Tag: Mental Health Awareness

I am the one thing in life I can control

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth taken during a photoshoot

So. The control freak is writing about control again. But this time it’s with a different perspective. Because she’s starting to realise that she can’t control and plan for everything. That she needs to just live life in the moment and stop the planning for all eventualities. Although, please don’t worry dear reader, I was still sat down writing a holiday itinerary the other evening!

I also want to mention that for the last two years we’ve seen Hamilton shortly before the anniversary of my late husband’s death and the blogs I’ve written for those anniversaries have been inspired by songs from it. But we were fortunate to win TodayTix lottery tickets so saw it in December last year too. The song “Wait for it” is the inspiration for this blog and title. It’s been going round in my head since we saw it then. Because it’s true. I am the one thing in life I can control. And on days like today I think about this even more.

You see, today is a particularly poignant day for me. It marks two years since I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown if I didn’t stop. It marks one year since I took my daughter to the doctor because of her anxiety. February is also full of reminders and flashbacks to this time four years ago. What was to become our final full normal month as a family of three. I don’t believe things like this will ever leave me.

I last wrote about being in control in April 2022. Two months after the nervous breakdown comment was made. Two months after I was signed off work and was approaching the day I would return. At a time when I was trying to regain the control that I’d lost on 16 March 2020 when we were suddenly all told to work from home and my world felt like it had been flipped on its head. I felt like I was starting to take back control “one tip run at a time.” I said at the time “But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them.” This last week has shown me that on that point, I’m making great inroads.

Just over a week ago, I received some disappointing news. Something that had been hanging over my head for just under two months hadn’t worked out the way I’d wanted it to. It hurt. It was triggering. Because it brought to the fore the feeling that I try to bury a lot of the time. That I am on my own. That I am the sole person responsible for mine and my daughter’s financial security and future. Almost as soon as I’d had the news I dropped my daughter off to go to the theatre for her birthday and then I came home to an empty house. The silence was deafening. The lack of anyone to put the kettle on for me. The lack of anyone to put their arms around me and reassure me that everything was going to be ok. I broke down on a phone call. It all felt too much for me. I took the dog for a walk to get out of the house. I just needed air and to breathe. To take stock a little bit.

But then I was reminded that while I am on my own, I’m not alone. Supportive messages started. Offers to come and keep me company came in. The amazing people that I’m so fortunate to have around me were there for me once again. I know just how lucky I am to have them. And I don’t take any of them for granted. I allowed myself the opportunity to wallow for a little bit, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, but then I started to look for the positives. I put myself in control. Truth be told it actually scared me a little bit how quickly I was able to do this. Because it’s not who I am. It’s not what I do. I’ve never been that person that bounces back ridiculously quickly. I overthink. I try to plan ahead for problems that are years away. A prime example happened when my stepdad was making the Father of the Bride speech at the first wedding we’d been to since my late husband died. I ran out of the hall having a panic attack because I didn’t know who was going to give my daughter away. “She’s 11, I don’t think we really need to worry about it just yet” was my sister’s brutally honest response. Which, to be fair, I needed. She was right. My daughter might not get married, yet here I was trying to take control and plan for something that might never happen. Because it’s what I do.

Or rather. It’s what I did. I think I first noticed the change in me during that period in 2022. When I booked our “F**k It week” because life is too short and we were just going to do things because we could. I booked activities with a few days’ notice. I lived for the moment and for enjoyment. But, if I’m being honest, it probably just was for a week. I wasn’t really brave enough to go beyond this too much. I needed the stability and security of being the person I’d always been to keep me going. To help me get through life.

But that person is changing. I know she is. I feel it in a way I haven’t really felt before. When my world imploded, when I became a widow and solo parent at the age of 39, all I wanted to do was survive. I had nothing else. If we got through an hour, a day, a week or a month that was enough for me. I remember writing a Facebook post a month after my late husband died that said “This whole experience has irrevocably changed our lives. It’ll continue to do so. But I won’t let it define us or who we become.” Did I really believe we could do this when I wrote it? Or was I trying to take back some control? I’ll never know.

But in August last year, I knew I was taking control of my life again. I mentioned in my New Years Eve blog that I’d done a boudoir photoshoot with Style Photography. This for me was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done. Because it made me see myself through different eyes. The one thing I told the photographer that I wanted to come through in the photos was the fact that I was taking control of my life again. Now. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t completely overthought in the run up to that day. I took way more outfits than I needed because I wasn’t sure what might work. I felt the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt for a lot of the session. But as I was having my hair and make up done, I remember saying “I’ve stopped dying my hair dark, because I’ve realised that getting grey hair is a sign of growing old and that’s a privilege.” Yet while I had this bravado approach, the second the photographer started it ebbed away. I felt I was being such a rubbish model! As much as I’d dictated the photos I wanted in a way to show me taking back control, I didn’t actually feel it or think I’d like them.

