Sucking in air, I braced myself. ‘One, two, three,' I counted in my head, just as the wave of pain tore into me. I closed my eyes, trying to embrace the spasms knifing through my insides. After all, with each contraction my baby was on its way. I was nine days overdue, and desperate for this labour to be over.
‘Not long now,' my husband Tony, 30, said, offering me ice cubes. I nodded, in too much agony to reply. But I was scared. Not just of the physical suffering, but of becoming a mother.
I'd been shocked when I'd discovered I was pregnant. It wasn't planned. I'd wanted to spend more time with Tony as a couple before the two of us suddenly became three, and I had a good job as a sales manager that I enjoyed. I was ambitious, and young - just 22 when I first found out I was having a baby.
Slowly though, I'd fallen in love with the life growing inside me. I'd cradled my bump, smiling as tiny feet kicked, or when the baby had hiccups. ‘Look!' I'd say to Tony in amazement, as our baby squirmed inside me.
But now I was exhausted, and being overwhelmed by pain. ‘Come on, push,' the midwife urged. My lungs were burning, every part of me hurt as I bore down again and again.
‘It's a girl!' the midwife said finally. Tony was crying, but our baby was quiet, her big eyes blinking up at me. I waited for that rush of maternal love everyone talks about. Nothing.
‘Is she OK?' I asked, my voice flat. The midwife nodded and handed her to me. She felt odd in my arms. Like she didn't belong to me. ‘You'll feel differently later,' I told myself.
We called our baby Betty, and that night she screamed every hour for milk. When she wasn't feeding, she needed changing. I resented having to do everything for her.
‘You hold her,' I ordered Tony. I was too tired. He sat beside us in hospital, changed her and cradled her while I dozed between breast-feeds.
The next morning my emotions exploded. I couldn't stop crying. ‘I don't want any visitors,' I sobbed. ‘I want to go home.' The midwife patted my arm. ‘All new mums cry,' she soothed.
But I didn't stop. ‘Put her in her cot,' I told Tony back at our house in Chichester, West Sussex, UK.
My parents came round. They cooed over Betty and asked how I was.
‘OK,' I shrugged, and asked them to leave after half an hour. I just wanted to sleep.
I stayed in bed the next day. I'd bathe, change and feed Betty, but I'd put her straight back in her cot. ‘I don't love her,' I realised. I wasn't even ashamed. It wasn't my fault.
‘She keeps me awake the whole night and I can't stop myself from crying,' I wept to the midwife the next day. ‘I'm not coping.' She just smiled. ‘It's early days,' she soothed. ‘A lot of new mums feel like this.'
I lay in bed, distraught. ‘I'm here,' Tony soothed, running around after Betty and me.
But he didn't understand. The next day I stood at my bedroom window, watching strangers walking past. Jealousy pricked. They were free. They weren't tied to a baby.
I glanced over at Betty, asleep in her cot. She was all pink and squishy. ‘Beautiful,' everyone said. But the truth was, I didn't want her.
So I called Tony and Mum upstairs. ‘I need you to take Betty away,' I said, matter-of-factly. ‘Mum you can adopt her. Then Tony and I can be happy again.'
They stared at me, shocked. ‘It's for the best,' I said, but they were getting upset, and shaking their heads. Why wouldn't anyone listen?
‘I just don't feel like me,' I tried to explain. I'd been sucked into a dark, angry place in my head and I couldn't escape. If Betty could go, I'd be free again.
My plan kept me awake more than Betty's cries. Even when she slept, I was tormented by my thoughts: ‘You'll feel better on your own.' It went round and round.
Anger and despair swooped through me. In the middle of the night, a new way to break free popped up in my brain. ‘Take Betty and throw yourselves down the stairs,' it said. ‘Then you'll both be gone.' I smiled in the dark. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Tony snored beside me, making me jump. The sensible me pushed the evil thought away. ‘I don't want to die,' I sobbed, shaking Tony awake.
I thought he'd hate me, or call the police when I told him.
Instead, he held me. ‘Don't leave me alone,' I begged. I didn't want to kill myself, or hurt our baby. I was just in such a state. But I knew the thoughts were powerful now, and could take over.
I see-sawed through each day after that. I was a wreck. One moment I'd be fine, the next, doom-laden thoughts would creep into my mind. ‘Don't be silly,' my sensible side scolded.
Panic set in. What was the matter with me? Was I mad? Or worse, was I bad? Did I need locking up?
‘I hate being a mum,' I thought. I just wanted to go back to my old life - to a time before I'd had Betty. I was scared of my thoughts. Deep down, I knew I needed help.
One day, Betty had an ear infection so I took her to the doctor.
‘Anything else?' the GP asked, writing out Betty's prescription.
I hesitated, fear making my mouth dry. ‘I've thought about throwing myself and the baby down the stairs,' I blurted out.
