Seconds to Snap

by Tina McGuff

  It was such a relief to be back in Dr Ballinger’s care again – I just nodded and smiled at her. In fact, right then and there, I didn’t believe her – I was still convinced that I had been given a chemical imbalance from the injection. But because she had treated me successfully before, I knew I could trust her. She had cured me of anorexia and I had confidence that she could do it again. In that regard, I felt lucky – I wasn’t on such unfamiliar territory that I had lost hope. No, the doctors here were good, decent and professional people. They had saved my life on so many occasions in the past, and I knew they could do the same for me this time, as long as I had faith.

  The first thing they did was to start me on a course of antipsychotic drugs and I was booked in for daily psychotherapy sessions; I badly needed it. By now, my head was flooded with terrible thoughts of awful things happening to the people I loved. I was afraid that someone was out to kill me. Danger, death and despair filled my every waking moment. I didn’t want to be conscious any more because my mind was full of pure horror – all the worst possible scenarios of my family and Jock and the boys dying were played out in my head over and over again in fine, gory detail. I didn’t know how to stop it – I felt powerless to beat down the images and ideas, which Dr Ballinger described as ‘intrusive thoughts’.

  ‘We all have them,’ she explained during one of our sessions. ‘All people have them. They are unwelcome thoughts, images or ideas that just pop into our heads without warning or bidding. For example, I had an involuntary thought this morning of pushing a traffic warden off a bridge. But the difference between my involuntary thoughts and yours at this moment is that I can put them out of my mind pretty quickly. I recognise what they are and I can dismiss them. We have to work together now on giving you the tools to bring your intrusive thoughts under control.’

  Dad and Jock visited every day. At first, I was worried what Jock would think of me. I mean, he’d known about the anorexia but, I guess, he assumed, like me, that it was all in the past. Now, here I was, in bed on a psychiatric ward, drugged, scared and confused.

  ‘Here,’ Jock said, smiling at me, after another one of my regular panics, and pulled me in for a hug. ‘Come here, silly! I’m not going to leave you. Tina, I love you and I mean that. I’d never leave you – never, ever. I’ll be with you for ever so just stop worrying about that. I’m always going to be here for you.’

  He had to reassure me a lot but, eventually, his words began to sink in and his daily visits reminded me that he wasn’t shrinking away from my illness. If anything, he was supporting me more than ever before. He even brought the boys in to see me, which always cheered me up so much. Dad visited most days, too, and Sophie and Katie also came. Then, I got a beautiful card from Celine, who was down in England still, and her positive, loving words brought a huge amount of comfort and encouragement. I felt surrounded by love.

  At first, the doctors had to play around with my drugs to make sure they got the right type and dosage. They gave me one that made the skin on my face go numb – I felt like I was wearing a mask. Other drug combinations gave me sickness, tremors, slow movements, inability to swallow and blurred vision. It was a slow process of trial and error but, once they found the right drug, I had no unwelcome side effects. Over the next few weeks, I spent a lot of time in bed, sleeping. Being asleep was the best escape from the horrors I was having while awake.

  Each day, I was woken up and taken to see the doctor, to chat for an hour. Then, I went back to sleep until lunchtime. After lunch, I had some occupational therapy to help with my concentration, which by now was completely shot. I could not focus on anything for more than a minute at a time; it meant I couldn’t read or even watch TV because every plotline left me confused. It was hard not to beat myself up about my situation. I was angry that I had let myself down, that I’d failed again, but Dr Ballinger didn’t let me wallow in self-pity.

  ‘You’ll never get well again until you stop being so hard on yourself,’ she told me. ‘Tina, your mental breakdown was a totally natural reaction to a very stressful and difficult situation. You know as well as I that this can happen to anyone at any time. It is nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to get angry over. Just concentrate on your recovery now and the positive thoughts that will allow you to get back to your life.’

  I took her words on board – in fact, I felt very lucky in many ways. I knew others who had been through this kind of experience and had attempted suicide before getting to the point of a hospital admission. Thanks to my past experiences and the people I’d met at a young age, I had recognised the signs and sought out help before it was too late.

  Over the following weeks, I started to feel better and it wasn’t long before the psychotherapy helped to put my situation into perspective. I realised that Dawn’s unexpected departure had brought back harrowing memories from my own disrupted childhood. The unexpected absence of a parent, which suddenly threw me into a position of responsibility – I had lived through all of this before. And the feeling of being out of control, of everything overwhelming me. It was almost identical to the feelings I’d experienced as a young girl. No wonder I had reacted so strongly.

  I was discharged in mid-June 1995, six weeks after being admitted to hospital. It was a relief to know that I was mentally strong enough to get back to my real life but, on the drive home, I admitted to Dad that I was nervous about returning to work.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be scared of,’ he reassured me. ‘They all love you and want to support you in your recovery. Don’t you dare feel ashamed! You’ve made amazing progress and you have worked so hard to put yourself back on track. I’m proud of you, Tina. I really am!’