A few weeks later I went back to view them. One of me was on the big screen when I sat down. Yet. I didn’t realise it was me. I was in shock. As we went through all the photos, I repeatedly asked if they’d been photoshopped. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. And then we got to the one Mr C would have called the money shot. The one that completely and utterly showed me taking back control of my life. It was exactly what I wanted. It gave me probably the biggest confidence boost I’d had since becoming a widow. As I reflect on this now, I am so grateful for what it gave me. I won the shoot after I saw a competition and entered on a whim. There we go again. Not overthinking, just chancing something. It was beyond empowering. To think that you’re a really rubbish model. To think you’re not being any good at something and then to see the output. To know that that really is you. That at the age of 42 you’ve pushed yourself to do something so far out of your comfort zone. And you like the outcome. I’ve shown these photos to a number of people now. I am so, so proud of them. And while I won’t share some of the more risqué ones publicly because, quite frankly, my daughter will never speak to me again, the collage in this blog are all from that shoot.

And since that day I’ve probably been on a bit of a trajectory. When the world went a little bit mad and threw so much at me in 24 hours just before Christmas, I responded with levity (new favourite word). I didn’t overthink at the fact that things I had no control over were happening to me. I just responded to them in the best way I know how. Similarly, when I had a burst pipe at 10pm one Saturday evening in January, I didn’t cry. I just got on with it. It needed dealing with, so I dealt with it and moved on. No debate. No stress.

The recent news I received could have pushed me one of two ways. I know that. But I’ve controlled how I’ve responded to it. I’ve looked at it from a ridiculously pragmatic perspective (once I got past the tears!) I’m in control of what comes next. It’s made me realise that I need to make changes. That my mindset is changing. That I don’t need to plan for all eventualities, because, let’s face it, they may not happen anyway. What matters in life is how I play the hand that is dealt to me. How I respond to all the challenges that come my way. The example I set to my daughter on how to deal with adversity. They are the only things that I really need to be in control of. Life will happen to me whether I like it or not, and I have absolutely no control over it. My husband dying is a prime example of that. As the song says:

  • Death doesn’t discriminate
  • Between the sinners and the saints
  • It takes and it takes and it takes
  • And we keep living anyway
  • We rise and we fall and we break
  • And we make our mistakes

We’ve fallen and we’ve broken. My god have we done that. It makes me so emotional to think about this day two years ago. But it also makes me so, so proud. I was at the bottom of a very deep and dark pit. I was, essentially, at rock bottom with what felt like no way to get back up again. It’s not been pretty, I’ll admit, but I’ve clawed my way back from the despair. I’ve had no choice. Likewise, when I think about this day last year and my daughter, it makes me emotional. But so, so proud. She has also clawed her way back from despair. I couldn’t have ever imagined writing a blog like this on either of those days. We’ve had to go through what we’ve gone through to make us the people we are today. I hate that in a way. But it’s true. Yet now is our time to rise. Now is the time to look forward and think about what next. Change doesn’t scare me in the way it once did. Because we’ve been through the most unimaginable change and sadness in our lives, yet we don’t, and I refuse to let us, live a sad life. And if change is going to continue helping us, maybe it’s time to start embracing that and letting go of the control a bit more. Who knows where this trajectory will take me. I refuse to be defined by being a widow. I’m me. And I like the person I am. I’m proud of her. There is no-one like me. As the chorus says:

  • I am the one thing in life I can control
  • I am inimitable
  • I am an original

One tip run at a time…

My world as I’ve come to know it came to an abrupt stop on 10 February 2022. After a complete reality check and some brutal home truths from my counsellor during my appointment, I went to see my doctor. And was promptly signed off work…

I messaged one of my friends to tell him what had happened. His response? “Surprised it took this long…” But for me it felt bizarre. The thought of not working for more than just a few days or being a full-time mum during the day just felt alien to me. Because it’s what I’ve been doing for two years to help give me back some control. To help me try to navigate this horrendous situation I’ve found myself in.

Let me give some context. I am, quite simply, a control freak. I’m the person who goes to Florida with a laminated itinerary. I can’t tell you how happy my laminator makes me! I’m the person who goes to Florida with a folder with different sections resulting in the car hire man saying, “bet she’s fun to go on holiday with.” (And yes, Mr C did laugh just a bit too much about this comment). I’m the person who organises. I’m the person who plans months in advance. I’m the person in control.

