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The following is part two of a scene from my memoir-in-progress of one of my experiences with psychosis. You can read the earlier post here. Please be advised that this content may be triggering for individuals who have experienced psychosis or mental health challenges.
A little background: I hadn’t yet accepted my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I was seeing a therapist but not taking medication and didn’t have many self-management tools. I’m in my boyfriend’s kitchen, and there’s a knife on the table.
“Hello?” My therapist’s voice felt like a warm blanket. I’d been seeing her for two years for disordered eating. But I wasn’t in her office for a weekday appointment. I was talking to her in a rush of words at 2 am.
“Pat? Ummm…something’s wrong.”
“Victoria? What? Hang on.” I heard rustling as she moved into a different room. “What’s…what’s wrong?”
“This baby…I have a baby in my stomach. I need to get it out. This baby, how did it get here? It’s not mine.” There’s a pause (not surprisingly). She specialized in eating disorders, not psychosis. She was still game to help, but she knew her limitations.
“Okay. Tell me what’s happening?” Her voice was a bit shaky. I guess those "there’s-a-baby-in-my-stomach" comments were red flags. I was not pregnant. Never have been. I was, however, psychotic.
I've never liked the word "psychotic." There are so many misunderstandings about it. People picture someone who's violent and scary. But I wasn’t violent. I was vulnerable.
“I’m at David’s. It woke me up. It’s slithering and bumping and...” Big, frustrated exhale. “I was going to cut it out, but then…none of this makes sense. What if…” I paced around the table, the knife my focal point.
“It makes some sense to me. It’s ok. First, just take a deep breath. It’ll help you think.”
My chest rose slowly. My belly pushed out with the inhale. “This isn’t helping.” Instead of relaxing, it freaked me out because the deep breathing made me more aware of my belly and the baby inside.
“Victoria – I think you need to go the hospital. They’ll be able to help with this. Okay? Can you wake David up for me?”
David and I had only been dating for four weeks. The fact that he would be cool with this and calm enough to help me is something that, in hindsight, I realized was a miracle. He wasn’t in the mental health field. He was a motorcycle mechanic. Riding motorbikes must have given him some sort of transferable skill to face other risky activities – like taking his girlfriend, who’s in psychosis, to the emergency ward. This won’t be the only time that he takes me there, either. Yup, that’s right, he continued dating me even after this "there’s-a-baby-in-my-belly" delusion.
“They can help me? They’ll know what to do there, at the hospital?” I squeezed the phone tight, and bit my fingernail.
“Yes. They will. But David needs to help you. I’ll stay on the phone while you get him.”
Clutching the phone, I tiptoed back into the bedroom. I crawled up and kneeled on the bed. He was tucked flat against the wall now. I leaned in, hovering above him, and furtively glanced down.
“David,” I quickly murmured and jerked back as if he’d pop up and accidentally headbutt me. Again: “David,” barely audible but with better enunciation. I’d been able to call my therapist and ask for help, but waking up my newly minted boyfriend for help with this "baby thing" felt like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
I tucked my chin in, pushed out my chest, and braced myself, “David!”
“Hmm…? Victoria?”
“Umm…I need you to take me to the hospital.”
“What? How come…what’s wrong?” He rolled over, and his belly wobbled. His hairy chest reminded me of the carpet for lawn bowling for some reason.
“Pat wants you to take me to the hospital. I have to get this baby out. The one in my belly.” What’s he thinking? Oh, God. Help me. Please, God. What do I do? My thoughts overrode Pat, who was still on the line, trying to get my attention.
“Huh? Wait, what?” He squinted and registered I was holding the phone. “Pat's on the phone? Here, lemme talk to her for a bit.” He moved off the bed gently like you might if you came upon a frightened fawn caught in netting. The gooseneck lamp he switched on, shed a circle of light onto the ivory bedsheets.
I stood frozen. His hand slowly enveloped mine, and he took the phone. His silky skin always jarred me. How did a mechanic have such soft skin? A mechanic had no business having that kind of skin. Women kill for that sort of velvetiness.
“Hi. Pat? Umm…Is she…yeah, ok, that’s what I thought. No, I can do that.” He looked my way and gave me a shy smile. “Here she is….”
“Pat, what did you say to him? What’s going to happen?”
Then right there, I felt the baby move, slither, really. I looked up at David, and he nodded. “Ok. Yeah, he’s going to take me.”
I realized even while a baby was trying to crawl out of my navel, two people (one of who I’d only recently met) had my back. I had no idea what the hospital could do, but I put on my Nikes, and with eyes cast down, I shuffled to David’s side and grabbed his hand to walk down the two flights of stairs to find his car.
To be continued...
If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.
