A poem: Racing

Laughing away it felt so good
But now I know it was high mood

Confident as anything it felt so right
But fears as well, scared of the night

I hadn't slept for eleven nights
Delusional and seeing sights
Racing thoughts, fast, fast, fast
There were so many, they were so vast

Taken away to an MBU
I was alone, it was all new
Writing everything down in a book
Code words and lists, one day I will look

Friendly, talkative, manic and social
What was happening was non negotiable
Heightened senses and lost inhibitions
Thinking nurses were on special missions

Suspicious, confused and forgetful
Family at home feeling fretful
Racing thoughts, I was on the ball
Knowing everything, feeling invincible

Reading people and their expressions
Talking therapy and psych sessions
After a while given a hypothesis
It was something called psychosis

If not bad enough, depression came too
The feeling of emptiness, feeling blue
Enjoying nothing and feeling sad
Tears dropping then feeling mad

Then numbness starts and black sets in
You gain weight or you get thin
Can't concentrate and sleeping more
Feeling empty to the core

Will it end, will it go away
I have to take it day by day
Will I be normal, will I be me
I will have to wait and see

Pregnancy & Bipolar Podcast

As part of the Bipolar Awareness Day 2012 series, Psychiatrist Dr Ian Jones talks to Clare Dolman, Chair of Bipolar UK, about how bipolar can affect women, particularly during pregnancy and after birth.

Click Here to visit the The Royal College of Psychiatrists website & listen to the podcast.

Cheltenham Science Festival 2012

Our 'More than baby blues?' presentation at the Cheltenham Science Festival this year was very well received with a turnout of nearly 100 people. Considering the damp, cold and very blustery night, we were impressed by the audience's stamina!

Tracy spoke very honestly and was forthright about the horrors - and the humorous aspects of her experience of PP – thank you Tracy.

The response the three speakers, Dr Ian Jones, Clare Dolman and Tracy Vicker received was excellent, with plenty of interesting questions from the audience at the end. People came up afterwards to thank us for a very informative talk and said they felt they had a much better understanding of the condition than previously.

Well done and thank you to the speakers, supporters and organisers. Also, a big thank you to all those who attended, we hope you enjoyed it as much as we did!

Sarah's poems and prose: "I hurl a cheese sandwich with all my might at the psychiatrist’s head".

Circus

Roll up, roll up, I am the ringmaster.
Marvel at my commands and ready wit,
Beast and man dumb before me, lapping my pronouncements
like poisoned condensed milk.
No question who is in charge.
I am taller than the tent pole,
Wider than the tent.
Roll up, roll up, and see the shocking show.

Roll up, roll up, I am the strongman,
Wondrous strength, both arms raised with bagfuls of books.
Tearing and ripping furnishings,
Withstanding the brute force of 40-plus stone of sinew bonehouse.
Barracading myself from the enemy,
I am invincible.
Roll up, roll up, and see the shocking show.

Roll up, roll up, I am the caged oddity, Psychic savant,
possessing the meaning of life.
Soul soars, while body stoops and mouth dribbles.
Eyes stare with defiance and burn with knowledge beyond vision.
Who dares challenge the seer?
Watch me hug to death the pulse from my secret.
Roll up, roll up, and see the shocking show.

Pacing

floor tiles

I am a pacer, perfecting my slipper-shod shuffle.Restless pinions up and down the shiny tunnel connecting nowheres,
Urgent and pointless.
Rubber soles thinner as my soul thins.
Away from the elation and celestial light.
Hard tiles resist, Passive receptors of weary steps.
Tread, trod, trodden
Grimly printing my dwindling weight
Corporeal and grave
Gravid no longer.

 

Send No Flowers

 

REVELATION.

