It wasn’t a great response, but at least most of the angry capitals were gone.
Amy: Yes, yes it is. Can’t really talk now, going to bring Artie to a playgroup and get out into the big bad world again. Love you xx
As soon as I hit send I turned the phone off once more.
I completely disagree that modern technology makes you reachable all the time – you just need to turn the damn thing off.
My problem had been, albeit momentarily, solved.
However, it meant I would have to pay attention to my surroundings during the time at playgroup. I had been hoping to get back to my garden-porn binge.
It was pleasant out so I thought I could pretend to be someone who enjoyed being active and walk to the playgroup.
It could be my first lie to the group, should I get up the courage to actually talk to anyone.
I hadn’t always been like this.
In pre-incident times I liked people, or at least tolerated social situations a hell of a lot better than I did now.
Months had gone by since it happened and I still couldn’t stomach the thought of actually letting my brain open up long enough for me to process it.
I knew that this level of avoidance was unhealthy, I knew it was the real reason I talked Ben into agreeing with my plan to become a stay-at-home parent.
I had told him it was so I could be with the kids more, instead of running off to work every day, but the reality was that I just couldn’t face being part of the outside world anymore. I felt better in my bubble at home. I could keep the four of us safer there.
Even thinking about it in this peripheral capacity caused a feeling of uneasiness within me. The anxiety in my chest rose, when this happened it was like an elephant standing on my lungs. That’s when the panic set in.
Stop, Amy. Stop.
I literally stopped in my tracks. Arthur tugged at my hand to get me to start walking again, but I couldn’t move. I was stuck on that spot on the footpath and all I wanted to do was run back to the house, lock the door and wait there until I could remember how to breathe again.
I hadn’t had a panic attack in months, and never once in public. I’d been careful never to put myself in a situation where it might happen. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing my mental health was as bad as it was – or that my grip on sanity was so tenuous.
Ben was worried enough as it was.
That wasn’t my only motivation, of course. Mostly, I didn’t want anyone to judge me or think I was so weak.
I knew how bad the stigma surrounding mental health could be. I knew the looks people gave, the snap judgments, and the poorly formed views – mostly because I had them before any of this happened to me. To my shame, I used to look down on anyone who dared say they were ‘depressed’ within my earshot. I thought it was a buzz word people used when they were having a bad week.
I remembered when an old university friend was in the throes of a depressive episode and I told her to “shake it off.”
I still cringed when I thought of that.
To her credit, she didn’t hit me the slap I deserved. She just pulled the duvet over her head and asked me to leave her room. We didn’t stay in touch after university, and to be honest, I didn’t blame her.
I realised I wouldn’t be able to make it back to the house in the shape I was in, so I opted for the nearest coffee shop I could find. There was an unfamiliar one ten feet away and I managed to tumble through the door, dragging a reluctant Arthur behind me.
The café was new to the area and was definitely trying too hard. There were garden gnomes everywhere and fake grass for wallpaper. Both of these décor choices were not helping my panicked state but it was starting to rain and Arthur was getting fussy so this was going to be my hideout for the foreseeable.
The interior design gave me a headache but Arthur found blocks and I knew there would be no hope of getting him to leave.
I accepted defeat and settled down on one of the battered sofas. I assumed these worn-out looking sofas were a deliberate design choice, but I clearly wasn’t hip enough to appreciate it. I ordered a coffee for me, chocolate pancakes for Arthur and waited for my panic to subside.
As we were the only people in the shop our order was quickly presented and the sullen looking gentleman, who I presumed was the owner, went back to reading his paper behind the counter.
Despite the lack of customers, the coffee tasted great. I tried to enjoy the quiet of my surroundings but I ended up turning inwards and having a conversation with myself – something that never ended well.
What are you doing here, Amy? Are you seriously avoiding a parent and toddler group? Are you really that insecure? You do remember you’re not in school anymore and you’re an actual adult.
I was very preachy when I was right.
I decided that talking to myself was a terrible idea and opted to concentrate on my surroundings instead.
Just be present and mindful and all that other bollox.
The longer I sat in this tacky little place the more I liked it. The gnomes looked less terrifying the more I looked at them and Arthur was entertained.
By the time I spotted the sign saying ‘free wi-fi’ I made the decision that this was going to be my new favourite place.
I wondered how long it had been open and if it was always this quiet. I didn’t have to wonder too long before the lanky man from behind the counter came walking over and sat on the sofa opposite me.
“Hi,” he said, “Do you like your coffee?”
“Erm, yes?”
“Are you not sure?”
“No, I mean yes I’m sure, I like it.”
“Good, good. It’s good coffee, nice food too if you’re staying a while longer. My son-in-law will be in to start the lunch specials.”
I couldn’t place his accent but his swarthy skin suggested Middle Eastern descent. To be honest I was rubbish at deciphering anyone’s ethnicity he could have been from Cork.
