Month: May 2021

Taking off the mask

This was possibly the hardest blog for me to write so far. Because this one is about me. I don’t know how much of this people will already know. I don’t know who will be surprised by it. But I’ve always pledged to be honest. And it was during Mental Health Awareness Week three years ago that life changed for me, so it feels right to tell this story now…

You’ll probably be surprised to learn that this is a blog about my mental health given the pictures from Disney World at the top of it. But there’s a reason for including those. Because it was during this holiday that everything came to a head. I vividly remember storming out of our hotel room on more than one occasion. I vividly remember slamming the door behind me and telling myself my marriage had three months before I gave up on it. Yes, that’s right. In the happiest place in the world, I was miserable. My family were miserable. There were arguments most days. Yes we glossed over them and were able to have a nice time, but they were still happening. And what was the cause of most of these arguments? That things were going wrong, it wasn’t the holiday it was meant to be due to the weather, over tiredness and a lot of external pressure. And when it wasn’t perfect, I couldn’t cope. Because I’d put so much pressure on myself to deliver this perfect holiday that I felt the need to exacerbate every little thing that went wrong. I made it worse. No, Mr C wasn’t an innocent party, but I made things worse. I mean, just look at the photos, you can tell that things were strained, can’t you?

The simple answer to that question is no. Because despite the fact I was spiralling into a darker and darker place mentally, I wouldn’t talk about it. I became so adept at putting on a mask and pretending I was fine. I put the holiday photos on Facebook. I made sure that we were all smiley and cheery. To the outside world, Family Charlesworth had just had the perfect dream holiday in Disney World over Christmas. No-one knew what was really going on behind closed doors. And for a long time, I viewed this holiday as the start of my falling apart, despite the fact I had not been right for months prior to it. Yet Mr C later told me he viewed it as the start of my recovery because it made me acknowledge something wasn’t right. It took me a very long time to be able to look back on that holiday and not view it badly. I can do that now. I can look back at the photos and smile. I can look back at the 100-page photobook Mr C painstakingly put together for us and talk to my daughter about the memories that make us happy and laugh. Because it was a good holiday. I was just so blinded and in such a dark place that at the time I couldn’t see it. I focused on the negatives. When people would ask me about it, I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for it. I would respond with “it was fine thanks”, “we had a nice time” or some other inane response but despite this, I still didn’t want to front up to how I was really feeling.

It’s why it took me a further six weeks after we returned before I made the decision to seek help. Not because I was afraid to, but because I had just accepted that feeling this way was normal. I just felt that talking to someone about what I was feeling (the constant exhaustion, the flying off the handle at any given moment, the inability to make a decision) was one more thing to add to the to do list. I didn’t have the energy. I’d have to deal with it then. Far easier to lead a miserable, exhausted life, than face what was going on. But after one argument too many, after getting just that one step closer to walking out, I gave in. I accepted I needed to talk to someone. I knew I didn’t want to end my marriage, it was just being a wife was just one more thing that I didn’t need to be doing. My marriage was always the first thing to suffer because everything else was prioritised on top of it. I just didn’t have the energy to put the effort in to that as well. I took it for granted that it would always be there.

And so, without telling Mr C I was going to do it, I picked up the phone and made a call to our Employee Helpline. I felt scared. Because I knew this was bad. I knew as they asked the questions and I answered truthfully that they weren’t going to put the phone down having told me to go away and that I was fine. I wasn’t. I knew that. But what I couldn’t get my head around was why, who needs counselling and help so that they can cope with everyday life? You see I’d had counselling three times previously but in my head, each time was for a valid reason. The first because I’d buried a lot since my childhood, my parents’ divorce and Mr C’s diagnosis and treatment for cancer. The second because I was going through a tough time at work and was struggling with a two-year-old, I never felt good enough. The third because I’d buried a lot of feelings after we experienced a missed miscarriage. Reasons. All valid. To ask for help because life simply felt too hard felt ludicrous to me.

But to talk to me at the start of 2018 when I was at my lowest, you would not have known just how bad it was and how much I really did need help. I didn’t want to tell people in case they perceived me as weak. Two people knew at work, and I was so lucky with the support they gave me, but I didn’t want them telling anyone else. I didn’t tell many family members. I told barely any friends. I look back now, and it makes me feel sad for Mr C. Because I don’t know if he ever spoke to anyone about what was happening. It must have been so hard for him to be living in that situation. It’s one of those things I always thought we’d get around to talking about, but we ran out of time. I hope he did talk to someone. I hope he felt supported. Because I can only begin to imagine how hard it was for him to watch his wife fall apart in front of his eyes for a number of months.