  Still, I couldn’t help it. I was shaking when I went back to the bar the next day. Would they look at me like I was a monster now? Would they treat me any differently? I tried not to let my uncertainties show when I pushed open the doors – I wanted them to see I wasn’t ashamed, that I had my head high. Thankfully, everyone was so happy to see me, it was lovely. They asked how I was doing – not in that scared way I imagined they would, but with genuine care. I felt well now and the best thing was to have normal light again coming into my eyes. The intrusive thoughts were under control and I was back to eating and sleeping normally.

  Still, the doctors kept a close eye on me. I attended the Outpatient’s clinic once a week and my medication went on for another month. Finally, I felt back to myself again – and happy, too. In the months leading up to my breakdown, I had stopped laughing; I’d been so on edge all the time, I couldn’t relax.

  I went to live with Jock at his parents’ and, whenever I had a day off, I would go to see Brodie. I was no longer his nanny – after all, I had been gone a long time and his parents needed to find a replacement. Moreover, I had my own family to care for now and the boys needed me at home. It was a very difficult adjustment for me – Brodie had been such a huge part of my life for the past five years and I missed him so much that I often took him out into town, to spend time with him in the park or museum. I reassured him that I still loved him no matter what and would always be there for him.

  But I couldn’t explain what had happened to me or why I had left him for nearly two months; he was still too young to understand. I just hoped that by returning to his side and reassuring him, he wouldn’t feel abandoned. The guilt weighed heavily on me – I cried many nights over Brodie.

  ‘He knows how you feel,’ Jock said to me one night when I got a little weepy.

  ‘Yes, but what about when I wasn’t there? God knows what he must have been thinking!’ I sobbed. ‘I know what it’s like – kids blame themselves when you go away. They always do!’

  ‘Maybe, but remember, you’re not his mum or dad. And this is not your childhood. He’ll be fine. You came back and you’ve told him and shown him how much you love him. You haven’t disappeared – he’s still a massive part of your life. You’ve got to stop projecting your own issues onto him. He’s a very happy, loved and contented lit
tle boy – and he knows you love him dearly.’

  Jock was right: my own abandonment issues were not Brodie’s. I couldn’t impose them onto him. Jock always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better. Far from tearing us apart, the trauma and difficulties of the past few months had only deepened and strengthened our love. He knew me better than anyone and I was confident now that nothing could come between us. We’d been to the bottom and we’d fought our way back up, as a couple, as a team; we were united.

  In November that same year, the four of us – me, Jock and his two sons, Steven and Danny – moved into a small, two-bedroom bungalow near Jock’s parents’ and, for the first time, it felt like we were building our future together. By Christmas, we had redecorated and bought new furniture with the help of our parents, really making the house our own. Now, instead of running around at the bar on Christmas Day, Jock and I cooked an intimate family lunch for the four of us. We had to start making our own memories and it felt right that we were together on this special day, a day that was, after all, the anniversary of when we first met.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked after I came back from delivering empty plates to the kitchen after our main meal. There, on the table, in front of my seat, was a pretty green box with a crimson bow.

  ‘Open it,’ said Jock casually, picking up more plates and moving through to the kitchen. I pulled open the ribbon and eased the lid off the box. There, inside, was a black scrunchie hairband. At first, that was all I saw – He got me a hairband for Christmas?

  Just a second later, I caught the unmistakable glint of gold – and then I saw the sparkle of the diamond. I screamed! There, in the centre of the scrunchie, was a stunning ring.

  ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ I burbled. ‘What is this?’

  I slid the ring off the scrunchie as Jock came back from the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. He had clearly meant to give me a shock.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ I asked him, tears in my eyes.

  ‘Of course, it’s an engagement ring. I hope you like it – I drew it and then had it made in London for you.’

  ‘Oh, Jock – it’s beautiful!’ I breathed, my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘So – will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes!’ I shouted, flinging myself into his arms. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes!’

  Chapter 20

  A New Chapter

  ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ the registrar said, smiling, with impeccable professionalism, indicating to Jock with an elegant sweep of the hand that he could now kiss me. We looked at one another, tears in our eyes, as he gathered me into his strong arms and planted a soft, passionate kiss on my lips.

  ‘Yeurgh!’ Steven exclaimed, and we all laughed. I say all – including the registrar, there were only seven of us in the room.

  When Jock had asked me a few weeks earlier how I wanted our wedding to be, I had stared at him blankly. Until that moment, I hadn’t even thought about the wedding. All I wanted was to be married to Jock – the idea of a big wedding filled me with dread.

  ‘I want it to be small,’ I said firmly, ‘just us as a family. We don’t have much money anyway and I don’t like being the centre of attention, Jock.’

  There was something else – I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to get my whole family together and the stress and tension this would create. The idea was too hideous for words and I knew that whatever we chose, we were bound to upset somebody.

  ‘This is for us, nobody else,’ Jock insisted. ‘So let’s do things the way we want to do them. I’ve been through the big-white-wedding thing before and look how that worked out for me! I just want to be by your side, Tina.’

