Things You Only Know If You’ve Have Had Post-Partum Psychosis

I have never experienced a mental illness in my life. Not until I had a baby. And then I went mad. Two years ago, I woke up on my first Mother’s Day in a psychiatric ward. My son was just three weeks old.

I’d had a dream pregnancy. I felt purposeful and, actually, pretty glowing. We didn’t overdo it on the research; we didn’t overly plan our labour or buy the entire floor of John Lewis. We took care of ourselves and each other and were excited to meet our little boy.

But as 40 weeks approached, I did not feel remotely ready to have a baby. I didn’t look ready, either – I was showing small. I tried to remind myself that everybody was different and my midwife had reassured us that I was healthy and ‘low risk’.

Two weeks overdue meant that intervention was advised. It was time to get ‘baby’ out. But baby didn’t want to come out. He was clinging to my organs, hiding up in the lofty reaches of my ribcage in protest. Pushing a baby out seemed impossible – and, before I knew it, I’d experienced my first ever panic attack. It was exactly how sufferers tell you, like a heart attack. I was convinced I was dying.

From then onwards, I was thrown into what can only be described as a torture chamber. And to think I was told that it would be the best day of my life... I was prodded, probed, hooked up to machinery, inspected, injected. I was mostly naked, crying, while alarms pinged off beside my head. I was scared. Faint. Could not stop pooing. Midwife after midwife, doctor after doctor diagnosing us, notes, opinions (Why was I showing so small? Did anybody mention pre-eclampsia to you, Laura?).

An epidural and drip induction later and we were told that our baby was going to be born small and that it was possibly chronic. It was eventually decided that I should have an emergency Caesarean and we were wheeled through to theatre.

I was shocked and frightened into oblivion – and, somewhere along the way, I left myself behind on that hospital bed. And it would take me almost a year to come back.

Jet was born weighing just under 5lbs. My placenta had failed and the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, twice. He came into the universe a livid, scrawny, starving goblin. And I was totally terrified and out of my depth.

Small babies are hungry babies. And boy, was he hungry. In the ward, Jet fed for 24 hours straight. I was already stalked by guilt at this point, like I’d let him down. Shame of my ‘failed’ labour. I was sleep-deprived, bleeding, in pain and trying to fall in love with the world watching.

Once home, I thought I would be OK. But dread, doom and panic totally absorbed me. I felt sick and scared, like something really bad was about to happen. Awake all night feeding, anxious thoughts consumed me. What if he starves? What if my stitches split open? What if he dies in the night?

These manifested into intrusive ones. What if I throw him out of the window? What if I kill him? Then I started having delusions – that the tree outside was trying to warn me that Jet’s teddy bear’s eyes were surveillance cameras. My head was full of catastrophic conspiracy theories that my partner and family were plotting to have me incarcerated, to win custody of Jet, that this was all part of a bigger plan to get rid of me.

Family, friends and professionals tried to reassure me that this was just ‘baby blues’ or ‘adjustment’, but I knew it was something else. A month previously, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Pregnant and in love. And now I was a suicidal shell. So I was grateful and relieved to finally be hospitalised. I stayed there for two weeks. I felt like finally my invisible illness had been seen. That I could surrender.

If pregnancy, childbirth and raising children is the most universal thing on Earth, why are we keeping this stuff a secret? We know your fanny might rip, your boobs will hurt, you might not fit back into your jeans... but what about your head? That’s the real conspiracy right there. And nobody told me.

I now know that postpartum psychosis affects one in 1,000 women. And it took everything from medication, a physiatrist, psychotherapy, support and love from my partner Hugo and my family to get better. There is a huge expectation of expectant parents to know what to do, to have instinct and feel love overnight.

The truth is, no one is immune to mental illness; you are not just ‘one of those people’ who becomes mentally unwell or not, in the same way you are not just somebody that’s more likely to get hit by a car.

There are parents right now – all over the world, in the park, at playgroup – in the middle of the night shrinking in the depths of loneliness and possibly regret, AND THAT’S OK. Know it isn’t just you. Take comfort in that. You are not a bad mum. You are not broken. Or weird. Or ‘not maternal enough’. You are simply doing your best.

‘What Have I Done?’ by Laura Dockrill (£14.99, Square Peg) is out now.

For help with postpartum psychosis, visit NHS.org or app-network.org

Read More: Things You Only Know If