And then as I was coming to the end of my counselling, the Friday of Mental Health Awareness Week, 18 May 2018, my father in law said something to me which would change everything. He was paying me a compliment. He was giving me a little boost. But what he didn’t realise was that he was about to change the way I approached my life. In saying what he did, he unlocked something in me. It’s why I remember the date. What did he say? “You’ve got broad shoulders; you’ll just take it all on the chin. It’s what you always do.” He was right. To onlookers this is what I did because this was the facade I’d created. Emma Charlesworth could take on anything and it was all water off a duck’s back. She was strong. Yet as I left his house a little while later and sat outside my daughter’s school, I reflected on what he said. This really was the perception of me. And the only person who was going to change that and admit I couldn’t take it all on the chin was me. I’ll always be grateful to him for saying it, without it, I don’t know when, or if, I’d have started being more open. So, as I sat outside my daughter’s school, I wrote social media posts. I still wasn’t brave enough to tell people face to face, so social media felt like a way to dip my toe in the water. I shared that I’d been having counselling. I shared that I’d been living with depression and anxiety. I was staggered after these posts went live. No-one judged me. No-one called me weak. The support overwhelmed me. It really was ok that I was admitting that I wasn’t ok.

Over the following 18 months, I started sharing and to open up more. I became adamant that our daughter would not grow up thinking it was weak to ask for help. I would set a good example for her. I would make sure she always felt comfortable to talk about her feelings. But most of all, I didn’t want to wear a mask and put on a front anymore. I just wanted to be me. To be accepted for who I was, warts and all. In February 2020, just a month before he fell ill, Mr C recorded a video of me sharing my story for the internal news platform at work. He was so proud of me for doing it. Because for just over 20 years, this is what he’d wanted me to do. To just be me, to not pretend to be someone I wasn’t. To simply be Emma. Someone who struggles with life at times, someone who on occasion needs help to deal with life. Someone who isn’t perfect but is happy with herself regardless of this, because no-one is. But no matter what, she’s someone who refuses to give up.

He’d be proud that I can sit here now and reflect on all of this. He’d be proud that over the last few weeks I’m noticing things which could be little triggers indicating that I need to be a bit kinder to myself. I’ve started to wonder whether my inclination to open the laptop and work once my daughter has gone to bed really is because the work needs doing then or because it’s a distraction technique to stop me feeling lonely and being alone with my thoughts. When people ask me how I am, I’ve realised I tend to respond with what I’m doing to help my daughter and how she is. Again, I’m distracting because to think about how I am is just too hard. I don’t honestly know how I am. It’s raw. It has the potential to unlock something within me which I’m not ready to face yet. I can feel the emotion rising during conversations where I feel frustrated or disappointed, I’m not able to keep it under wraps. The Emma tone of old creeps in. Being hugged by a couple of people in the last few weeks (yes, I know rules have been broken here) made me feel fragile. I wasn’t ready for physical contact. The thought of the return to a post lockdown world makes me feel vulnerable. I’m still grieving, I’m still trying to process being widowed at 39, I’m still trying to adjust. I will be for a very long time. I want to hide away from people for a lot longer. And while I have had bereavement counselling to help me work through the immediate trauma of what we went through, I know at some point I’ll seek more. But I know that by recognising these triggers and understanding myself, it means I won’t hit rock bottom before I do this. I won’t ever allow myself to hit rock bottom again. Because the difference between now and 2018 is that I’m not scared to ask for help. I won’t be scared to tell people.

Why? Because of what I’ve learnt over the last four years, because I can now accept that asking for help doesn’t mean you’re weak. I ended a previous blog with a quote from Winnie the Pooh and this one is no different. Because one of the best quotes of all when it comes to mental health comes from Piglet. “It’s okay to feel not very okay at all. It can be quite normal, in fact.” Never a truer word spoken.

If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?

A year ago today Facebook was flooded with pictures and memories of Mr C. For a year ago today my husband’s funeral took place. I don’t know when statements like this will ever stop feeling as though they belong to someone else. I don’t know who else today is thinking back to 7 May 2020. I don’t know how I feel about today, I’d not thought about today when I thought about my firsts. How will I feel about this date in future years?

