatal mental health experience. So the medication was helping me live life day to day in a way that meant I wasn’t scared to look at my child or running in the street flashing the binmen, but the trauma I had suffered hadn’t been resolved.

So, I met my lovely mental health nurse. She was like a mum. She cuddled me at the start and at the end of the session and kept telling me how well I was doing. EMDR was discovered by a lady called Francine Shapiro, who was a psychologist. My therapist told me a story about Shapiro, who suffered from depression I think. Bear with me I’m not a mental health professional so this may not make much sense ! She went for a walk one day while feeling anxious and realised that when thinking of traumatic memories that upset her ,her eyes moved from side to side. Apparently, side to side eye movements stimulate both sides of the brain like what happens during the REM sleep stage. So, side to side eye movements can reduce the intensity of traumatising thoughts and help you to process and understand them.Sounds weird? Yes, and it’s a strange therapy to have . I had to follow the clicks of my therapists finger back and forth, side to side while talking about my trauma.

When the therapy was discussed with me , I was keen to try it. And it was incredible. It worked in about 8 sessions and it uncovered what I was experiencing – lots of unresolved trauma . I found myself banging the walls with my fists during one session as I discovered how truly affected I was. But now, following EMDR , my memories are no longer painful when I think of them. I can still remember them , but they don’t send me into a spin. I’m not scared of them. Have a look at this if you want to read about its amazingness and also about the different kinds of therapy that can help if you are or have experienced mental illness – http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/drugs-and-treatments/talking-treatments/types-of-therapy/#.VO8FYWIgGSM . Therapies that work for some ,might not be the right therapy for you – there are lots of different types. I’ve shared my experience of EMDR to show how wonderful therapy is as a recovery tool.

There are some clever clogs in the utopian world of the internet who think they have the recovery skills of the wise old elf “If you are willing to get over depression then you can without medication”. Bah. If you are willing ? Who wants to not get better ??? There is nothing wrong with taking anti depressants . There is nothing wrong with taking them for six months,six years or until infinity and beyond. Needing to take them forever doesn’t mean you have ‘ failed to address the issues in your mind’. No no no.

There are lots of things that can help the process of getting to a manageable point when having is suffered/suffering mental illness. Exercise is one.I love running. It really clears my mind. I have to strap my E cup wonder boobs down so I don’t knock myself out as I pound the streets, Mo Farah I am not and I have an arse that still moves ever so slightly once I’ve actually stopped running but the feeling of air going into my lungs really does make my head feel clear. I love going to the gym and putting my headphones in and bringing myself back to the days when I was 16 going to raves. I turn the music up up loud , close my eyes and go wild on the cross trainer. I emerge an hour later, the smell of my trainers knocking me out, my reflection in the mirror terrifying as I look like an oil slick has been poured over my head and face but feeling like a worry free teenager, leaving the gym feeling amazing.

I went through a stage of cooking my way through mood foods. I actually did feel like I was doing my body some good here. I read that basil and rosemary were good for anxiety so simmered away pasta sauces and I went through a stage of cooking of roast potatoes in coconut oil as white carbs would ‘fill my soul’. I unearthed the Nigella Lawson in me and made broad bean falafels. I didn’t sashay around the kitchen fawning over a wooden spoon like it was an 85 battery controlled knee trembling dildo from Ann Summers but I was coming to the conclusion that if I threw a pound of butter over my troubles and massaged them into my skin , I might get a crispy surface so I could endure any knocks thrown at me but maintain my fluffy little centre .

