as I sat on the floor in a heap at the front door. When my husband got home he couldn’t even get in; I was lying in a ball against the front door. He had to kick the back door down because I’d left the key in it. He took me straight to our GP, who diagnosed me with post-natal depression.’
Her eyes fix on mine. ‘Was that how it was for you?’
‘I can’t really remember,’ I admit, sitting down, careful to avoid looking at the box on the edge of the table. ‘Afterwards the doctors asked me all sorts of questions: had I been tired, irritable, nervous? The answer to all of those questions was yes. I’d been exhausted and snappy a lot of the time. We had so many visitors after Dylan was born, my aunties and neighbours, that I felt like I was the first woman on earth to give birth. They would turn up at all hours, without calling, and I felt like screaming at them to fuck off, leave us alone. I felt like I hated everyone. But I never once remember feeling like I hated Dylan. It seems strange, because I said it a couple of times – “Won’t you just shut up! I hate you!” – but I never really felt like I meant it, even as the words spilled out.’ This is the first time I’ve told anyone this, maybe because Carole has just told me one of the worst things you can say about yourself. I feel like if anyone can understand, she will.
‘It was one of those times when he wouldn’t go to sleep. He’d sleep in my arms, so peaceful and angelic, but as soon as I put him down he’d wake up screaming. All I wanted was a shower; I’d been up all night. I cried, I pleaded, nothing worked. That’s when I said it: “I wish you’d never been born.” But I don’t feel like I ever really meant it. Does that sound silly?’
‘No.’ Carole shakes her head. ‘I always felt like that afterwards too.’
‘But then there were times, when we were playing together, or when he was sleeping soundly, I’d sit by his crib and stare at him like if I wasn’t looking at him he might disappear like a dream. Those times I loved him so much I felt it might stop my heart.’
‘Bipolar.’
‘Yes, that’s what they said. But not just bipolar,’ I admit. ‘Puerperal psychosis. An illness so bad that you start to hallucinate. You’re high one minute, low the next; you feel paranoid, suspicious, as though you’re in a dream world.’ I sound like I’m quoting from a medical website, because I am. I can spout this stuff backwards.
‘Did you feel any of that?’
‘Not that I remember. But there’s another symptom. You can believe your baby is the devil, evil and out to get you. You harm him because you believe you have no other choice; if you don’t, he will harm you first.’
‘And you felt like that?’
‘I didn’t think so. Not until afterwards. I remember all the stuff you talked about – wishing someone would just take him away, feeling guilty because I couldn’t even make my own son love me, stupid, fat, inadequate, lazy . . . I felt all those things but I don’t remember wanting him dead. Wanting him not born isn’t the same as wanting him dead, is it?’ Is it?
17
The box is the size of a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper. My heart speeds up, my chest tightens and my face gets hot.
I’m torn between wanting to rip the paper off as quickly as my fingers will allow and wanting to hurl the box on the fire and watch it burn. I do neither. Instead I walk into the kitchen and switch the kettle on.
My mother once told me that there was nothing that didn’t look clearer after a cup of tea. I believe at the time I was nursing a broken heart; one of the few boyfriends I’d had before I met Mark had cheated on me with a girl in the year above who had bigger boobs and would put out. I’m just glad my mum isn’t here to see me find out that there are some problems that can’t be fixed by a cup of tea or a ‘stop for a kiss’.
When I was little – I can first remember it at five or six, but Dad said it
Her eyes fix on mine. ‘Was that how it was for you?’
‘I can’t really remember,’ I admit, sitting down, careful to avoid looking at the box on the edge of the table. ‘Afterwards the doctors asked me all sorts of questions: had I been tired, irritable, nervous? The answer to all of those questions was yes. I’d been exhausted and snappy a lot of the time. We had so many visitors after Dylan was born, my aunties and neighbours, that I felt like I was the first woman on earth to give birth. They would turn up at all hours, without calling, and I felt like screaming at them to fuck off, leave us alone. I felt like I hated everyone. But I never once remember feeling like I hated Dylan. It seems strange, because I said it a couple of times – “Won’t you just shut up! I hate you!” – but I never really felt like I meant it, even as the words spilled out.’ This is the first time I’ve told anyone this, maybe because Carole has just told me one of the worst things you can say about yourself. I feel like if anyone can understand, she will.
‘It was one of those times when he wouldn’t go to sleep. He’d sleep in my arms, so peaceful and angelic, but as soon as I put him down he’d wake up screaming. All I wanted was a shower; I’d been up all night. I cried, I pleaded, nothing worked. That’s when I said it: “I wish you’d never been born.” But I don’t feel like I ever really meant it. Does that sound silly?’
‘No.’ Carole shakes her head. ‘I always felt like that afterwards too.’
‘But then there were times, when we were playing together, or when he was sleeping soundly, I’d sit by his crib and stare at him like if I wasn’t looking at him he might disappear like a dream. Those times I loved him so much I felt it might stop my heart.’
‘Bipolar.’
‘Yes, that’s what they said. But not just bipolar,’ I admit. ‘Puerperal psychosis. An illness so bad that you start to hallucinate. You’re high one minute, low the next; you feel paranoid, suspicious, as though you’re in a dream world.’ I sound like I’m quoting from a medical website, because I am. I can spout this stuff backwards.
‘Did you feel any of that?’
‘Not that I remember. But there’s another symptom. You can believe your baby is the devil, evil and out to get you. You harm him because you believe you have no other choice; if you don’t, he will harm you first.’
‘And you felt like that?’
‘I didn’t think so. Not until afterwards. I remember all the stuff you talked about – wishing someone would just take him away, feeling guilty because I couldn’t even make my own son love me, stupid, fat, inadequate, lazy . . . I felt all those things but I don’t remember wanting him dead. Wanting him not born isn’t the same as wanting him dead, is it?’ Is it?
17
The box is the size of a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper. My heart speeds up, my chest tightens and my face gets hot.
I’m torn between wanting to rip the paper off as quickly as my fingers will allow and wanting to hurl the box on the fire and watch it burn. I do neither. Instead I walk into the kitchen and switch the kettle on.
My mother once told me that there was nothing that didn’t look clearer after a cup of tea. I believe at the time I was nursing a broken heart; one of the few boyfriends I’d had before I met Mark had cheated on me with a girl in the year above who had bigger boobs and would put out. I’m just glad my mum isn’t here to see me find out that there are some problems that can’t be fixed by a cup of tea or a ‘stop for a kiss’.
When I was little – I can first remember it at five or six, but Dad said it
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