When I look back, my husband’s funeral was the first time I think I really realised he was dead. Not coming home. Ever. This might sound strange, but due to all the restrictions in place, since he’d walked to the ambulance, I hadn’t physically seen him. I hadn’t seen him in hospital other than via a screen, I hadn’t seen him in a chapel of rest, I hadn’t given clothes for him to be dressed in. As weird as it sounds, it sort of felt that he was just on holiday. So when the hearse pulled up outside our house, I was hit with the realisation that my husband was actually in the coffin. The flowers we’d chosen and the cards we’d written were on top of the coffin and really were accompanying him on his last journey. We hadn’t just done them because someone had asked us to. My legs buckled under me as the funeral director came to speak to me. I didn’t want to shut our front door and follow him, because then this really would be real.

This day was the culmination of the toughest six weeks of my life. Everything about the funeral and the weeks leading up to it were hard. All of the preparations for it were hard. If he’d had died even just a few months earlier, it would have been so different. People would have been allowed in my house. The crematorium would’ve been standing room only. There would have been a wake. There would have been hugging. My god, there would have been hugging. But COVID stole that from us. Just like it stole him and our future, COVID stole my opportunity to give him the send off he deserved and for us to have the physical support we needed. We were not allowed funeral cars, we were not allowed a wake, he was not allowed to be carried in (the coffin was wheeled in on a trolley) and most devastating of all, we were only allowed 10 people to be present.

I don’t think I was really prepared for how hard it would be when I was faced with making the decision of who would be present. Family members couldn’t be there, I knew one of my sister in laws wouldn’t be able to travel to be there in person. Families couldn’t be together, some members were in the crematorium while their husbands or wives and children waited in the car park. When my father in law changed his mind about attending the service shortly before the hearse arrived and asked me if he could come in, I didn’t know whether he’d be allowed. On autopilot, I said yes but I didn’t know. Never in a million years did I think at 39 years old, I’d have been planning my husband’s funeral and dealing with all these things. But I was. I was faced with so many decisions. None of which I wanted to make. None of which I should have been making.

“What music will you be playing?” was one of the first questions the funeral directors asked me. I’d be lying if I said for a fleeting moment I didn’t consider Too Many Broken Hearts or another Jason Donovan classic. Just for a laugh. But in all seriousness, I have never felt such a responsibility to get a decision right. Mr C loved his music. It was so much a part of who he was. Get this wrong and I’d be haunted for life. Of that I was sure. I couldn’t just choose any old song. I couldn’t choose a standard funeral song. Fortunately the exit music was one that Mr C had always told me he wanted because of how special it was to him. We even have the opening line as a piece of wall art to go up in our house. We’d just never got round to putting it up. And quite frankly, I’ll still put it up as it feels even more poignant now, “If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?” But when it came to the music we’d walk in to, I agonised over it. I listened to so many of his favourite artists. And then a song by Train hit me. “When I look to the sky” had such perfect lyrics. I didn’t realise at the time just how important they’d turn out to be over the following months too.

“Do you want a live stream?” Another decision. The answer to this was instantly “yes”. Too many people needed to be a part of it. I couldn’t not have one. Although the marketer in me wanted to ask if I’d get stats. How many people viewed it? Did they watch the whole service? Did everyone tune in on time? Could I get stats for the on demand version? I reached the conclusion that it was probably inappropriate to ask but it certainly crossed my mind to. It’s odd what goes through your mind during stressful times. But the live stream gave so many people the opportunity to be with us in spirit. Friends and family across the country tuned in. An old school friend of his now living in Australia watched it. The live stream allowed so many more people to be a part of this day. I hope this option continues for people post pandemic.

People asked me if the dress code was black. Another decision. And it was. It’s what he would have wanted. But do you know how hard it is to find a formal black dress for a 10 year old girl in May? Apparently 10 year olds should be all summery and wearing bright colours in May. Not needing an outfit for their daddy’s funeral. But the one decision when it came to dress code that was a no brainer was my footwear. I needed my heels. Except my black heels were in my locker in my office. “No-one will mind or care if you wear flat shoes, don’t worry” my sister said to me. She was met with a steely gaze and I quickly shut her down. Because I minded. I cared. It was important to me. Quite simply, I was not wearing flat shoes to my husband’s funeral. He’d have been disappointed in me if I had. It’s not who I am.

