No longer my baby

I’m not very well at the moment, and so I am trying hard to settle down to something that will make me feel better. Oddly, after avoiding this blog for the longest time since I started it, I find myself coming here to talk to you.

And to myself.

I’m confused. And scared. And panicking, to the extent that I have terrible stomach cramps and nausea. I’m not in a good state at all. Yesterday I hid away from the world like a terrified child took the day off, hoping that if I was gentle with myself, it would all be better today.

It isn’t. And when I think about it, that’s no surprise as this has been caused by some seriously big stuff happening over the last few days – psychologically big that is – and it’s going to take more than a single day off to recover from the day before when I was crying hysterically on my sofa.

There’s a bit of me thinking that I shouldn’t be writing about this here, as this place is about writing. But it’s the only place I have to write about this that feels right. And anyway, it’s going to hit writing at some point soon – it always does with me.

Do I talk about what the major trigger was last week? Do I want to unload the horror of recurring post-natal depression onto you? No. I think not… part of me wants to, but part of me isn’t ready to let that out yet. I’ve already smeared some of its residue here. That’s enough.

What confuses me is that I am anxious about everything except the one thing that I would normally get stressed about. (Transference perhaps? Maybe.) On Friday evening I spent several hours sending off queries to agents. During those few hours, and since then, I experienced something very odd.

The fear has gone.

In the past, whenever I sent off a query letter or sample, I wrapped it up in a thick wad of anxiety. It was sent off like an only child on their first holiday alone, covered in frightened, desperate kisses, watched long after the train pulled out of the station. Like that ubiquitous mother, I fretted over the query’s progress. Did it get there safely? How will it be received? What if it gets lost? What if everyone hates it? What if I am the only person in the world who loves it?

But now, there is… nothing. Only a slight sense of impatience, which is inevitable in this endeavour. I have finally got some emotional distance from it, and it’s a relief, as I think the submissions process is a lot easier to deal with in the absence of that love-fuelled anxiety. I see it for what it is now; a commercial venture. A business proposal. My love for it is no longer relevant to the next stage in its life.

It’s not my baby any more.

I think another reason the fear has gone is knowing that if this round of submissions is unsuccessful, I will self-publish. The inevitable stack of rejections will not be blows with a hammer that will smash this dream into a bloody pulp. The dream will survive. And when that happens, the love will have a useful channel again.

Until then, it waits quietly, like the stereotypical father in the Enid Blyton books who loves fiercely but doesn’t express it in any way other than efficient facilitation of his child’s dreams. Sometimes it’s expressed in pocket money. Sometimes in provision of holiday surprises. Sometimes in maintenance of authority. But never in useless emotionality.

I’ve often said that Twenty Years Later was my first baby, and many a writer has described writing a novel like giving birth. (Childbirth is easier, believe me, there’s just more gore.) I find that strange as I’m comfortable with talking about it in these maternal terms, but when it comes to my real life status of being a mother, I simply can’t talk about myself that way. I avoid other mothers. I avoid that life altogether; my husband is the full-time caregiver and I am the breadwinner. I ran away from that status.

Thousands of little deaths have happened to me since I became pregnant. My son is over two years old and this illness is still coming back as savagely as it did before. I’m so afraid I will never be able to reclaim what I used to be, who I used to be.

Maybe I should do what some other people do to mask pain and screen off ugly parts of their lives: have another baby. ‘Twenty Years Later’ was always supposed to be the first of three. It must be lonely. And whatever can’t be fulfilled in the first can be found in the second and third. Isn’t that how it works? I’ll be so busy attending to the second one that I won’t have time for despair, or depression or self-destruction. I’ll be needed again. Baby novels are so demanding.

But as for my son, my real baby, he will always be an only child. Just as I am. Just as his father is. All only children, with books to fill our childhood’s and books to fuel our dreams.

I want to say sorry to my son but he’s too young to understand. May his life be filled with friends and marvellous books, as mine has been. May he be happy to be an only child, just as his parents are. Otherwise, I fear I won’t be able to cope with his disappointment on top of my own. I could not love anyone more than I love him, but I can’t go through this again.

Motherhood is supposed to be the most natural thing in the world.

They lied.

Thank chutney I’m a writer.

Tagged as: anxiety, post-natal depression, query letter, twenty years later