“We are going to get you better and the help you need. I’m not going to leave your side until you’ve at least had a wash. The smell in here is revolting.”
I knew it was my mother’s attempt at a joke. I appreciated it internally even if I didn’t vocalise it then and there.
After a few moments, she took a deep breath and said:
“I don’t know if you realised this before, but I’m not a natural mother. When they handed you over to me I wasn’t filled with that instant feeling of love everyone talks about. I was terrified. I don’t think I ever stopped being terrified from that day. No matter what I did I always thought I was doing the wrong thing. That’s why I thought it was easier if I just pushed you closer to your dad. I think that’s why you are the way you are. It’s my fault.”
“What way am I, Mum?” I couldn’t hide the hurt sound in my voice. I knew I was far from ‘normal’ but I didn’t expect to hear it from her, now.
Talk about kicking a woman when she’s down.
“You’re just sensitive, Amy,” she said, tentatively.
“I rejected you and kept you at arm’s length and you spent your whole life trying to fill the void of love you didn’t get from me. It’s made you think you’re not good enough, all this time – but you are, Amy. You are so enough.
“I’m just so sorry.”
She put her head in her hands and started to cry.
I looked at my mother and wondered was everyone as broken as I was but they just hid it better. Did everyone carry around pointless and unnecessary guilt? My susceptibility to depressive episodes weren't caused by my mother's imagined rejection. I loved her, I had a lovely childhood, I just wanted the woman to compliment my hairdo once in a while.
I reached up, took her hand in mine and waited until she stopped crying.
“This isn’t your fault,” I said. “This isn’t your fault.”
She lay down on the bed beside me in the darkness. It didn’t take long for either of us to fall asleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in a long time.
I felt nothing but complete comfort being close to her and it was probably what she needed to forgive herself too. I hoped this conversation would help her to let go of the guilt that she’d been plagued with, all these years.
I’ve always felt that sleep was a healing force when I was at my lowest ebb and I think that’s why my subconscious made me stay awake; just another way to torture myself.
When I woke up my mother was still asleep. I wrapped the throw from the bottom of my bed, around my shoulders and decided to venture downstairs.
The house was quiet; I assumed Ben had taken the kids out so they wouldn’t get wind of the breakdown, going on upstairs. A fresh wave of guilt hit me at the thought of me letting down my children, once again.
My stomach started to rumble but I wasn’t confident enough to try food after one good nap. If this was me coming out the other side of this episode, I was taking baby steps.
Water first, a bath maybe?
My hair was matted and greasy, my breath was toxic and I could feel a crust on my teeth as I ran my tongue across them.
A bath first, food after.
I ran the water and waited for it to be full enough to get in. There was a knock on the door and my mother popped her head in.
“It smells lovely in here,” she said. “Do you want some help?”
“I think I can manage to get in the bath on my own.”
“Amy, you’re skin and bones and you’re gripping onto the sink to hold yourself up.”
In truth, my head was light from my short jaunt down the stairs and the heat in the room wasn’t helping.
I got undressed and she held my hand as I stepped in. Self-consciously, I tucked my knees under my chin and let my head rest on them.
She picked up the little jug from the sideboard and I started to relax as she poured some water on my head.
I closed my eyes and left my head where it was. She repeated the process over and over until my hair smelled like the lavender from the water.
She massaged the shampoo into my scalp, then the conditioner, and I wanted to fall asleep there. It was so comforting and with every pour of the water over my head, I felt a little bit more human.
I tried not to think of my anxiety or what had happened to get me there, and the ball of dread was still sitting like lead in the pit of my stomach.
When she finished with my hair, she gathered it up and clipped it to the top of my head.
“You just relax there for a while and shout when you want a hand out,” she said.
Her eyes were still puffy from the tears earlier, but she gave me a smile as she closed the door behind her.
I lay back and rested my head on the side of the bath.
That’s another fine mess you’ve gone us into, Amy.
One thing for certain was: there was no getting out of therapy this time. The medication wasn't enough to stop this and I don't think I stood a chance talking my way out of it with Ben. He would be delighted to see me out of bed but not even a fresh pair of pyjamas would convince him I was better.
Is there a cure for depression? Or will I just be coping with this for the rest of my life?
I couldn't think of the rest of my life, all I could concentrate on was the next half hour.
If I could manage that much then maybe I can pull myself out of this.
By the time Ben and the boys came into the house, Mum had wrapped me up in a huge woolly blanket on the sofa. The kids jumped on top of me, instantly. They started talking animatedly about their day and what I’d missed when I was in bed with the ‘flu’ for the last while.
I liked that I didn’t really have to speak, I couldn’t get a word in edgeways even if I wanted to. Ben hovered in the background, unsure if he should just give us privacy or join in the conversation. I offered a weak smile and it was all the invitation he needed to sit beside me. Mum didn’t say anything before she left, she just made herself scarce while I reconnected with my family.