“You are welcome to stay as long as you like, I’d be glad of the company. Business is… slow.”
He gestured to the empty café as he spoke and I stared at my cup hoping he would take my complete lack of eye contact as an indication that I wanted to be left alone.
He didn’t.
“What is your name? I am Joseph, it is good to be meeting you.”
I smiled at the odd phrasing and I looked up at him, noting his deep brown eyes. He was in his late fifties, I guessed, but he looked tired beyond his years.
“My name is Amy and that small child who is trying to pull down your gnome display is my son, Arthur.”
“Well then, Amy, tell me your story.”
“My story?”
“Yes, your story. Everyone has a story and I would like to hear yours.”
Chapter 3
It’s true, everyone had a story; but I wasn’t sure I was ready to share mine out loud and definitely not with a complete stranger in a tacky little coffee shop.
I don’t know if it was the soothing feeling of the coffee or the strange little gnomes prying into my soul, but I decided to stop avoiding my memories. I sat on the worn-out sofa and let the events of the last year wash over me.
I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
I woke up bleeding on 10th December. I threw myself out of the bed and ran into the bathroom. Even before I saw the blood I knew what was happening.
What is it about being pregnant that makes you think that love and sheer stubborn will can protect your child?
I gripped onto my stomach, feeling the start of the piercing pain ripping in my womb. I sat on the floor with hundreds of thoughts going through my mind.
Ben was in England on business and the boys were still asleep. My eyes were burning and I ached to cry but I couldn’t give into tears, not just yet. I decided that I could save this baby. I knew if I just got to a doctor then I could save my little girl.
I packed up my children, who were still fast asleep, and left them with the child-mi
nder. To this day I don’t know how I kept it together, all I knew was that if I let one tear fall, it was as good as admitting defeat and I was determined not to do that. My daughter needed me.
After a very terse conversation with a GP receptionist, I was told to go to the hospital.
By the time I got to the emergency department’s reception I was shaking so badly I thought I was going to faint there and then.
They must have noticed the panic on my face as I was seen by a doctor quite quickly. I answered the obligatory questions and blood was taken for testing. I was asked to sit back in reception and I would be called soon.
The wait was agony and every time I went to the bathroom to clean more blood away I was getting more and more agitated. I didn’t understand why no one was grasping how urgent this was.
I spent the next eight hours sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair waiting for someone to give me words of comfort and tell me that the bleeding was normal.
I watched countless people come in and out. I imagined their stories and gave them names and tragic backstories - that way I could comfort myself knowing that by the time I was seen by a doctor and told everything was fine, I would go home feeling lucky. I was certain that the doctor would give me some sort of tablet or injection to stop the bleeding and I would go home to take it easy.
I decided that I would take months off work and sit on my ever-expanding arse until my daughter was ready to make her appearance.
I knew it was a girl. A mother knows these things – one of the many bullshit things I convinced myself of during those eight hours of waiting.
Eventually, I was told they had lost the blood samples but they had finally located them around 9pm.
After the briefest of examinations, I was informed that my baby was gone. They told me to go home and let “nature do its work”.
I was offered no words of comfort or an explanation, something I so desperately needed.
Still, I did not cry.
I picked up the kids, on autopilot, and returned home to a quiet house. They had fallen asleep in the back of the car and I was tempted to wake them up just to have some distraction or company. My phone had died hours ago and, no doubt, Ben would be anxious to hear from me, but I couldn’t find the words to say it out loud.
As far as I was concerned, I had failed. I had lost our baby.
I hated that phrase.
I hadn’t ‘lost’ anything. My body had let me down.
The body that I had finally grown to love after years of shallow self-loathing had become my enemy once again.
It had killed my daughter.
The numbness carried on for weeks. My family thought I was just being stoic and getting on with things – while those around me offered gems like:
“Sure, it was early days anyway so it wasn’t that bad.”
This was a direct quote from an ill-informed, but well-meaning aunt.
I had an easy to remember go-to response for when I was asked how I was feeling; I simply shrugged and said:
“These things happen.”
People seemed satisfied with this, but to be honest I had no idea what that even meant in a situation like this. I knew they were all waiting for me to cry, but still, no tears came.
I tried a few times but it was as if every attempt to find my heart again was futile. I was a high functioning zombie.
Six weeks later I started to hear her; the hideous version of myself that rejoiced in my failure. I hated her, but unfortunately by this stage, I was in no shape to defend myself against her onslaught of visceral abuse. It didn’t take her long to gain more and more ground and soon I was lying awake night after night, listening to a new list of insults.
It was around 3 a.m. on a Wednesday that she first planted the seed.
If you go to the lake, all this will stop. I promise. Your family will be so much happier without you. Deep down, you know that’s the truth.
After weeks of feeling shame and continuous mental and physical pain, I felt like I had an answer on how to make it all go away.
I wasn’t scared or feeling guilty about who I was leaving behind. I believed her when she told me they were better off without me. It seemed like such an obvious solution.