 

He is a caricature of himself: self conscious and pedestrian, a deadpan voice, unremarkable features. His questions, slick and predictable, come rolling off his tongue like textbook reflexes. He is not listening to me. I crouch on the bed. My baby needs changing. I perform this operation with aggressive competence, resisting the urge to put the moulded cardboard “bedpan” into which I soak cotton wool balls with exaggerated efficiency on my head (it looks uncannily like a stetson). I feel unfairly scrutinised. Suddenly my nerves are tingling with such intense vibrancy, like shards of glass glinting, a mad dancing of sun and moon, dazzling as a noonday summer skittering off a choppy sea. Defiance. I am sickened by the charade. The impenetrability of his thinking. The epitome of professionalism: giving nothing away regarding the ridiculous situation which we find ourselves in. Inner demons have got me, and I cannot comprehend what is going on. This hijacking is surreptitious and deadly. Exasperation and frustration well up in me with savage force. Here goes; I hurl a cheese sandwich with all my might at the psychiatrist’s head. Does he buck? Does he try to catch it? Does the nurse shout? I can’t remember. But the memory of this ferocious instinct, defensive and feral, to backup to my pleas and reasoning, I wear like a scar on my heart.

 

THE GAMBLE.

 

May we solemnly request that no flowers are sent on the birth of our child. It has been a difficult decision to try for a second baby. We have been warned that I have a 50:50 chance of becoming ill again. We have tolerated the intrusion of various mental health professionals, arranged for me to be monitored closely after the birth and reluctantly signed a care plan, which we pray will never be needed.

 

I admit that I am sad, knowing that I will be deprived of the unrestrained, unfettered rejoicing that should accompany the birth. But over the months I have got used to subduing my feelings, tamping down emotion. My palette of feeling has become fairly monochrome. It has taken years for spontaneous laughter at something quite obviously humorous not to provoke worry in those I love, fearful that I am raising the spectre of recurring mania.

 

I exercise gently, and have chosen suitably bland books to read once the baby is born: nothing that will excite me or stimulate my imagination. I am not to have visitors for the critical fortnight after the actual birth. No post or bouquets, and I am not to answer the phone. Some cards of congratulation can be drip fed to me, but the majority are to be saved for the day that I am declared “out of danger”.

 

SHOCK.

 

It is etched on the midwife’s face as I tell her I’m feeding my mushrooms in the bathroom cupboard at 4am. The shock of betrayal as I peer out of the police van, anxiously straining to see the rest of the convoy (the car in which my husband promised to follow me with our precious son) and realise I am on my own. Shock of the night air smacking my face as I am hauled rudely from the van, roughly frogmarched and bounced through some back entrance to the local psychiatric unit where I will be incarcerated. Shock as I learn by turns that I am locked out of my sensible self and locked away from all that I hold dear. Shocking: a new self at this time of life - motherhood, but horrifically skewed.

 

By Sarah Spring

Victoria's poem: Beautiful Blessing

Beautiful Blessing by Victoria Ribbons

I am so happy. Blooming they call it.
We worry about you -
mummy must still take her tablets.
To make her better, to keep us safe.
We stare at you on the screen,
Our bouncing bean. Our precious little girl.
I do not know why but sadness encompasses me
It drowns me, it steals my bloom.

One minute you're there in my belly
I know you're there, constantly jabbing, reminding me
I don't quite know what I think of you but
You can't come out yet, you're too small -
Everywhere is in pain, all over, all-consuming pain
My head aches, my body hurts, you're killing me.
My body bulges.
I want you out, I want it over. Hurry up.

I am laid out on my back. White. Sterile smell.
Tugging, pulling, fighting. Talking.
You are torn out of me three months too early
I glimpse you, you are rushed away.
You live in a box, I don't see you for three days
Everyone else does.
You're beautiful, I'm told, a real fighter.
I didn't want you out, I didn't want it over. It's too late.

