By Catherine Lyons

Like mother like daughter.

Deep down, that innocent saying strikes a very disquieting chord in me – not because my mother is very wrinkly, though some would say genetics defy most face creams, and therefore I should be worried, but because she suffered from severe postnatal depression, which often flipped into mania.  ‘Manic depression’, or bi-polar disorder, as it is now called, first crept up on her when I was nine months old. Four further children and twenty-five years later, she (and we), were no strangers to the altered states of reality through which she cyclically passed. 

We had a record as kids, an old 45rpm called ‘they’re coming to take me away ha ha…
(…hee hee ho ho to the funny farm where trees and flowers are beautiful all the time, they’re coming to take me away!).’ The reverse side was the same grotesque song played backwards, so if you weren’t already freaked out by the manic voices on side A, side B totally finished you off.  I’ve always wondered why we had that record, was it a joke?  Did my mum actually buy it during one of her highs as a bizarre rebellious act (she was often rebellious when high), I still don’t know.

Childhood for me was quite stressful at times, being the eldest, and a girl with four scrapping brothers beneath me, and a mother who wasn’t always in control, I took it upon myself to be the boss.  I was not always loving and compassionate, far from it, I was a calculating delegater, with un-bendable rules, strict time keeping and a quick right hand which would deal a swift slap to anyone who defied me, a bit like a boarding school matron I guess!  This wasn’t a position I was necessarily proud of, and in later years when I had left home, I feared that I would never be able to be a mother myself as I was far too tyrannical.

A sharp reminder of this fact occurred during a pivotal month long trip to Egypt, just the two of us.  It came to light that we were still playing out roles from the past – me, in control, and she, the more subservient.  I decided this had to change, so spent the next decade both consciously and unconsciously working on myself, (in that confident way only a person in their late 20’s early 30’s can!), trying to unlearn my overly dictatorial ways and recapture some of my lost childhood. I left England, and began a curious path of self discovery, volunteering my services to various conservation initiatives, leading expeditions in far flung jungles forcing myself into difficult large group scenarios, learning the art of diplomacy and people management, meditating, dancing, spending time in nature, reading about alternative views of life, so when I fell pregnant in 2003 I felt a much calmer individual than the one who had left home 15 years prior.

I say fell pregnant, because it was exactly like that – completely unplanned with a man who I had known a matter of months.  It wasn’t that I didn’t love him, because I did, it was just that it was so bloody quick – one minute leading jungle training courses in Honduras, the next a housewife in Richmond – WHAM.  And there, in our little cottage I felt lonely, removed from society and unbearably tired, and if I’m honest, quite melancholy.  Warning bells rang.  Of course I’d always known that mental illness can be hereditary (why else would they ask you on every single medical form whether any member of your family had ever been diagnosed with having one?) and it reawakened my childhood resolve NEVER to suffer from what my mother suffered.  I don’t suppose there’s medical evidence to support the fact that you can indeed think your way out of being a ‘manic depressive’, but I have always believed in the possibility of mind over matter, or in this case mind over mind, and yet here I felt a ‘weakness in the force’, and it scared the hell out of me.  ‘Like mother like daughter’ - would I really follow in her footsteps? Not that they’d administer electric shocks to my brain or lock me in an asylum as was the wont back in the day when my mum was first ill, but the mere fact of being trapped in the genetic web of probability was enough to give me palpitations.  I rang a help line, and asked if whether pre-natal depression led to post-natal depression.  They said it was possible.

But then the baby was born, a beautiful girl (I was so relieved it wasn’t a boy after all those brothers!), and any wisp of grey that had clouded my mind was dissolved by the glow of new motherhood.  Until, that is, four months later when I really did think I had lost my mind.

We were in the throes of moving house, displaced, surrounded by boxes. My partner was away on a stag weekend in Latvia and my rather demanding baby decided to wake up in the middle of the night and not go back to sleep.  It was the first time I’d ever been alone with the baby at night, and the first time she’d ever woken up and not gone back to sleep. It was a strange house, and I completely lost perspective of the situation. At 3 in the morning with the baby screaming on the bed, I picked up the phone and called my mum, (a great privilege, and one that she had never had – her mum had died whilst she was carrying me).   She told me to pick the baby up (seems so obvious, but until she said it, I felt like I’d been left alone with a wailing Martian, and had absolutely no idea what to do), so I did.  The baby stopped crying and finally fell asleep, but shocked by the hours of incessant crying I lay awake, wide-eyed in the silence.  I didn’t sleep for THREE DAYS, and they were possibly the most bizarre and terrifying I have ever spent.  I rode waves of hyper alertness, drowsiness (but no sleep), I cried, I panicked, I was delirious, my brain started to fizz, and I felt as though I had a fountain of energy bursting from the crown of my head.  This was it, I was going mad, history had repeated itself and I was indeed becoming my mother. I was devastated that I hadn’t managed to keep the wolves at bay.  My partner’s drunken words of reassurance from Latvia added another surreal twist to the already crazy scenario, and if my mum and dad hadn’t come down to visit me (sensing that something was very wrong), who knows what might have happened.  As it was, my mum took the baby, and I tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep in the front room.  She told me, when I asked if I was going mad, that I wasn’t showing any of the signs.  I thought, what do I have to do, take my shoes and knickers off and prance around singing ‘they’re coming to take me away ha ha?’

I was prescribed some heavy-duty sleeping pills and the wolves retreated, but even now, if sleep evades me, I am acutely aware of a rising fear of slipping into the abyss in which my mother spent so many years.

So now my mother was a grandmother, and I was the mother. A subtle but tangible shift of dynamics gradually occurred, as though some ancient rite of passage had kicked in without us being aware.  I began to ask for advice, and she began to impart a wisdom that only a very experienced mother could give.  A lot of the specifics were lost, and many of the protocols had changed since I was born, but the main thread of her reassurances was that you didn’t have to be perfect, just good enough.  She herself had suffered greatly with feelings of inadequacy when her babies hadn’t slept, fed or cried too much, and in that we were very similar.  She was sleep deprived for about 10 years, and that (as any mother will tell you) has the most deleterious effect on your self-esteem.  I think all mothers naturally want to do the best for their children, so when they feel they have failed for whatever reason they often come down hard on themselves – I was in danger of following that pattern.  But I knew I wasn’t alone. My mum was there, like a sage, telling me not to worry, that I didn’t have to be the best mum in the world, I only had to be good enough, and leave the rest to sort itself out as it almost definitely would. And in testament to that fact, here I am, an active mother of two, (and I mean active in a searching way rather than a physical one), with a loving partner and one of the most supportive families I know.  To me, this is a firm reminder that life’s lessons come in the most mysterious guises.

Post script:  They do say, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  My mum no longer suffers from bi-polar disorder; she managed her illness drug free (except in emergency situations), and now works in the field of mental health doing fantastic work for the community.  I have no doubt that her spiritual practice, supportive marriage and family, and her own convictions about life have been the key to her success, (that and good psychotherapy and a daily swim!) No thanks though to ECT (electro convulsive therapy) which has caused her to suffer periodically from epileptic seizures, and could be a contributory factor to her wristwatch always speeding up!