I didn’t know if my afternoon with her was a turning point in our relationship or if she would put her wall up again, as soon as I was feeling better.
I’ll worry about that later.
I watched the kids play while Ben offered every food he could think of in order to tempt me to eat. I finally relented and took some toast to curb the hunger that was growing in my belly.
I tried not to drink too much water, too quickly, but as soon as the first drop hit my stomach I was overcome by an overwhelming thirst. After three pints of water, the sloshing in my stomach couldn't be ignored.
I tried to read for a while but my eyes were hurting from overuse, this afternoon. I didn’t attempt to switch on my phone – that was too much visual stimulation for my attention span.
Ben looked relieved that I was downstairs and I know he would want to have a talk when the kids were in bed, but I wasn’t ready. He would have to be patient a little while longer.
When I thought of Elle my heart panged a bit.
I didn’t know how to resolve the situation. She obviously didn’t want to hear from me – she made that painfully clear – but I still wanted to make amends. I wanted my friend back but I didn’t know how I could help her heal when I was a mess myself.
A problem for another day. Just rest now.
It was the kindest sentiment I’d said to myself in a long time. It was soothing to be nice to myself, and not something I’d ever been good at.
I was once given a book of ‘101 ways to love yourself’ and it was never even opened. I wasn’t convinced of my recovery enough to dig it out. I was still fixating on half-hour slots at a time.
I lay my head on the cushion and closed my eyes. I assumed there would be no way I could sleep, because of the noise with the children in the room. I knew I could have gone upstairs to rest but it was comforting to be around the chaos of my everyday life.
I stayed where I was and drifted off to sleep within minutes.
Cha
pter 31
I wasn’t asleep long before I was woken by voices I couldn't place. Ben was one, for sure, but there was another female in the hallway.
Elle? No, too quiet to ever be her.
Ben came in with a blonde woman, I had never met before. She had a huge trolley and wheeled it into the centre of my living room.
“This is Olive,” said Ben. “She’s here to help you with your hair.”
“My hair? What’s wrong with my hair?” I panicked and I couldn’t think of anything else but finding a mirror.
“It’s fine, it’s fine, Amy,” he soothed. “Your mum thought it would be a good idea to get a professional to come in and try to work on it. It’s badly matted still and she thinks you may need some of it cut.”
Tears burnt my eyes and I experienced a mix of feelings. I was thankful to my mother for the lovely gesture but sad because my hair was about the only thing I liked about myself and now depression would take that away too.
In the grand scheme of things, I knew it seemed trivial, but it didn't matter.
“Don’t you worry yourself my darling,” said Olive, “You just let me work my magic and we will see what we can do.”
I nodded through the tears and took the clip from the top of my head to let my, still-damp, hair fall to my shoulders.
Olive started digging through her trolley and brought out several spray bottles, all different colours and sizes. She generously started spraying my hair, all over, with a large pink bottle – it smelled heavenly. I wasn’t sure how many different types of sprays or hair masks she was putting on my matted nest but the combing was the hardest part.
Hours passed as she took each tiny section and carefully started to work her comb through it. It was painful and boring but I didn’t speak a word of annoyance. This woman was trying every trick in the book to save my hair and I could put up with the pain if it meant I wasn’t sporting a bob for the next year.
Some may see it as a ‘fresh start’ with a new hairstyle but I would see it as a constant reminder of a particularly painful time in my life. Physical evidence of failure in a never-ending battle against depression.
Ben would pop his head in every so often offering tea and clearing away the cold ones that lay, untouched, on the coffee table. He would give me a wink every time he came in and I tried to smile to reassure him I was doing ok, but I could tell he didn’t buy it.
I liked Olive, especially because she wasn’t a talker. Other than sheer laziness, I spent my life avoiding hairdressers out of fear of having to make small talk with them.
After every strand she managed to get through, without using her scissors, she would take a little break to stretch out her arms, de-cramp her hand and walk around the room for a break.
“I’m good friends with your mother,” she finally said, “She told me you had a case of the blues and you needed a pick-me-up.”
The blues was such an innocent way of putting things; clearly Olive was of the same school of thought as my mother. I don’t think Eloise had ever said the word ‘depression’ out loud before.
“I have depression,” I said. “When things get bad I call them episodes but really it’s starting to feel that depression is my whole life. It’s when I’m out there pretending to be fine, that’s the real episode. I don’t want this to be my family’s life. Looking after me and hiding the knives.”
Olive stopped her combing regime.
“My sister had your sickness,” she said. “She had it her whole life, it took her away from everyone and everything she loved until she had no one else but her and the sickness. Finally, she must have had enough and one day decided that she didn't want to live this way anymore. So… she killed herself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, quietly.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I read something once after my sister died, it said: ‘suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem’. It struck a chord with me. You won’t always feel like this, but you won’t find that out unless you stick around. I was angry at my sister for a very long time, but I know it wasn’t her fault.”