Betty was two-and-a-half weeks old and I didn't love her.
‘I want my Mum to adopt her,' I wept. ‘But she won't.'
For a second, I was scared he'd take my baby away. But he shook his head. ‘She's well looked after, I can see that,' he said. Instead he made a few phone calls.
A health visitor who specialised in postnatal illnesses was sent to see me. I was relieved. She put me on low-dose anti-depressants. ‘Let's see if they help,' she said.
So I stopped breast-feeding and started taking the pills each day. A couple of days later I woke up and felt different. I wasn't sad.
‘Let's go out,' I said, throwing off the covers. I went for a walk, pushing Betty in her buggy by the canals near our home. The gloom had gone. ‘These tablets are amazing,' I chirped.
For the first time I wanted to hold my baby. I was suddenly enthralled with her chubby good looks, the way she scrunched up her face. ‘Take a picture,' I begged Tony as I cuddled Betty.
The next day I was better, and the day after that I was buzzing with energy. ‘Come on Betty,' I said, cradling her as I danced around the living room. I was sure she smiled.
But then a week after starting the tablets, I peeled open my eyes in the morning and the blackness was back. I didn't want to get out of bed or even look at Betty.
Tony didn't notice. ‘I'm going out,' he announced. It was Sunday and he wanted to spend some time with his friends. I couldn't breathe suddenly, my chest was tight. I felt the room sway and wanted to be sick. ‘Don't leave,' I begged, terrified.
It was a panic attack. Tony put me in bed. He looked after Betty while I lay in the dark.
My depression was like a giant slab of concrete sat on my chest. My brain worked non-stop churning bad thoughts. I tried to ignore them, but I hated being left alone.
Luckily, my neighbour Helen popped in most mornings, and Mum came round every afternoon.
‘How are you feeling?' Helen asked one day. I bit back tears, as I spilled out some of the terrible things going round in my head.
Helen smiled. ‘I'll just be two minutes,' she soothed. When she came back, she told me Mum was on her way. She'd arranged for me to see a mental health team from Chichester's Chapel Street Surgery. ‘I had to, Sarah,' she said. ‘I had no other choice.'
I was petrified I was going to be committed. Right now I didn't mind dying, but I didn't want to be locked up. ‘Am I really going crazy?' I panicked.
Mum had Betty while Tony drove me to my appointment. Tony was crying. I sat numb, answering a nurse's questions. She put me into the care of The Crisis Team based in Graylingwell Hospital in Chichester. It was filled with schizophrenics and substance abusers. I didn't argue. ‘Will I ever feel normal again?' I asked the nurse. She nodded. ‘Course you will,' she said.
Luckily, I didn't have to stay in hospital. I could move in with Mum. My anti-depressants were upped to a stronger dose, but the bad thoughts were still there. ‘Run away,' they told me that night. ‘Leave Betty with your mother.'
The Crisis Team visited every day. ‘You need to distract yourself from the thoughts,' they said. ‘Or call us any time.' I nodded. ‘Have you ever seen anyone as mad as me?' I asked. One of them laughed. ‘You're not mad,' she said. ‘You've got extreme postnatal depression.'
Having a name for my illness gave me a shard of hope. I looked it up on the internet and saw that other women had beaten it. In that case, I thought, so could I...
I had to work hard to battle the depression though. It wouldn't just go away. Not even the medicine or counselling could cure it totally. It had to come from inside me.
So I learnt to relax, as stress made the bad thoughts stronger. I changed my diet, banning chocolate and caffeine, and began meditation.
I took mild sleeping tablets, and after a week, I woke up and didn't feel like dying.
‘You're looking better, love,' Mum said. I began keeping a diary - I'd put a tick if I had a good day and a cross if it was bad.
The ticks were few and far between at first. But gradually there were more. After a month I was allowed home.
‘I don't want to,' I said, panicking. I was scared of leaving Mum's. I felt safe there. But I had to.
I waited for the thoughts to come back, but nothing. Only silence. Each day it grew easier.
One day when Betty was eight months I heard her saying ‘Mumumumum,' I couldn't stop grinning. ‘Clever girl,' I said, scooping her up to cuddle her. But she wriggled away. That was the down side. She's wasn't a cuddly baby with me because she wasn't used to my hugs.
Slowly that's changed and now she's two and realises how much I love her.
I'm not ashamed of having postnatal depression. I'm one of thousands of women who suffer from it. I think mine was extreme because I hadn't planned to have a baby. Maybe I wasn't ready to be a mother.
It was awful and I'm lucky I had my mum and Tony. I'd always wanted three children, but now I'm not sure. For the moment I just want to make up for lost time with Betty and be the best mum ever to her.
Sarah Gainsborough, 25, of Chichester, West Sussex, England