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The following is a scene from my memoir in progress. Some context for you: I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder but had yet to accept that. As a result, I wasn’t in treatment; I wasn’t taking any medication and I didn’t have many self-management tools. This is one of my experiences of psychosis.
I couldn’t sleep. That’s never a good sign. It’s the canary in the coal mine for someone like me.
Something was happening to me. In my belly. Something foreign.
I needed to get it out or find out what it was, at least. I crawled over my boyfriend, David, holding my breath hoping he wouldn’t stir. His ragged snores continued.
There was a slithering rope of tingling and weaving up and around my gut. Little blossoms of energy. Kicks of energy. Kicks. Kicks. Yeah, kicks. Like little legs. I rushed my way along the walls to the other room.
David’s kitchen was dark except for the thin fingers of streetlights creeping through the blinds. The light twisted and had a life of its own. Beautiful and strange. My hands gripped the counter. ‘What the hell is happening?’
I put my hand to my belly and in a flash, like a pair of oncoming headlights, I knew. ‘There’s a BABY in my stomach.’
I closed my eyes, tried to take a breath. My heart thudded in my ears. Calm down! A small slither moved and swam around my bladder, my organs, a fingertip below my belly button.
I quietly pulled drawers open. The cabinetry had tacky filigree 80s hardware. I kept tugging drawers open until I found what I was looking for. What I needed to stop this.
I grabbed one of his many carving knives, a less-than-stellar one. Tinny, dull, and laughably large. I walked over to the oak veneer table. I hated oak veneer. I laid the knife down softly, as a child would with a flower, dropping it into the lap of their mother. I wiped away a rogue tear dripping down my cheek. Images of a tiny infant floating in my gut came in and out of focus in my mind.
‘This isn’t right.’ I shook my head and shivered, as if trying to set free the earrings I was wearing. ‘Something’s wrong. What’s…’ I stared at the table. Looked at my belly. Picked up the knife. Stared at my belly. Looked at the knife. Glanced at my wrist. Belly, knife, wrist. Belly, knife, wrist. Belly. Knife. Wrist. ‘This baby…why is it? It doesn’t belong here. God, I’m horrible.’
Full stop. Quiet brain. Then a relentless ticker tape of self-loathing gushed forth, beating a suicidal impulse into my circuits. I stood there quietly, ever so silently. A hurricane of blood rushed through my ears and electricity wired my face. ‘Stop. Please stop!’ I yelled in my head. This was no experience of bliss and God, like in previous times. This was a wholly, unholy different animal of an experience.
I stood there staring at the knife, my belly, my wrist. Over and over again, for what like 20 minutes. Tried to breathe life into my other hand, willing it to move closer to my wrist or my stomach.
This baby. It felt real. In my gut. I knew it was there. I knew it shouldn’t be there. It wasn’t a ‘bad’ baby. Not like some boy from the ancient movie ‘The Omen’. I wasn’t about to cut out this baby because it was bad, because it was the devil. It was simpler than that. I had to cut out this baby or cut my wrist because this baby wasn’t supposed to be in my body.
I know. I know. This makes no sense. But this is the ‘logic’ of psychosis. If you can call it ‘logic’ at all. It’s blunt reasoning. This baby didn’t belong just because.
I inhaled. One final round: knife, belly, wrist and… I put down the knife, turned and picked up the phone. Something inside, besides my ‘shouldn’t-be-there’ baby, slapped me awake just long enough to realize things had gone sideways.
I knew her number off by heart. My therapist’s. She had told me to call any time I needed to. Well, this was any time and I needed to. She knew I was depressed, but probably didn’t know how depressed and certainly hadn’t seen me psychotic.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep, beep, beep. BEEP! went the buttons on the phone. It was near midnight. Ring. Ring. Forever ringing.
“Hello?” Her voice was a warm blanket.
“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.”
To be continued...
© Victoria Maxwell
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.