But on 16 March 2020, that stopped. No, that isn’t when my late husband fell ill or died, but when the advice came to work from home. Because in the blink of an eye, the control and the life that I’d known for so long vanished. Over the next few days, further announcements came. Schools were to shut. The UK was being placed in lockdown. My world was shifting and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And let’s not forget, by the time the UK was put in lockdown, my late husband was displaying signs of COVID-19 and gradually getting more and more sick. My ability to stay in control was being taken from me. There was absolutely nothing I could control about this situation. I hadn’t realised that this was going to be the way my life would feel for at least the next two years.

When he was in hospital, I wasn’t in control. I had to wait for them to ring me with updates. My life turned into just sitting by the phone waiting for news about the man I was meant to grow old with. And then he died. I pitifully began trying to claw back some control. I decided not to tell friends for hours so that they’d be able to find out when their children had gone to bed. I woke at 6:30am the next day and went downstairs to make a list of the people I needed to tell such as banks, insurances and pensions. I was trying to do anything I could to be in control. Because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I needed some sort of order in my life. I really wanted this back.

But the pandemic had other ideas for me. I don’t think any of us anticipated quite how long we’d be living under restrictions. I’d arranged house renovations, but they got halted by COVID-19. I lived with boxes in my bedroom for just over nine months because I couldn’t keep moving them to different rooms. It frustrated the hell out of me. I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything. Every time I tried to make plans to decorate, to make my house nicer or to take my daughter to the theatre, delays happened. We couldn’t see friends or family which we really needed. I couldn’t plan anything. My brain couldn’t take it. I was angry. I wanted a chance to help us adjust to our new life. I wanted to be able to have a shot at moving forward. But every single time, it got halted. And just as we got into a rhythm of me going back to the office one day a week and started talking about me doing more days post-Christmas, Omicron hit. The advice was given to work from home again. At the same time, things were changing at work, people were leaving my team (I obviously have no control over this), and it felt like everything was changing again. The stability that I’d managed to create for just a little while dissipated.

But I kept going. Until that day in February. When I finally had to acknowledge that I couldn’t keep going any longer. I couldn’t keep calm and carry on. I actually had to stop. I had to focus on me for a change. Nobody else. Just me. I’d been trying for two years to give us “normality” but when this feels like pushing water up a hill, it’s incredibly hard to do. The same friend who I’d messaged about being signed off gave me some advice, “use this time for a little mini reset, not to think “how can I use this time productively.”” He was 100% right. But actually, what he didn’t realise was how much I did need to use some of this time productively. Because to do that would help put me back in control of my life.

I have had a mini reset. I’ve stopped. I’ve not just kept going. In all honesty, I’ve probably done what I should have done when Mr C died. But it simply wasn’t possible for me to do then. The world didn’t allow it. I will always stand by my decision to start working again three weeks after his funeral, because it helped me feel a little more in control and if I hadn’t, I strongly suspect I’d have gone stir crazy. But I’ve sat and watched TV or just thought more times since February than in the last two years. I’ve spent time doing lengthy dog walks. I’ve spent time sitting at my late husband’s memorial bench. I’ve managed to do some exercise classes. I’ve spent time having coffee or lunch with friends, in my view, the best form of therapy. I’ve done some writing. I’ve shed many tears. I’ve breathed. I’ve put me first. I’ve stopped trying to do everything and be everything to everyone all the time.

Yet, I have also found it incredibly cathartic and beneficial to be productive too. I’ve put up shelves. I’ve built radiator covers. I’ve emptied Mr C’s wardrobe and sorted his clothes. I’ve sorted through cupboards and got rid of things we don’t need. I’ve been exceptionally ruthless because I have to live for today. There is no point keeping something I might need in the future because I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve got rid of glasses we were bought for our wedding nearly 17 years ago that we’d never used. Not all of them and not our wedding china, because I’m not ready for that, but anything we don’t “need” has gone. I’ve bought new furniture because we’d wanted to do this since we moved into our house nearly six years ago. I’ve been able to do things on my to-do list. I’ve smashed old furniture that we no longer need. I have done numerous trips to charity shops. I have done numerous tip runs. All of which have helped me feel more in control. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel in charge of my own life again.

