Four years ago, when my son was only one month old, he and I were admitted to a mother and baby unit, a psychiatric ward that cares for people with perinatal mental health issues and their babies. I was diagnosed with severe postpartum anxiety and depression, and placed on medication. I had weekly sessions with the psychiatric team about my progress, and my son and I spent time with the other women on the ward and their babies. Every day, sometimes twice a day, my husband would come and see us and we would walk around Hackney as I tried to remember who I once was, tried to resist the temptation to step in front of a car. Gradually, horrifically, painfully slowly, I got a bit better. After eight weeks we were discharged and we went home.
But while I was no longer in a crisis situation, my mental health was extremely fragile. I had weekly calls with an NHS therapist who approached my illness in a methodical, precise way. She explained what was happening to me and why it had happened. I was desperate to put it all down to hormones, I wanted to run away from the corrupt version of myself and never think about her again, wanted to slice her out of my heart, my mind, bury her and spit on her grave. I was so embarrassed and ashamed of her, I hated her. But my therapist gently pushed back – it wasn’t just hormones, and I needed to find a way to accept that.
