Category: Mental Health

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.

When the flowers stop

In August last year, an incredibly lovely person told me her mum had said to her at the beginning of my journey that the hardest time may be some months later “when the flowers stopped coming.” It’s stuck with me ever since. Because it’s absolutely true.

To mark his anniversary, flowers came into our house again. The smell was beautiful, I was so grateful, and it got me thinking back to when Mr C died. We were inundated with flowers. At one point, I had 14 vases around my house. The smell was beautiful. I was so very, very grateful. Until they died. Because they made work for me by dying. I vividly remember standing on my driveway yelling at my mum and stepdad while trying to consolidate vases and get rid of the flowers that had now died on me too. A gust of wind knocked a vase over and it broke. I yelled some more. My husband had died and now I was having to deal with dead flowers and smashed glass, I had enough to do, I didn’t want to deal with this as well.

That moment was the first time I’d really thought about the expectations, actions and support those left behind need when someone very close to them dies. I’ve nearly always sent flowers when people have lost a loved one, you are limited with the support you can show, and flowers are a nice way to do this. But not anymore. When one of my closest friends lost her partner to COVID in January, I didn’t send her flowers. I thought about what had been most useful to me and used that for ideas. One of the most memorable gifts I had was from a friend who said “don’t judge me” when she gave it to me. It was a bottle of gin, a bottle of tonic, a box of tissues, ready meals, bubble bath and hair dye. She thought I’d be stressing about my hair with hairdressers shut. She was right. That morning I’d sent my mum out to buy me hair dye ahead of the funeral.

When he died, we were inundated with messages. I spent almost every evening responding to them. We were inundated with support. We were inundated with people telling us they’d be there for us. Some of them have, some of them haven’t. We were inundated with people telling us to do what we needed to do. There was no expectation put upon us. We were just allowed to be. But as with the flowers stopping, the messages dwindled. It was unsustainable for such frequent contact to continue. I know that, everyone has their own lives to lead, the world didn’t stop because my husband died. But it doesn’t mean I need them any less. It doesn’t mean I need the support any less. Equally the lack of expectation also seemed to stop. Because when it comes to grief, everyone has expectations. Whether they know it or not.

When I returned to work, there was an element of surprise. It was too soon. Shouldn’t I give myself more time? Wasn’t I putting too much pressure on myself? Was I being fair on my daughter? Turns out I wasn’t conforming to the expectation people had. I absolutely know that people said this with the very best of intent and it was lovely to have such care shown towards me, but it started to show what I’d now be navigating as I walked along this new path.

I’ve been exposed to the expectation to move on when you’re widowed young. It was during one of my few visits out that I first came across it. I bumped into someone who knows my mum and was asked, “are you over it yet?” It took me a good few minutes to work out what they were referring to. I wasn’t expecting to be asked if I was over it six months after losing my husband. We chatted for a bit longer and they ended the conversation with “I wouldn’t worry about what’s happened, you’re a good-looking woman, you’ll find someone else. Don’t worry.” I was flabbergasted. Their attempt at comforting me I’m sure. And yes, while I totally acknowledge that I have no idea what my future holds, I do know that it won’t be a case of moving forward and not remembering or worrying. Irrespective of my future, part of me will always, always be Mrs C. Charlesworth. Charlingtonsworth. Or any of the other names that I’ve become accustomed to being called since I got married.

The hardest expectation though is about how I should behave. I’ve been told so often how strong I am, that it’s like there’s an expectation on me to be on my best behaviour and not show when I’m under pressure. That it’s not strong if I do that. I refuse to do this. I won’t put on a mask and pretend I’m ok. I did that once and learnt the hard way that it doesn’t work. But I sometimes wonder if I’m expected to. A perfect example took place in the run up to Christmas. I was openly struggling, life was the hardest it had been for a few months and beyond stressful, we were finding the third lockdown hard and I was dreading Christmas. This culminated in a conversation where I was short with someone. I used a tone. I was blunt. I admit it. I used a tone and was brutally honest in the conversation. I know it. But this resulted in me being told they were “not accustomed to being spoken to in the manner that I adopted.” It was used as a contributing reason for them distancing themselves not just from me, but from my daughter. And this stopped me in my tracks. To be told that hurt. It was a one off during a particularly stressful time. It was the first time over the nine months since losing Mr C that they’d seen me like this. Where was the support? Where was the understanding? Why wasn’t I allowed to have an off day? Why was this held against me? Against my daughter. As time has gone by and I’ve thought about it more, I think it’s because of the expectations and perceptions surrounding grief. When you’re perceived as strong and as time passes, you’re no longer meant to have off days. You’re not meant to need the support in the way you did at the start. The taboo of talking about grief means people don’t understand that off days and the need to be supported will be a way of life for me for an exceptionally long time.

But I’ve equally found myself having expectations. For people to treat us in the way that I’d treat them. I expect them to behave as I would. As Mr C would. He would, and I do, expect more from people for our daughter. Irrespective of what was usual before he died, I firmly believe, and expect, people should show up for her more because life is different now. It’s a new playing field. She was just 10 when her daddy died and the rules have changed. Maybe I’m wrong to feel like this. Maybe I’m wrong to expect things to change. Maybe it’s me that actually has unfair expectations. But when your life has been overwhelmingly changed beyond all recognition, your outlook and expectations change too. It’s inevitable. It’s why Mr C changed after his cancer battle. It’s why I know that if the roles were reversed, he’d feel and be having the same expectations that I do.

I know I’ve changed since he fell ill. I know there are people I’m far closer to now than I was then. There are people in my life now who are only in it because of what’s happened. There are people I’m not as close with. Partly I’m to blame. I know I don’t make as much effort with people as I used to. I don’t organise in the way I used to. I have far less tolerance for seeing other people’s mundane or first world problems. But I’m just so tired. I’m juggling being a solo parent while working full-time and running a household and all that that entails. Oh, and just the small matter of grieving for my partner of 21 years. The father of my child. Sometimes messaging or ringing people is just one more thing that I don’t need to be doing. Or I simply forget to. I suspect there are some who are uncomfortable with my honesty and talking about what’s happened. I suspect there are some who find it difficult to know what to say to me. I suspect for some it is easier to walk away because it’s too hard to walk this path with me. Because I’m a different person now. And there are some living with their own challenges who just don’t need mine on top of them.

But I’ll always be so grateful to those who have been there for me since the flowers stopped. They are the ones without expectation. They are the ones who have become my scaffolding, holding me up on this rollercoaster. They are the people who will help me get through whatever the future brings. I can honestly say I don’t know what it looks like. These people and the expectations on me could all change. As with 2020, I know the flowers will stop again. But the hard times won’t. The challenges won’t. But it’s knowing that there will always, always be people giving me the support I need during the hardest of times which is so invaluable.