The guilt has set in, I see you
I stare at you, you're not mine
I look at the six neatly lined up boxes -
Anyone of you could be mine, I am wheeled to one in the corner
I am consumed with feelings, not the ones that I thought I would feel
You are so tiny and helpless, I am meant to feel
Veins shine through your limp little body
Your skin is so delicate, I am scared to touch you.

Tubes keep you alive.
Beeping, beeping, shrieking
Weeks pass, we get through it
I act as I am meant to
You come home, I think we are happy,
Short lived. You stop breathing.
You are resuscitated,
We wait outside. More tubes

I cannot cope, It is too much
We start the journey again
Weeks pass, we get through it
You come home again
I feel – well I don't
I let my badness out through my blood
I should not be near you, not hold you for too long
I am bad for you, deadly.

I keep it up. I am living a lie. Just smile.
Thoughts, flicker - I drive us into a river in my head.
Weeks pass, I cannot carry on any longer, I don't know how to get through it
Silent screams, crying silently.
I take pills, it does not work.
I try to jump from a cliff.
Police cell, empty, hospital, home, more pills.
Blur. No baby. Thank God they know - “I am not fit to be a mother.”

Psychiatric hospital. I have been engineered incorrectly. Some piece is amiss.
Four walls. Strange people. No mummy's cuddling their babies - relief
No one knows my secret
My baby is at home and I can't look after her,
I hide in the bathroom -
leaning against the hard cold wall,
I hear the alarms, the slamming. The screeching. It's terrifying.
Is this my punishment because I do not know how to be a mummy?

I shouldn't be here. It wasn't meant to be like this.
I look down and I am captivated by baby wipes, four hours -
I stare at the mum passionately gazing at her chubby content and loved baby
They look so happy. So perfect.
I start crying, flooded, choking the tears.
I am angry. Fuming. I am so unbelievably lost.
I bang my head on the wall, they stop me with towels
Why am I not with her? Where is my baby?

The guilt. Saturating guilt. Does she know I am gone?
Probably not, why did she have to be born to me?
Weeks pass. I drift further.
Each day in hospital makes the gap bigger.
I am becoming less of a mother, it's dying within me – drying up with my milk
Another failure. She is brought to see me.
I can barely look, her cry rings terror through me.
Something so tiny, this fighter, she has ruined me.

They fought for me, for us. I had lost hope.
A mother and baby unit.
We had to travel a long way but we were going to a place -
for mothers who have lost their way with their babies.
The Chamomile Suite.
It was terrifying. I had to confront you.
We stayed for three long months.
Your daddy and your brother would travel hours every weekend to see us,

It is slow.
It is painful and it is unremitting.
Dealing, scrutinising what went wrong.
Trying to fill that missing piece of the puzzle.
I'm terrified, I don't think I can do it.
It's meant to be natural,
In the first look.
The first touch. The first smell.

C-section
136 section
2 section
5.2 Section.
5.4 Section.
3 Section
17 leave Section
They miss these sections out of antenatal class.

Sun gleams through into the courtyard -
I look at you.
You are beautiful.
My blessing.
It is not your fault.
We will get there.
There is nothing more.
To love or to be loved.

We are home, I have stopped scrabbling, stopped searching
'bond' - what does that mean?
I feel flashes of hope and love -
Of protection, Of fear.
It's growing, slowly around us,
Tiny moments, sometimes so quick. But I savour them.
I will do it, one day I will look in the mirror and say -
“I am your mummy and you mean the World to me.”

Ribbons VA. Med Humanit (2012). doi: 10. 1136/medhum-2012-010233

Brentwood 10K Run

A BIG thank you to Darren Maeer for running the Brentwood 10K & raising £370 for APP. We hope you really enjoyed it! Let us know your running time & if you've now got the bug for it & are planning any more runs. Well done Darren!

Can You Help with a Research Project on Postpartum Psychosis?

I would really like to chat with you about your experience of Postpartum Psychosis. What was it like for you and your family following your diagnosis? And what types of services/support were made available to you? This should take no more than an hour and I am happy to meet wherever is most convenient for you.

