When I was nine years old, my French teacher gave everyone in the class a French name; the one closest to their own. John became Jean, Michael became Michel, Sophie became Sophie, Angela became Angela, Bryony became Brigitte.
This is a novel with an unreliable narrator who has mental health issues. She isn’t me any more than my name is Brigitte, but she is close to me, close enough for me to decide to name her Bridget.
I myself have long suffered from anxiety and depression, for which I now take medication, having resisted doing so for many years.
In particular, after having my daughter in 2005 (and suffering from osteoarthritis that resulted in a total hip replacement in 2007), I was one of the ten per cent of recently delivered women who go on to develop postnatal depression. To avoid medication I tried counselling, CBT, hypnotherapy, reflexology, acupuncture, all of which helped, but none of which worked in isolation. I had this notion that taking drugs would represent a failure, would mean I’d given in, would twist me into someone barely recognisable.
But refusing to take anything while attempting to deal with two young children, one of whom had a dairy allergy, lactose intolerance, silent reflux and literally slept for no more than two hours a night, while depressed, anxious, insomniac and in pain and also working on my burgeoning YA writing career, was retrospectively the most foolish thing I’ve ever done.
It wasn’t until three years later that I finally admitted that, without drugs, I was likely to lose my battle with the illness.
I was lucky – I didn’t do it alone. Andy and his family (Pat and Charles, Gill and Ros) were always there on the occasions when I admitted that I needed them. I had an excellent health visitor, Rosie Gay (now retired, sadly), who diagnosed and supported me. I had a brilliant doctor, Tom Lösel (now at the Middlewood Partnership), who literally turned up on my doorstep after I had a breakdown and marched me to his surgery so that he could prescribe the magic bullets that saved me. I am so grateful to these medical practitioners.
I know that many people, especially new mothers, are not as lucky as I was. Just before I had my son, a new mother of twins in my local area jumped from a motorway bridge, and every so often I see a news story which breaks my heart: a new mother whose depression and fear has seen her take her own life. And it isn’t just mothers; fathers too can suffer from postnatal depression. We have a way to go yet to make sure that signs of depression in new parents are caught early enough and treated appropriately. Budget cuts don’t help.
So, this is to acknowledge the help that I had, the support that I had and the measures that were in place to help me. This is to acknowledge that some mothers (and fathers) aren’t as lucky as I am. This is to acknowledge that I got through a hard time and came out of it with an amazing family. This is to acknowledge that I am lucky.
While I have you here, I would also like to thank my incredibly kind sources: Jon Wilkie (social services) and Joseph Fourie (police) – thank you for your time, patience and expertise; my agent, Catherine Pellegrino, for believing in me and my writing; my excellent and incisive editor, Molly Walker-Sharp, for taking me on, and the rest of the awesome team at Avon, whose work has put this novel into your hands. It’s great to be a part of team Avon.
And thank you, reader for getting this far. Do follow me on Twitter if you’d like to keep up with my news: @BryonyPearce. And if you ever feel that you yourself need extra help, or you know someone who you suspect might be struggling with their mental health, there are numbers you can call:
APNI (Association for Post Natal Illness): apni.org/ 0207 386 0868
Samaritans: 116 123
NHS Mental Health Crisis Team: 0800 169 0398
NHS Let’s Talk: 0800 073 2200
Baby Buddy App (NHS approved, 24-hour text support)
DadPad app
Stay safe and well.