There’s a mattress on the floor in a starkly-lit, stone-walled space, more reminiscent of a prison cell than a hospital room. There’s a wild-eyed woman clawing at her matted curls, howling ferociously to be set free. There’s a black leather couch, its cushions slashed, the arm rests sticky, upon it sit a handful of listless souls awaiting a doctor’s appraisal.
There’s a ghoulish woman staring through the window, jostling the door handle and watching me as I attempt to stem the tide of my leaking breasts. There’s a skittish young woman, desperate to make friends, leaning into my sunlit corner. And there’s a red-faced banshee, speaking in tongues, pacing and shaking.
The images return often, flickering past my eyes. The sounds are equally visceral, echoing down the ward hallways where nightmares reign.
I bounced along the walkway to the hospital entry, sometimes on my hands and knees, other times skipping. I spun around on the wheelchair, refusing to sit in it, wrenching off my clothes and shrieking in labour pains that couldn’t possibly be real. I called out names in an unearthly wail, I punched and throttled and shook.
I was reliving it all.
I awoke on a guerney, surrounded by six people including security guards. I was in a hospital gown. I remember thinking I had to get to the end of the bed to make the birth easier, to give me a better chance to push my baby into the world.
But you are already here, at home, sleeping soundly in your basket with mama.
This was the second time. Far darker than the first. I have wanted to write about it, set the memories free, allow the anguish to unfurl and release, but the starting point is never easy to find.
I never imagined I would spend time in a psych ward. Not once, even, but twice, the second time a post-natal psychosis, violent and turbulent and beastly. My body was still healing from birth, I was swollen and weak, but above all my mind was disoriented. A handful of times I thought I was back in labour, texting my doula about contractions and preparing buckets of hot water and compresses. I was sleepless and swirling, flying high on the adrenaline of bringing a new life into the world, a lifelong dream realised.
But when they took me to the psych ward and held me for a week against my will, the adrenaline waned. All I wanted was to be with my little family, immersed in the bubble, drinking in his softness.
As another year comes to an end, and the darkness fades, I wanted to share some fragments, breathe light into the corners where the hauntings linger. There are more tales to tell, many flecked with the laughter and joy that come from a heightened reality, but for now I want to liberate the ghosts as I have always found solace in words and open hearts.
sacré-cœur, paris : december 2023