I’ve always known my mum was different. While other people’s parents were strict and smothering, Mum was fun, cool.
She let us wear the most ridiculous clothes to school, gave me the green light to get a crew cut – the best thing that had happened in my young life – and would make impulsive choices, like deciding a sunny Tuesday was better spent at a theme park than in a classroom.
My childhood was happy, for the most part. Idyllic even.
I had no idea that Mum was ill. When she’d make huge life decisions, like moving across the country, seemingly on a whim, it was still fun, cool.
When, on impulse, she flew to India with a friend? Fun, cool.
It was only shortly afterwards, when she was admitted to hospital following a breakdown, that being different stopped being fun or cool.
While she had obviously been unwell for a long time – probably since she was a teenager, we found out years later – she’d done a great job of masking it. Even those closest to her had little or no idea.
That particular hospital admission was the start of a long, painful road – one that we’re still travelling down now – and it’s only today, some 20 years later, that I’m learning exactly what was going on for her then.
If my childhood was perfect, the years that followed were nothing short of chaotic. Mum and Dad separated. My older brother left home. Mum, who’d fallen pregnant with a new partner, suffered a miscarriage. There were several suicide attempts.
Extremely vulnerable, she lurched from one toxic relationship after another. She threw me out when I was 14 during one manic episode. An hour later, tearful and apologetic, she begged me to come home.
We moved house countless times. Unable to look after herself, never mind us, things like managing money and paying bills were impossible. We were made homeless.
I missed almost a year of school looking after her and my younger brother. I was scared to leave Mum on her own. Fearful, sometimes, to go to sleep.
It wasn’t all bad – there was love and laughter, even in the darkest of times. But everything felt precarious. I’d tiptoe around Mum, never quite knowing what mood she was going to be in.
I was worried about her, of course, but I was angry too. Angry at her, the world and that there didn’t seem to be anyone I could turn to.
Here we were, drowning, while everyone sailed on by. Why couldn’t they see us? Why wouldn’t they help?
It’s hard for me to recount everything; much of it I’ve never talked about before, or blocked out as it’s too painful to recall. But this Mental Health Awareness Week, I think it’s important to face the messy realities of mental illness and the impact that it can have on families.
To move beyond the hollow narrative to ‘be aware’ or ‘beat the stigma’ and provide actual resources to deliver tangible help and support for people in the same situation.
Because, in all those years, really not that much has changed. Families like mine are still struggling. Mental health services are still stretched. And people like Mum are still not getting the help they so desperately need.
It was only five or six years ago, in her 50s, that my mum was finally given a diagnosis. She is bipolar and has borderline personality disorder. Suddenly, the impulsive, reckless behaviour made sense, as did our lives. But we didn’t get there without a fight.
After another suicide attempt and fraught night spent in A&E, we were sent home because there were no beds available.
When I asked the exhausted-looking doctor what I was supposed to do if she tried to kill herself again, he shrugged apologetically and told me to phone 999.
I felt like that 14-year-old again, alone and drowning. Thankfully, a bed did become available eventually, and she was admitted to a hospital in south London where she was, for the first time ever, put on medication, giving her some control over her illness and allowing her to build a life for herself.
I’d love to say that the story ends there, but as anyone who loves someone with a long term mental health condition knows, it’s not as simple as that.
The reality of mental illness is that sometimes, there is no neat, happy ending. These past few months have been particularly difficult for Mum, and every day I’m worried another breakdown is coming.
If the last 20 years have taught me anything, though, it’s learning to accept the ups, the downs, and everything that goes along with them. Learning to accept Mum for who she is.
Her illness is a part of her, yes, but it’s not the only part of her. She’s also funny, clever, supportive, kind and so much more.
So whatever the future holds, we’ll face it, and we’ll face it together. Even if right now, we have to be apart.
MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS WEEK
During Mental Awareness Health Week (18-24 May 2020), we are sharing personal experience stories from people living with mental health conditions on how to cope during difficult times.
For more information about this year’s theme – kindness – visit the Mental Health Foundation. If you are struggling and need help, you can call the Samaritans 24-hour helpline on 116 123, email jo@samaritans.org or go to the Samaritans website.
Do you have a story that you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/05/21/parent-mental-health-12733895/
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