The night before I planned to kill myself, I sat down to dinner with Ben and my beautiful boys, to take it all in for the last time.
I memorised the crease in Arthur’s chubby little arm as he hit away the food Ben was desperately trying to feed him.
I cherished the way my gorgeous husband’s eyes crinkled at the sides when he smiled.
The only time I doubted my plan was when I looked at Adam. I worried about how he would take me going, but even that wasn’t enough to make me change my mind.
Despite the slight waver in my determination to go through with it, I still didn’t feel guilty.
I steadied my nerve and went back to feeling numb. I knew I could make it to the lake if I just stayed numb.
I casually mentioned I had a meeting in the morning and would be leaving earlier than normal. I could easily get to my destination without arousing any suspicion about why I was going nowhere near the office.
I thought about writing a note but ‘she’ talked me out of it. Besides, there was nothing I could say that would bring them comfort. I just had to get on with things.
At times I was grateful for that horrible voice. She was harsh but she handled the day-to-day functioning while I sat locked away in my own head lying in the fetal position. No one had noticed the exchange of personas, or if they did they were too afraid to mention it in case I broke down. I had checked out of reality weeks ago so really I kind of felt like a spectator to what happened that day at the lake.
At least that’s what I told myself (and others).
Afterwards, when people asked me why I did it, I told them: “It wasn’t me, it was ‘her’. I didn’t have a choice.”
But that was a lie.
I had a choice and I chose the easy way out. I wanted to die and leave everyone else to pick up the pieces. At my core, I was a coward.
I don’t remember if I slept the night before, all I know is that I took my time getting ready. I tamed my hair and put on more makeup than I ever normally would.
I wasn’t playing for time - I thought as it was my last day on the planet then I should, perhaps, make an effort.
I struggled to kiss my family goodbye but as I’d spent the last few weeks shunning all affection it wasn’t something they were too unfamiliar with.
I got into my car and drove, in silence, the twenty three miles to a little model village off the motorway. I had found the lake years earlier when I got lost on a walk with friends. I remember the first time I walked out of the trees and came across it. It was truly breathtaking.
I had purposely never told my family about it, I kept it as somewhere secret just for me. On that day, I was glad that I had.
I walked over the first bridge and sat with the swans for a while until even depression couldn’t hide the fact that I still hated birds of all kinds.
Majestic, my arse.
I was alone on my walk, apart for a smattering of dog walkers who paid little or no attention to the smartly dressed woman giving swans dirty looks.
I decided being pecked to death wasn’t an advisable way to go so I took to my poorly thought out heels and headed deeper into the forest and further from the lake.
For the first time, in a long time, I was present in that forest. I could smell the trees and it started to rain. The drops on my skin were like ice and it was the first pleasant sensation I had felt in months. The experience wasn’t earth-shattering, it didn’t make me recognise that life is fleeting and precious or make me turn around and drive home to my family. It was simply a raindrop.
I trudged on, cursing my choice in footwear. I thought of my sons who were happy and alive and yet I longed to be with a daughter that I never knew.
I can’t explain the extent of that longing. It’s something I still
feel all too acutely, even now.
Before I knew it, the path had returned to the lake and I found a beautiful spot where I could sit and contemplate the last few minutes of my life.
I’m an atheist, so the fact that I hoped to be reunited with my daughter in the afterlife made little or no sense, but I clung to the chance nonetheless.
I didn’t spend those last few minutes talking to a God or praying for guidance or peace. I simply sat staring at the water and feeling the rain dance off the top of my head. The trees made a poor canopy but it seemed like a frivolous complaint, all things considered.
I threw the heels to one side and crept down to the waterfront. All hopes of a graceful entrance to my watery grave were well and truly scuppered when I lost my footing in some mud.
“Typical,” I muttered.
I started to panic and was adamant that those couldn’t be my final words on this earth. I stopped wading into the water and thought about all the profound quotes that I’d read over the years. Social media was awash with them; generally shared by unsuccessful people so they feel less rubbish about their Monday.
None came to mind, so I stood there freezing, waist-deep in the water until finally, my feet started to ache with the cold.
“Screw it,” I conceded, and started back to my journey to the middle of the lake.
I had to fight my natural urge to tread water and instead I dove under. It was disgusting. In all the visions I had of this moment I pictured an elegant descent into cool blue water, finally being at peace and discovering the true meaning of the cosmos.
To say it wasn’t quite like that was an understatement.
The water was freezing and the smell was vile. I couldn’t see centimetres in front of me never mind the hidden answers to the universe.
Even then I didn’t start to panic, I just thought this was pretty standard for my luck up to this point. I started to feel light-headed so I closed my eyes and waited for the last of the oxygen to slip from my lungs. I would like to say my thoughts were something poignant - like my final family dinner, my wedding day or my children's births - but there was nothing.
If anything it just seemed like the most pointless end to a life that up until a few months ago, I loved.
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 3