If you are willing to take part in the study or would like more information, please email me, Catherine on u1037626@uel.ac.uk or phone Claire Wickham on 0208 223 4174 to leave a message.

Bipolar UK National Conference

National Conference 2012, Saturday 23rd June

The national Bipolar charity’s Conference 2012 takes place in London on Saturday 23rd June 2012. ?Included on the timetable are APP Chair Dr Ian Jones and trustee Clare Dolman, who will be running a workshop on bipolar and pregnancy with members of APP and Bipolar UK.

The keynote speaker is Paul Abbott, Bipolar UK Patron, and one of the country's most critically and commercially successful television writers, responsible for creating highly acclaimed, popular television dramas such as Shameless and State of Play.

Places are limited and will be allocated on a first come first served basis. Bipolar UK members receive a discounted delegate fee of £25. Non-Bipolar UK Members: £50. Organisation exhibitors: £150.

The full programme and application form is available from Bipolar UK's website www.bipolaruk.org.uk

Alternatively please call Bipolar UK on 0207 931 6480

BBC Radio 4 'Unravelling Eve' Update

Following the airing of ‘Unravelling Eve’ program on BBC Radio 4, the feedback we have received has been tremendous. The program was extremely well received by people from all backgrounds and interests and many have been in touch expressing their gratitude to everyone involved for their time and efforts in making it happen.

The women who took part in the workshops also received a great deal of positive and supportive feedback from friends and family. Having listened to the program, they now have a greater understanding of the challenges the women went through, and some friends were surprised by how little they already knew. We are very grateful to everyone who took part and appreciate how difficult and emotional it can be to speak about things they have probably never spoken about before. There was an instant rapport amongst the women and very quickly strong friendships formed. They all reported that taking part was a fabulous opportunity to finally meet and chat freely with others who instantly understood. They described the workshops as an extremely positive experience, emotional yet healing and cathartic.  The program is available to listen to by Clicking here.

Radio 4 Documentary: Unravelling Eve

We are very excited at APP that a Radio 4 documentary about the work we have been doing with Joan Malloy is to air next Monday, 5th December at 11:00 on BBC Radio 4. Here is how the program is described on the radio 4 website:Women who've suffered psychotic illness after childbirth talk about their journey back to recovery.

Between one in 500 and one in a thousand women suffer from postpartum psychosis after childbirth. It's an illness which often appears rapidly and without warning and leaves women in the grip of psychotic delusions or of mania. They talk of losing touch with reality and feeling split and fragmented. However, because it's comparatively rare and can happen to women with no history of mental illness, postpartum psychosis may go undiagnosed or be confused with post natal depression. In fact if it's treated properly, recovery from this very severe disorder can be very swift.

Now Radio 4 has been offered unique access to a group of women who have experienced the illness. They're taking part in an art project, funded by the Wellcome Trust, whose aim is to raise awareness of the condition.

As they meet at a workshop and in the artist Joan Molloy's studio they talk openly about what they went through, the hallucinations they suffered in the depths of the psychosis and their journey back to health. They also tackle the difficult topics of whether they wanted to harm themselves or their baby, the decision about whether to have a second child, and their perception of themselves as mothers.

The art project is supported by leading perinatal psychiatrist, Dr Ian Jones, who is working with teams in Cardiff and Birmingham universities to try to discover what it is about the physical experience of childbirth that triggers the illness. He tells us if they were able to establish whether some women had a genetic pre-disposition to the condition, it would be possible to predict which women were at high risk and to take the right steps before rather than after the illness has struck.

Presented by former journalist - Clare Dolman, who suffered an episode of postpartum psychosis herself after the birth of her first child twenty two years ago. She is a trustee of Action on Postpartum Psychosis and now works to raise awareness of the disorder.

Producer: Philippa Goodrich
A White Pebble Media production for BBC Radio 4.