And I do believe that filling my body with good clean food has been good for my mind and soul. Yes I love diet coke (caffeine free is very nice in my humble opinion) and my hips are testament that I love food but I do think there is something true in the belief that foods can help alter your mood. The charity MIND have a great page in their website about this which I encourage you to read – http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/tips-for-everyday-living/food-and-mood/#.VO7y2GIgGSM. I did things like sprinkle pumpkin seeds over salads and I started eating a lot of salmon,tuna and mussels which I read were good for the brain. I bought a great book on healing soups and boiled them up. I have even attempted kale crisps which were an epic failure and got me so stressed out that I attacked them with the fish slice while standing in my pants with a shower cap on (I made them four times in half an hour and they all resembled fire ashes) so instead blitzed them into smoothies.I juiced red peppers and strawberries as I heard vitamin c helps your body’s reaction to stress and anxiety and became slightly obsessed with tofu to get a magnesium hit again having scoured the internet to see what I could fill my mouth with to ease my anxious symptoms. I discovered tofu scramble, like eggs scrambled but a more hippified version. Throw a load of chilli sauce over it and it’s acceptable.

I’ve got a couple of friends who found art and music therapy really helpful in their recovery, as it has helped them explore their senses. How utterly amazing that support can be found in this way- I think it’s incredible the amount of different things that can help you.

And I discovered Mindfulness. And have raved about it ever since. Learning how to live in this very moment was a massive positive feat for me. I was overwhelmed by the idea of forever in my life as a mum. I could not stop myself thinking of next week, next year, when my son was 12, the entire concept of the future was torturous. It took me a while to get my head around and my initial feelings were summed up by a relative on lending her my Mindfulness book when she announced “I am finding it hard to stare at a toothbrush for ten minutes ” but I stuck with it and my mind was opened. I realised that I needed to live in the very moment. What happened a minute ago isn’t what is happening now or what will happen in the future. I embraced the moment I was in and letting go of the worry of ‘what ifs’ really relaxed my brain. The approach has had a profound effect on my everyday life. I used to panic about not getting my work done on time and I have a great pride in what I do but I think , if this isn’t done Eve , what does this mean? Will the world stop turning ? No. Will it fuck everything up? No. Does it need to be done by the end of the week to ensure you hit deadline? Yes. And that the priority.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter how you better does it? As long as you do. And there are lots of different ways to kick start the process. My point in writing this post was to show that if you do need to take meds, it’s ok. You haven’t failed. I think it’s amazing we live in a world where science has been able to create things that can give you your mind back, help you live a happier life again. And who cares if that means you are on meds now, tomo or forever ?

I love my life with my beautiful joyful child. And I love it because I’m alive to experience it. The day I decided to kill myself was a day I never ever want to have again. I never want to wake up shaking, scared of being alive, ever again. Now, I wake up next to my little boy. The boy I was so scared of and couldn’t be near, sleeps in our room. Around 4am every morning, he climbs into our bed and puts his arm over me and goes to sleep saying mama mama over and over. I love his little squidgy arms and the fact that his cheeks smell of doughnuts. I had halfterm off work with him last week and spent very second with him. We played football and made a carrot cake,went out for lunch everyday and laughed our little heads off. If I hadn’t taken medication five years ago, I wouldn’t be here today to inhale his spirit. I love him so much my heart feels like it could burst. Sometimes, when I’m doing the washing up and John is at the gym , I look over at Joe playing in the carpet and do you know what I think ? I think, I’m here with him on my own and I feel good. I feel more than good, I feel like this is normal. I’m not scared to be near him anymore.

Look at the picture at the top. Joe was 11 months at point. The joy on our faces is real. And it’s beautiful.

I didn’t think that taking medication would mean that I had failed myself and everyone else, but I know lots of people do. But really this was the only thing that helped me when I was initially ill. I am not sure that I will ever be totally ‘cured’ because I have come to accept that ‘anxiety’ is a part of who I am but my psychosis would never have gone away on it’s tod. Meds freed me from the hysteria of hallucinations which almost resulted in me no longer being here and I will forever praise them for giving me the gift of my life back.

Diamonds may be a nice present but for me , the best I ever had was becoming Eve again and learning not to be scared of my baby. Who cares if I had to shake , rattle and roll along the medication yellow brick road to get here?