She went back to combing the next tangled strand and I continued to keep quiet and look at the wall ahead.
I had no idea where I was going or what I was meant to do next, but I knew I didn’t want to end up back at the lake.
I needed help and I needed it now.
***
It took two weeks before I had the confidence to venture out the door again. The noise of the cars on the street was already making me nervous but I had to get outside or I would start climbing the walls. Ben had returned to work five days ago and I was struggling to keep the kids entertained inside all the time.
I decided on a local park to ease myself back in. It was bitterly cold so I assumed more sensible parents would be inside on a day like this. I was right – we had the place to ourselves. I couldn’t feel my fingers after ten minutes and I tried to coax the boys into the idea of a hot chocolate at Joseph’s instead of staying there a minute longer. I had to throw in a scone to get them moving, but it was worth it so I could feel my fingers again.
I was nervous about seeing him, it would be the first from the party but I told myself I had nothing to be embarrassed about.
When I came in through the door, the café was quieter than I expected for this close to lunchtime, so I scanned the room to see if I could see any familiar faces. I tried not to look for Elle but it was second nature at this point.
She wasn’t there.
Joseph came out of the kitchen with a bright smile on his face, one that told me he was genuinely happy to see me. It did my heart good.
“Ah, Amy! My boys! You look frozen and you need fattening up, all of you. Sit, sit. I’ll bring over all you need.”
We were jostled over to my usual spot and waited to see what Joseph would provide.
It didn’t take long for a woman I didn’t recognise to come over with two hot chocolates, a coffee and four oversized scones.
“We really don’t need all this,” I said.
“I’m just doing as I’m told, I don’t like to get on the wrong side of him in case I get shouted at – I’m new,” she smiled.
“Don’t worry about Joseph, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“Not Joseph, he's a lovely man I'm talking about the head chef, Michael, he is a hard taskmaster.”
She walked off with the tray and I tried to process what I’d just heard.
In the short time I was gone, Michael had found his voice – by the sounds of it he was now a bit too vocal – Elle was no longer working here and business is slow.
I need answers.
When the boys had demolished everything in front of them and decided to go find out what new toys were on offer, I beckoned Joseph over in order to find out everything.
“A lot of changes around here then?” I said.
“Not really. Business is slow today, but good all around. Don't be worrying.”
“New faces, too.”
Come on, Joseph don’t make me ask.
“Natasha? Yes, she’s been here a few weeks; but I don’t think you are asking about her.”
“No,” I said. “Have you seen her?”
“She came in two days after her little scene. I think she was hoping to see you here but she was too proud to say. She said she wouldn’t be coming back around anymore; I gave her the wages she was owed and we parted ways.”
“Did she say anything about me?”
“No, I’m sorry, Amy. She’s hurting but you know she didn’t mean those things. The mind can get a little twisted when it comes to matters of the heart. A broken one can be deadly.”
I didn’t know if I was relieved that she didn’t leave more abuse at Joseph’s feet to relay back to me.
Perhaps she did and he was being kind by not telling me.
When I eventually turned my phone back on, after my sabbatical from sanity, I expected something. A text message, a voicemail, anything; but there was nothing.
I typed out a few messages to send, ranging from righteous indignation at her outburst to sniveling apology that she was feeling this let down. I couldn't find the balance between the two so I thought it best to stay quiet. That was my answer to everything. Perhaps if I hadn't stayed quiet all those times she was trying to tell me how crap she was feeling then maybe she wouldn't think I was the cause of her perceived ruination.
The boys and I stopped at the library on the way home so I could browse through the self-help sections and see if I could find something on depression or mindfulness in order to get Ben off my back.
I was right about my therapy prediction. Each evening he would present me with the professional profile of a new therapist and each evening I would find some arbitrary reason why I didn’t like them. The excuses were wearing thin – the most recent one was: “He’s got ginger hair, I’ve ginger hair, that’s a recipe for disaster”
Ben wasn’t fussed on pressing that bizarre reason any further because he seemed to drop it.
I never made it to the self-help section, I got sidetracked by celebrity biographies. As I perused the section it was obvious that they were celebrities in the loosest sense of the word. I became engrossed in an ex-reality star’s book simply because there was glitter on the cover. I literally judged a book by its cover and took it home with me.
By the time Ben came in, I was reading about her second divorce in the space of three years and I was hooked.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Self-help book,” I lied. “I’m just getting to the point where she’s hitting rock bottom.”
“Oh, really? That’s great, Amy – very proactive of you.”
I put the book in my bedside drawer to make sure he didn’t see the cover and decided to change the subject for fear of follow-up questions.
“So, what do you fancy for dinner?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don't think that's a very misleading question, Mr Cole?”
“Normally it’s not but I want to see the menu first.”
Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1) Page 25