I’d gone into this pregnancy with a strong and positive mindset. Because of the horrible post-natal depression I’d suffered after giving birth to Jai, I needed to ensure I didn’t derail again. I was determined to stay healthy: emotionally, mentally and physically. I did everything I could. I ate healthily, stayed active, went swimming, even continued working at the elderly care home for most of it, and sought professional help.
While I was pregnant again, I told my family that I was worried about post-natal depression again and that I had an appointment with a counsellor. I spoke frankly with the counsellor about what had happened to me the last time after giving birth. She told me to come and see her immediately if I felt any of the symptoms again.
I never mentioned my childhood trauma. Perhaps if I’d done so, she would have recommended that I begin therapy then. When you’re so young (I was 21 at this time), you don’t know if you’re broken, you don’t know any different. I was convinced it was just the baby blues and everything else was fine. I felt I was as prepared as possible and hopeful that it wouldn’t happen again.
But sure enough, not long after giving birth, that dark tower was stealthily brewing over my head. The storm clouds gained tonnage and sucked me in.
Bypassing asking me about my childhood or assessing me for past trauma a second time, or even talking to me about ways to balance my hormones better, the mental health worker referred me straight to a psychiatrist who put me on the antidepressant. Other than my husband, parents and in-laws, nobody else knew I was on it.
I’d stopped breastfeeding, and I’d been on the drug for a couple of weeks when one evening, I was at a local pub with my husband and our friends.
I’d had a glass of white wine and was on to my second, which was way less than the usual bottle that I could easily manage. My psychiatrist hadn’t mentioned anything to me about not drinking alcohol on Prozac. As far as I knew, I was to live life as normal.
That particular evening, early on in the night, I felt tipsier than I usually would after two glasses. I excused myself and walked, a little unsteady on my feet, toward the washroom at the back of the pub.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a wheelchair in Accident and Emergency at the hospital. I was curled up like a small child and in a confused state. My head was spinning, and I couldn’t lift it. I thought I might vomit. Apparently, I’d already done so, on the floor of the pub, right before I’d fainted and hit the floor.
From the small space I occupied in the wheelchair and my brain, I could hear voices talking in muffled tones around me: Maanav’s, some medical staff, our friends’. A doctor was explaining to my husband that the alcohol had interacted with the Prozac, and it wasn’t advisable to mix the two. This was how our friends found out I was on antidepressants.
I was mortified. My shameful secret was out.
My thoughts went to my children. I felt that I, as their mother, being in this state, had let my Jai and Veer down. I just wanted to be at home and cuddle them. My face wet with tears, “My babies, my babies,” was all I could cry out. My listless head was supported by the arm of the wheelchair, and my sobbing face was shielded from view by my hands.
Just days before this, I was having a ball at a photo shoot for a major UK brand. And, I was even happier that day because this time, the shoot wasn’t for me. My modelling agency loved baby Veer’s photos so much that at a couple of months old, he landed his first modelling job.
One minute, it felt as if everything was perfect, and the next, I was in a hospital wheelchair, crying my eyes out in shame and confusion. With Unbalanced hormones, suffice it to say, alcohol and antidepressants are not the way to go.
I don’t remember much of the months before or after that evening. I remember more of Jai’s first months vividly. But after I had Veer, it feels like most of that time never registered in my mind. I wasn’t present, like I had somehow switched off, checked out. Whether it was the hormones, the depression or the Prozac, or all of it, I don’t know.
There are some memories, though, that I cannot erase. One in particular. One that I’m not looking forward to admitting or writing about. Because it’s an awful, fetid trench.