“What charity would you like donations to go to?” Again, another question and decision to make that I hadn’t really thought about. I knew small charities would be hit hard throughout the pandemic, so I chose The Oddballs Foundation. Having beaten Testicular Cancer, it was very important to Mr C to raise awareness of it. He loved the bright socks Oddballs sell. In fact, he even had some brand new ones sitting unopened in his drawer, so despite the black dress code, the men attending the service were each given a pair. Another little nod to him.

And then the day came. I remember asking my best friend during a phone call a few hours before the service if it was acceptable for me to have a glass of wine beforehand. “Go for it. No-one can come near you, they won’t smell your breath” was her response. We both laughed. A lighthearted moment on such a sombre day. I needed it. Because just a few hours later the hearse was arriving. My final chance to say goodbye to my husband was fast approaching.

The drive to the crematorium felt like the longest drive in the world. Family and friends lined our street. I was unprepared for how many people would be there. I’d diligently put notes in each of the houses on our street to let them know the timings and that people would be socially distancing to pay their respects. My next door but one neighbour, who I’d never spoken to, organised the traffic, neighbours sent cards and offered driveways. Everyone was just so kind. People stood along the route. And then we approached the crematorium. I cried then. Because his Sunday League Football Team had done him so proud. They were all in their training kits. Their uniform. “The lads want to produce a flag for him if you don’t mind?” was something I’d been asked and promptly forgotten about until that moment. It was quite something seeing it hanging opposite the crematorium. It took my breath away. I know there were other family, friends and colleagues stood there too. I have no real recollection of who though. In years to come, it’ll probably crop up in conversation that people were there. I’ll never be able to thank them and all those who were on our street enough. We felt so very loved. We felt the love for Mr C.

But the actual service was where the unenviable decisions I’d made would be seen. My final act as Stuart Charlesworth’s wife. Would I do him justice? I’d never felt pressure like it. I’d told people I’d send them a copy of the order of service in advance. And then I got twitchy. I didn’t want people knowing the music in advance. Under normal circumstances this wouldn’t happen, so why should it today? So, I scheduled an email send for shortly before the service started. The control freak in me was still there! But the service was everything I could have hoped for. My daughter and I read “He is Gone” by David Harkins. There were choral versions of hymns we’d had at our wedding. Our wonderful friend conducted the service for us and did so with such aplomb despite the painfully difficult circumstances. Two amazing friends stepped in at short notice to read the eulogy after circumstances meant our best man couldn’t attend to read it. But his words were perfect. Spot on. And then for the final decision I’d made about music choice. For Mr C’s voice to be heard as we said goodbye to him. How would people feel about it? No-one knew this was going to happen. No-one expected it. But it was just perfect and so fitting. He’d have liked the fact he sang at his own funeral. He’d have liked the fact that he (almost) got to have the last word.

Leaving the crematorium felt surreal. Again, there was no hugging. No real comforting of one another. We had to take the flowers home, they weren’t allowed to stay or be donated anywhere. I think back now and can’t remember if I cried during the service. I know my daughter didn’t, but did I? I think I probably did, but it’s another one of those memories that’s a blur. Because that’s the thing with funerals, they’re over with so quickly, you don’t get the chance to absorb what’s really happening. It’s why I’m so grateful I made the decision to have a DVD copy made of it, I’ve watched it back (needed to make sure I had the right funeral!) and it was comforting to do so. It means whenever I need to, I won’t need to remember what was said. I can watch and listen.

Because as time passes, memories of that day and the planning of it will fade. I know this. But what will always stay with me is the memory of how so many came together for Family Charlesworth that day. To pay their respects to him. To show their support for us. I won’t ever forget that kindness. That evening I received a text from a mutual friend “You and Rebekah are amazing. You two, with Charlie’s memory as your inspiration will be fine.” I doubt they remember sending it. But it’s one I remember. I didn’t see it until the the next morning but when I read it, it was just what I needed. It’s one that I find and re-read when I’m having tough days and doubting myself. It just gives me a boost. Because do you know what? They’re right. We will be fine. Yes. There are tough days. There are days when everything feels too hard. There are days when we hide away and cry. There are days when an unexpected Facebook post or memory sideswipes me. But despite this, I know eventually we’ll be fine. How do I know this? Because of Mr C. Because of the chorus of the song that played as we entered the crematorium a year ago today:

‘Cause when I look to the sky something tells me you’re here with me
And you make everything alright
And when I feel like I’m lost something tells me you’re here with me
And I can always find my way when you are here