It was while I was driving to McDonalds for a sneaky Drifter Mcflurry at 8ocklock on Tuesday evening that I decided I would probably hold off on the whole killing myself thing.
I hadn’t put much thought in to the actual event other than thinking perhaps I would leave a note describing how I would like people to behave and what I would like people to wear at my funeral (big shades and lots of random dramatic hysterical sobbing please. And then a disco that goes on all night.) And yes, ok. Maybe I had thought a little about how I would do it, but I hadn’t set a date or anything.
The very idea of it was tiny. It was just a little niggling mosquito at the very back of my head that would occasionally flap it’s wings, buzz and fanny around. At first it would annoy the hell out of me and I would fight tooth and nail to swat it away.
I have to admit though, there were times during the worst Post natal depression days when I had become so lethargic in both mood and physicality that I would allow it to bounce around joyfully and my struggle to wave it away would become very lacklustre, preferring instead to lie back and watch.
It was during these lonely and hidden moments, filled with self loathing and internal sadness that, I suppose, if I am truly honest, I thought perhaps it might be a good idea.
That the world would be a better place without me in it.
I also spent an inordinate amount of time planning the disco for my funeral.
There was going to be a disco ball and vodka fountain, where instead of dipping fudge in chocolate you dipped lemon in vodka. Fabulous Drag queens would belt out a load of sad tunes but with a glittery and marvellous twist and once all the old fogeys had retired to their own homes and just the giggly girls were left, I would organize some sort of hilariously naughty camp ra ra show involving Sinita singing a whole host of 80’s tunes in a Hula skirt bonanza.
It was during my second week at therapy in a moment of madness, I admitted I had been planning to jump off a train platform.
I surprised myself by knowing which station.
So it turns out I had put some thought in to it after all, without even realising.
Enjoying the peacefulness of sitting alone in the car, swirling cheap half melted ice cream and liquid gold around a big white plastic spoon, while staring out at the grimy grey tower block in front of me and above it at the almost translucent yellow, orange and pink, tranquil and yet somehow angry, sky, I finally swatted the mosquito and allowed myself to consciously acknowledge what was going on.
Those thoughts aren’t healthy to entertain even on a subconscious level and if I was planning anything of the sort then why the hell bother putting myself through all the therapy in the hope of getting better? Surely putting oneself through hours of torturous ruminating and reminiscing over some quite traumatic events would be totally futile if the end result would be me; dead.
I have an illness. The priory hospital has helped me understand this. It is an illness just like any physical illness except it is in my brain.
It is not my fault, it does not make me a bad person or a terrible mother. It does not make me disgusting or ugly or evil, or even unworthy.
It is not my fault.
The illness is Post-natal depression and I am not going to let it beat me.
I have a support network of friends and family, and it is time to come clean and fess up, thus allowing them to help, however hard that may be.
And most importantly I have my beautiful, angelic, gorgeous, tottering, wobbling, giggling, slobbering son who I bloody brought in to this world, and who needs me just as much as I need him.
He is my fucking everything, and even though this ‘chemical imbalance’ has robbed me of some of the most precious moments in his first year and is still attempting to steal each and every positive emotion from me I will not let it win the war.
The occasional battle maybe, but never the war.
Did I tell you about my Drifter Mcflurry?
The machine was broken so the guy made it by hand. It was my idea of heaven in a cup. Far too much topping and not enough ice cream. I still feel all warm and gooey thinking about it now.
It was one of those once in a lifetime events.
It’s funny how sometimes a tiny action made by a complete stranger, an accidental flick of the wrist, allowing too much sugar to fill up a cup, can effectively change somebody else’s life path forever, without either of them even ever realising.
Last night a Mcflurry saved my life. (The lesser known In Deep song.)
Oh and, FYI– if I ever get married, one day (cough cough, M-A-R-R-I-E-D Irish One, that thing where one person gets down on one knee and then you go to church and profess your love for one another….) my reception is going to be bloody brilliant!!!
How do I get hold of Sinita?
