Content note: the article contains references to psychosis and suicidal thoughts that readers may find upsetting.

When my daughter Maisie was born, I was ecstatic. I’d always wanted kids: I’d read all the books, listened to the advice, taken the classes and felt as prepared as it’s possible to be at the start of this next chapter of my life as a mum. What I wasn’t prepared for, or even aware of, was how postnatal depression (PND) and postpartum psychosis would take over my life.

The doctors think my PND came on between three to five months postpartum, but for me, there’s no distinct moment of before or after – just an overall sinking feeling that this was so much harder than I expected. I do, however, have a very clear memory of when my auditory hallucinations started. My then-husband and I were away for a weekend with friends. I’d put Maisie down in her travel cot for a nap and then exhaustedly climbed into bed myself. Only I couldn’t sleep because all I could hear was her screaming the place down. I couldn’t understand why my partner wasn’t dealing with it when they were right next to Masie. After 20 minutes I stormed upstairs asking why they weren’t comforting her, only to find the room quiet and the baby fast asleep. 

“You’re just tired,” they said. It’s what everyone says when new mums talk of struggling – and they were right, I was. I’d never been a mum before, so I thought that maybe this was just how it was.

Soon after, I became convinced I was a terrible mother, that my mere presence in Maisie’s life was contaminating hers, and if I would only ‘just leave’ then her life would explode with brilliance and possibility. But I loved her so much, I couldn’t bring myself to be apart from her. I hated myself for my selfishness. 

When Maisie was around 10 months old, one of my dearest friends and his husband came to visit us. I saw looks between them, and before he left he asked if I was OK. “You don’t seem like our old Em,” he said. By that point, I had also begun to wonder if I was OK. Perhaps my overwhelming anxiety wasn’t the way I was supposed to feel? Maybe constantly hearing crying when your baby was asleep next to you wasn’t just a sign of tiredness? 

I went to my GP and gently broached the subject of not feeling great. Once he heard the timeframe, he immediately diagnosed me with PND and put me on antidepressants. I was so relieved, and I couldn’t wait to feel better, to not feel like this all the time. And I did feel better once the antidepressants kicked in… for about 6 weeks. Then the intrusive images started.

The human brain is an astounding thing, and I’ll always be grateful that, for whatever reason mine, despite torturing me, also found a way to ground me. I started to see images of myself dead or dying – lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood or hanging from a tree – but in all of these images there was something that didn’t quite fit the scenario. In the tree image, I was dressed like an extra in Gone With The Wind; in the bathroom image, the entire suite was in avocado green – something anyone who knew me would tell you would never happen. These little details allowed me to understand that they weren’t real; they were intrusive thoughts, and as such we notice, we acknowledge and then we let go.

Despite knowing this, the thoughts never really went, and eventually they came in faster and faster, until every time I blinked I saw them. I became terrified I was going to lose my understanding of what was real and what was not. I showed up to my GP surgery late on a Friday in such a panic the surgery manager took one look at me, took Maisie in her arms and pulled me into a room ahead of all the waiting patients. The GP looked stricken; he’d never dealt with postnatal psychosis before and didn’t know what services were available. My husband was called home from work and instructed to monitor me for any sign of suicidal behaviour; meanwhile, I was prescribed me a heavy dose of anti-psychotic medication and slept for most of the weekend.

The weeks and months that followed were a whirlwind of medication, explanations, outpatient care programmes and psychotherapy. I found the diagnosis a gift – this wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t a bad mum. There was something wrong with me, so I told everyone and discovered that as I told other mums about my struggles, they would start sharing things with me. All these women, who I thought were absolutely killing it, were struggling too – we’d just never talked about it. Very quickly I became a collector, a keeper, of other women’s stories, and I knew I needed to do something with them. Around the same time, my psychologist suggested I should write down my thoughts as a way to make sense of them, and through that writing a musical, The Good Enough Mums Club, was born.

I’m still not sure why I chose a musical as its form, but I think it’s because early childhood is so musical (everyone’s always thrusting a tambourine or a shaker into your child’s hand) but also a way to express those things we don’t like to say out loud – as they say in musical theatre: ‘If you can’t talk, you sing.’

Speaking to mums about their experiences has been a huge part of the journey of creating the show, and I feel so privileged to have spoken to mums all over the country – in a mosque in Birmingham, at a primary school in the shadow of Grenfell, in a small village pub in Dorset (and everywhere in between) about their experiences, with all of those threads of conversations making up the tapestry of the show. We touch on a lot of different things in The Good Enough Mums Club – obviously postnatal depression but also baby loss, class, race, perfectionism, body image and, of course, the imposter syndrome – the feeling like we’re never enough.

It’s very rare to see the experience of motherhood explored in musical theatre - usually ‘mum’ characters are there to support (while also failing) young male protagonists, so to have five different versions of what it means to be a mum, played by brilliant actors who are also mums, feels really important and really special and I can’t wait to bring the show to audiences to see how they connect with it. Like life, the show has moments that will make you howl with laughter and make you cry with its reliability. And, hopefully, the audiences (who can take the Good Enough Mums Club pledge at the end of the show) will leave feeling connected and inspired and that they really are far more than good enough.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: courtesy of Emily Beecher