Meeting My Ghosts

A bit of my story

In recent weeks, I’ve noticed a pull to write about my past, to share more of my story in the hope that it will be comforting and helpful for somebody. And yet, I’m aware that something keeps putting the brakes on, nudging me to “proceed with caution”. I don’t think that’s anything to do with how I feel about my own stuff, but rather a reminder that there are parts of the story that aren’t mine to share, and perhaps a warning that once it’s out there, it can’t be undone.

That’s been a recurring theme throughout my life: denying and neglecting my own needs and voice in order to protect others, and mitigate any potential “negative” impact on them. This is the most powerful of my ghosts, the one that has influenced the choices I’ve made, the paths I’ve walked, and the risks I’ve taken (or didn’t take!).

And so, as a challenge to that particular ghost, I’m going to dip my toe into the waters of the past, and share a bit of my story. It feels apt to be doing so on Halloween, so welcome along!

Back in October 2005, I’d just started secondary school, and was adjusting to being around almost 2,000 teenagers every day on a site that felt like a maze. I’ve always been naturally academic, and I was glad that I would be learning new things, and getting a feel for subjects I hadn’t come across before. The structure and routine of the school day felt like safety for me, as life outside it was in complete chaos.

My parents had separated the year before, and their divorce was in the process of being finalised. I’d moved into a flat above a newsagent with my mum and brother, and as much as my mum did her best to make it homely, I never settled there. The neighbouring house had 4 dogs, and they would bark relentlessly to be let out every single morning at 3.30am. The owner of the newsagent lived across the street, and would come across at random times during the night to get snacks, which meant the sound of the alarm being disarmed and then reset would disrupt my sleep.

Amongst the environmental chaos, I could tell that my mum’s mental health was about to spiral. She has bipolar, and was originally sectioned when I was 6, and again when I was 9. I spent a lot of my early childhood visiting her in psychiatric hospitals, and knew that this was going to happen again, just as I was adjusting to a new school.

As expected, in mid-October 2005, she was sectioned, and I moved in with my dad. She was in hospital for most of my first year of secondary school, so I spent most evenings after school going to visit her there. I was absolutely exhausted, and as much as I was able to make friends (some of whom are still in my life today, which I’m so grateful for), I wasn’t able to be a “normal” adolescent. Looking back, I have no idea how I managed to keep going, but somehow I did.

When she was discharged, I went back to live with her, and stepped back into the carer role I’d adopted for so long. It’s difficult to explain what it’s like to care for someone whose mental health is so unpredictable, but suffice to say that I was on edge all of the time. Any sirens would put me on alert, and I’d wonder if they would be responding to something that had happened to her.

My mental health nosedived and I was depressed and dissociated throughout Year 8 (my second year at secondary school). I felt like I was existing rather than living, and I felt numb to the world around me, and everyone in it. I recently came across a photo that must have been taken for the annual school photo day in that year, and my eyes are empty. There’s no spark, no life, absolutely nothing there, and it broke my heart.

As I moved into Year 9, my mum became very unwell again, and had to be sectioned. My relationship with my dad had broken down significantly at this point, and I moved in with my friend and her family. They were phenomenal, and took me to visit my mum regularly, alongside giving me a space where I didn’t have to be the carer all the time. I don’t think I will ever be able to repay their kindness, but I intend to keep paying-it-forward in some way.

While I was living with my friend, my gran died suddenly and unexpectedly. We’d had a difficult relationship over the years, but she had been a big part of my life, and her death was bewildering. I had assumed that she would live much longer, so it didn’t make sense to me that one day she was there, and the next she was gone. My mum was on a temporary release from hospital and staying at my friend’s house as well when my dad and grandad came over to tell me my gran had died, so it was all a bit surreal.

I seem to remember that after they left, I took my friend’s dog out for a walk, and I think my friend came with me, along with another schoolfriend, but it’s hazy.

After my gran’s death, I decided to see if I could go back into therapy (I’d seen a therapist for about 2 years when I was in primary school), and I remember going to meet a new therapist, walking into the room, sitting down, and then getting up and walking straight back out. For whatever reason, I knew that wasn’t the right time or place to open the box.

It would be another 9 years before I’d dabble in therapy again, and the bin fire continued to burn in that time. After almost a year of living with my friend, I reached a fragile truce with my dad, and eventually moved back in with him. My mum would spend 18 months under section in hospital, with occasional temporary stays away, and then another 3 years in a rehabilitation facility in the community.

When I was 18, I became one of her attorneys for Health & Welfare, as well as Finance & Property. Alongside trying to sell her home so that she could buy a flat and move back into the community, I was studying for my A Levels, applying for university, working 2 jobs, and trying not to lose my shit completely.

Unsurprisingly, I did hit the wall, and I remember getting into Sixth Form, going to my tutor base, putting my bag down, and then walking straight back out. I went to see the Learning Support team, and told them that I just couldn’t do it anymore. I was completely burnt out, and had nothing left to give. It was the first - but certainly not the last - time I’d mentally crash in my life.

Somehow, I managed to scrape myself off the floor enough to take my A Level exams, finalise my mum’s move and care package in the community, and continue working. In the summer, I found out that I’d passed my A Levels (not with the grades I’d been predicted, but fucking hell, I didn’t care!), and a few days after getting my results, my grandad died.

After weathering a relentless storm, and not getting the grades I needed for my original university choices, I decided to step out of education for a bit, and see if I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I applied for university in Denmark (as you do!), and was offered a place, but wouldn’t have been able to afford the living costs. Although the tuition was funded, I wasn’t eligible for any financial support with the rest, so decided to turn down the place I’d been offered.

Alongside applying for UK universities, I’d signed up to do a correspondence course in proofreading and copyediting. I had a vague idea of setting myself as a freelancer in the sector, but realised that I wanted and needed to move away and see if I could start to build a life of my own, one that I could actually live in. The proofreading and copyediting course was shelved, and instead, I accepted a place at Hull to study English & Philosophy, and the rest is history!

My time at university was brilliant; I made friends, enjoyed my course (mostly), liked the city, and felt like I could be myself as me, rather than having my identity wrapped up in my caring role. I was still an attorney for my mum, and there were challenging times to navigate with that, especially when I was in my second year.

Somehow, I managed to focus enough to graduate, and once I’d done so, I decided to look for a job in Hull so that I could stay. I’d been volunteering alongside my degree, working with offenders in the community, and ended up getting a job in the company’s housing department. There was a lot of stress and pressure in that role, and things came to a head when my mum’s mental health spiralled again, and I ended up having to authorise her being sectioned.

That shift in the dynamic of effectively becoming one of her “jailers” shattered the fragments of self I’d just about managed to put together, and I ended up getting signed off work with “stress and anxiety”. It won’t surprise you to know that it was a wee bit more than that!

While I was signed off, I decided it was time to look into going back into therapy again. I found a therapist who seemed down-to-earth and straightforward, and we started working together in January 2017. She was the therapist who planted the seed that I should consider training to become a therapist myself, and it was with her encouragement that I went on to apply to do the training, and actually start doing it.

This feels like a natural point to put a pin in the story for the moment! If you’ve made it this far, thank you for sticking with me, and for honouring my story. I hope that if any of what I’ve shared here resonates for you, that you can take it as evidence that things can get better, and that you can choose to close the chapters that haunt you to enable you to write new ones.

I’ll share more about my path to becoming a therapist in a future post, so do keep an eye out for that if you’re interested.

As always, thank you for reading.

Emma x