The Night of the Bra Top

 

MEMOIR BLAST — The Night of the Bra Top

(25 years or so ago) - of course added drama but it was true and came at a cost to me.

Molly was only a month old — maybe six weeks — when Rich signed himself up to go to a recording studio in London. In my head, in that old ND magical‑thinking way, I believed he was on the brink of becoming a rockstar. I believed that if someone was talented, and passionate, and said they were going to do something big, then of course it would happen. That’s how my brain worked back then: if the story felt true, it was true.

And because of that, whenever he said, “Is it okay if I go?” I thought I had said yes. Or maybe I didn’t say yes. Maybe he didn’t ask. Maybe he just booked it and went.

ND magical thinking is like that — you fill in the gaps with the version that makes emotional sense, not the version that actually happened. You assume you agreed because you wanted the dream to come true. You assume you were asked because that’s what should have happened. But the truth is simpler and harder: he went because he wanted to, and whether I said yes or no wouldn’t have changed a thing.

At the time, I was exhausted in a way that only young mothers understand. I had a five‑year‑old, Courtney, and a newborn baby. I breastfed Molly — something I hadn’t done with Courtney because after his birth I was so sick no one even asked me if I wanted to. I’ve written about that labour before: the seven days in hospital, the epidural drip left in overnight, the swelling when I finally stood up, the sense that I’d lost too much blood. I was eighteen, frightened, and no one explained anything. I didn’t leave the house with Courtney for three months. That’s how unwell I was.

But this memory isn’t about that. This is the memory of the night Rich went to record Scarba — the best thing he ever did, and something I’m still glad he did — but it came at a cost to me.

He was gone all night. I was alone with Molly. We had no money. I didn’t even own a maternity bra.

I slept sitting upright on the sofa, wearing a simple bra‑top — the only thing I had, one that went over your head. And during the night, while Molly slept against me, my breasts became engorged. I didn’t know what engorgement was. No one had ever told me. I didn’t know that a tight top could trap the swelling and turn it into agony.

I woke up in pain so sharp it felt like electricity. My breasts were solid, burning, veins raised like ropes under the skin. I didn’t understand what was happening. I only knew I couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t move properly, couldn’t think properly.

I went to the kitchen in the dark, trying not to cry because crying hurt too. And I had to cut myself out of the bra top. With scissors. At midnight. Alone.

That moment — the cutting, the pain, the fear (panic) — is the part that stayed with me, I couldn't cut it as I had to life my arms it stayed with me. Not just because it was dramatic, but because it was symbolic: I was trapped, and I had to free myself. No one else was going to do it. (Only you can save you)

Eventually I got a let‑down, and the pressure eased. But a few days later I developed mastitis in one breast. Breastfeeding ended at six weeks. I was too exhausted, too unsupported, too overwhelmed. My milk dried up.

Meanwhile, Courtney’s school was far away, and I didn’t drive yet — I didn’t learn until I was twenty‑five/six. I was trying to mother two children, recover from trauma, and keep a household running without a car, without sleep, whist part time Maternity leave - without help, moved away to be with Rich without family and friends. (Love and idolization)

For our future - magical thinking self sacrifice........

And through all of it, I kept telling myself it would be worth it because Rich might become a rockstar. That’s ND magical thinking again — the belief that if you sacrifice enough, the story will resolve beautifully. That the dream will justify the cost. That love plus talent equals destiny.

But the truth is simpler: He went because he wanted to. I coped because I had to. And the person who needed care was me — but I didn’t get it, truth be told.

I remember looking down at my swollen breasts and joking that I looked like Jordan. I made it funny because I didn’t know how to make it real. Humor was my Armour. Minimizing was my language. That’s how I survived things I didn’t have words for.

But I’m not doing that anymore. Twenty‑five years later, I can finally say it plainly:

It hurt. It shaped me in some way. It taught me that saying “yes” doesn’t matter if the other person isn’t choosing to care. It taught me that magical thinking can protect you, but it can also hurt you. And it taught me that the truth — spoken without apology — is the only thing that sets you free.

Footnote - these are all my version of events but there is always two sides the the story.