Mental health: a thread
This week marked the 10th anniversary of me being discharged from a mother and baby psychiatric unit. I’d been an inpatient (with periods of home leave) for 16 weeks.
I was one refusal away from being sectioned when I agreed to voluntary admission 1/

My 5th child was four months old, my eldest had gone to uni and my teenage son had had to have brain surgery. All fairly major events. But on the surface I was fine. Quiet perhaps, tired looking, but heck, I had a young baby, right?
I gave a very good impression of coping - on 2/

The surface. If you stopped to talk to me, that facade crumbled quickly. I couldn’t make eye contact, felt hunted and wanted to run away from the conversation. I kept on top of the housework, because I couldn’t sit still and, if I was busy, people we’re less likely to talk to 3/

Me. Only at night time, when everyone else was asleep, did I have some sense of calm. I crouched on the back step, door open, smoking all night. I did not sleep. I cried. I berated myself for the list of things I wasn’t doing - or wasn’t doing well enough. The longer I didn’t 4/

Sleep for, the more guilty I felt when I did nod off for a few minutes. That would prompt hours more activity to make up for my laziness. Guilt, self criticism, negative thoughts that made me feel utterIy useless, a total waste of oxygen.
Whilst never actively suicidal, I 5/

Began to wish I could cease to exist. Just to stop the racing thoughts, the feeling of fire in my veins, the constantly churning stomach and the sure and certain knowledge I was a fraud. I prided myself that I took excellent care of my son. He was a thriving baby. Indeed, my 6/

children were the only thing I felt I’d done a good job with (as long as I didn’t think too much about it).
Despite all this, if you asked me how I was I was FINE!
I only agreed to go into hospital to show them how fine I was. I was certain I’d be out within the week. 7/

I was still on 1:1 supervision a week later. Being in hospital was one of the most surreal experiences. It was as if, like in the cartoons, someone had picked me up; my legs were still moving furiously, but there was nowhere to go. Eventually, after about three weeks, I began 8/

To stop fighting them. To allow myself to be treated. I wouldn’t let anyone else look after my baby, but I slowly began to realise I really wasn’t right and no amount of stern talking to myself would make me better.
I have mixed feelings about my time there. Physically 9/

I slept and ate regularly (that had not happened at home) and my body began to recover. But without the fog of exhaustion, reality was far, far harder to deal with. I had no therapy whilst there, so cannot say that I was mentally healed though I was more appropriately 10/

Medicated. I lost precious months with my family.
I’ve lost my way somewhat with this thread. I suppose the point of it is to show you don’t have to be psychotic, suicidal or anything obviously extreme to be very ill indeed.
It’s been a long, hard road in the time since 11/

I was discharged. Life has thrown many rocks in my path and I’ve created a number of my own.
But finally, tentatively, I can say I’m getting better. It’s by no means a linear path and lockdown has reminded me of the darkest days. But I’m now aware and have insight, something 12/

That was clearly lacking for a long time.

So if you’re going through any sort of mental health crisis, hold on. Hang in there. It will, eventually, get better.

#depression #postnataldepression #MentalHealthAwareness #anxiety #selfcare #recovery