  So, on 14 February 1996, Saint Valentine’s Day, we married at Dundee Register Office – just us, the boys and our good friends, George and Jean. Jock was more handsome than ever in his suit and the boys looked great in their kilts; I wore a very simple but elegant Jackie Onassis-style black dress. We’d told our friends and family to meet us in Dad’s bar at 3 p.m., under the pretext of a celebration for winning a big award for the pub.

  No one suspected a thing until the moment we descended the stairs together, Jock looking dapper and me in my smart little dress. I think our grins and the way I held up my left hand gave it away. The penny dropped and a great roar erupted from the crowd of friends and colleagues.

  Dad was serving pints at the moment of our arrival and, at first, he looked confused – then, when he caught my eye and saw I was beaming from ear to ear, his eyes welled up and he put up his hands to cover his mouth.

  ‘Oh, no! Oh, no! You haven’t, have you?’ He started to weep then as he came out to congratulate us.

  ‘Aye, Dad,’ I said. ‘We just got married.’

  Dad could hardly speak – he was so overwhelmed. Then, after he’d finished hugging us both, he disappeared into the cellar and came back with champagne for everyone. He and I drank Pepsi Max instead, since neither of us was drinking at this point. Gradually, as my sisters and Jock’s family all filtered into the bar that afternoon, we broke the news over and over. Everyone was thrilled. I called my mum in England and, though she was upset she wasn’t there, she was very happy for us. Of course, it would have been lovely to have our families with us for the wedding itself but, in the end, altogether, it was a beautiful day and just right for us: stress-free, simple and intimate.

  Life as a family now moved on. Over the last few months, Steven and I had grown very close and I knew he missed his mum a lot. He had found her abandonment extremely difficult to handle and so I decided to try to help – I joined the panel that sat on the children’s court. We were given lots of support, training and information to allow us to make the best decision for the children who came before us. And now I gained a greater insight into children’s welfare and a better understanding to allow me to help Steven.

  It also opened my eyes to the different ways children are affected by their backgrounds. We came across so many kids from divorced or fractured relationships and I saw how this impacted on children in different ways – I saw kids who had eating problems, drug problems, drink issues; violent children, disruptive children, all united by one thing: they had no outlet for their pain and confusion. I saw the many ways children tried to deal with catastrophic breakdowns in their young lives. There were even children who begged to be sent away from their families because of the destructive patterns and behaviours they were witnessing on a daily basis. It was so sad – but, at the same time, truly enlightening. For the first time, I got a window into my own behaviour as a child. I saw the mechanisms I had employed to try to cope and, now, I could look back with a degree of objectivity and see that my past behaviour was not in any way abnormal. It was greatly comforting.

  At the same time, Steven was offered counselling through his school, which gave him the support he needed. We all worked together to help him adjust to the new situation and to process what had happened. I can’t say it didn’t affect him – of course it did – but I was so proud of the way he dealt with his feelings and privileged to be in a position to nurture, help and love him.

  Just a few months later, I fell pregnant again. Though I was slightly nervous because of my previous miscarriage, we were both thrilled and I embraced the changes pregnancy brought and loved my new womanly shape. I kept myself fit and healthy and enjoyed the special feeling of knowing I was carrying a child inside me. By now, I was into homeopathy and various alternative medicines and had a very romantic view of childbirth. I suppose, without my mother to tell me differently, I envisaged it being a magical, transcendental experience.

  On 19 January 1997, I was taken into hospital two weeks over my due date, to be induced, and I took with me a birth plan that included organic lavender oil, Bach flower remedies and a water birth. So convinced was I of the pureness of the birth, I told the midwives emphatically that I would not need any pain relief!

  In the labour suite, Jock held my hand, massaged my back and whispered encouraging words.
But we hadn’t been in there long when I saw one of the nurses slip a bit of paper underneath the clear little cot, which had been brought in for the baby when it arrived.

  ‘Jock, that piece of paper is about me!’ I said, eyeing the note suspiciously once she had left the room. The way she had done it, covertly like that, I knew I was not meant to see what was in it.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tina,’ Jock said. ‘You’re being paranoid.’

  I had to know – so I went over to the cot and fished out the little piece of paper. On it, she had written that I had a huge risk of developing postnatal depression.

  It was a shock and, instantly, I remembered Pam and her baby, how she had let her cry and cry; the terrible thoughts she had of killing her. I was mortified that they thought this would happen to me but, worse than that, I was offended they hadn’t thought to discuss this with me in advance of the birth. It felt like I was being treated like a child again, not trusted to rationalise and order my thoughts. Yes, it’s true I was probably more at risk than most people but it would have been better for them to talk to me about it instead of passing clandestine notes to one another!

  Still, I tried to put it out of my head and concentrate on the birth. I felt secure at this stage that the birth would be natural and beautiful. At one point, we heard a blood-curdling scream from the labour suite. I asked the nurse what was going on next door and she looked at me in surprise.