Until the week leading up to my belated 40th party. I spent most of that week throwing myself a pity party. You see, I’d decided the Sunday night before that I was going for self-preservation that week. I was absolutely going to do nothing and focus on me. 12 hours later, the universe had other ideas for me. A carpenter I’d had booked since April last year cancelled on me. I discovered that there had been a leak and my kitchen flooring which had only been down for six months needed to be ripped up. The floor had to dry out. Over the course of that week people pulled out of coming to my party. They were double booked, they’d tested positive for COVID-19, they weren’t well and while testing negative didn’t want to risk it, rising case numbers were worrying them… I absolutely respect all of this. I completely appreciate people’s decisions. But from a completely selfish perspective it wasn’t doing anything to help me. Once again, I started to feel out of control. Not helped by the issues in my kitchen, but mainly because I was feeling that COVID-19 was taking control away from me again and was going to ruin my third birthday in a row. I couldn’t get excited about it. I just didn’t care.

It took me until about half hour before the party started to get over this. At this point I realised that I wasn’t in control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I would just enjoy myself and have fun with those people who were able to be there. And that’s what I did. I just stopped stressing and caring. I went with the flow. A slightly novel experience for me. But one that without question paid off. Because it was absolutely perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be (I’d been planning it since 2018 so you’d like to think this would be the case). I danced. I smiled. I had one of the biggest surprises of my life (probably deserves a blog in its own right). I just let go. I woke up the next morning feeling that my heart was full. Feeling content. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. I knew it was something that I needed to hang onto.

And I’m trying really hard to do that. I know it’s not always going to be easy. I know that for me to survive, I do need my life to be a combination of being in control and learning to just let go and go with the flow. Because I’ve come to realise that as much as I’d like to be, I simply can’t be in control all the time. Life doesn’t really work like that. Yet, for the first time since March 2020, I honestly feel like I can begin to plan again. I can start to think about my future. I can book things for us to do which (all things crossed) won’t be cancelled or rescheduled. I recently went on a night out to celebrate my birthday. The same friend who had sent me that message in February was there and the next day he sent me this message. “You looked happy. You looked like “Emma.” Carefree. Was really nice to see.”

It’s nice to get messages like that. They make me smile. Because my mind is feeling clearer. I’ve got some annual leave next week and then I’m going back to work. I’m looking forward to it. I’m feeling a world away from the start of this year. But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them. And I also look around and know that there’s still things in the house that need sorting. There are still shelves that need to go up. Pictures that need to go up. There are still things that need to be got rid of. And I know that each time I do this, it will help me. I will gradually take back the right amount of control that I need. One tip run at a time…

18 months a widow

So, there you have it. 18 months of being a widow. I’m not a fan of that label if I’m perfectly honest, but the simple fact is that it is one part of who I am now. My husband died. I’m now a solo parent (I don’t like the term single). Yet, despite this, three months ago it was as though it was new. It was as though I’d been newly bereaved and lost him all over again.

You see three months ago; I held his Memorial Service on his birthday. I went into it feeling that I was doing it for everyone else. I was doing it for our daughter who really needed it. I was doing it for friends and family who hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to him. But I didn’t feel I needed it. I felt I’d had my closure at the funeral. I’d been living without him for 15 months; I knew he was gone. I knew the pain I was in and I’d accepted living with it. The service was just perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be. The tributes, the readings, our daughter singing. All just perfect. The Celebration of Life afterwards was equally as perfect. To see everyone in a room remembering him, celebrating him and being together was perfect. He’d have been so honoured.

It was the first time in 15 months that I’d stopped. That I just relaxed. I didn’t worry about being a widow. I didn’t worry about being a mum. I knew there were enough people there looking out for my daughter. I had a glass of wine. Or two. Or three. I naively did shots. In the cold light of day, I know this was a stupid idea, but at the time it was something I needed to do. I hadn’t been drunk since he fell ill. And just for that day, I felt alive. I relished the hugs from people. I hugged one of my closest friends for the first time. I didn’t want to let her go. It reminded me of what it was like to be a person. To have physical contact with people. To be a 40-year-old woman. Not a widow. Not a mother. But a person.

And then the spectacular crash happened. The day afterwards I felt delicate. But I put that down to the alcohol consumed. The following day I dialled in to my first conference call of the day. And promptly cried when I was asked how I was. I had to give in. I couldn’t do this. I was exhausted. I’d barely slept the night before. I turned the laptop off. I laid on the sofa willing sleep to come. I read and re-read a message from one of my friends who’d checked in on me that morning. I felt broken. I had nothing. He really was gone. This really had happened to us.

But the next day, I logged on to work again. Nobody forced me to. I just didn’t know what else to do. I made it through the day but felt exhausted by the end of it. The following day, I drove to one of our offices to try to make myself feel better. I went for lunch with one of my amazing friends there. But when I got home, I couldn’t remember driving round the M25 to get home. I couldn’t remember any of my meetings from that day. I knew I’d been there, but I couldn’t remember it. I sobbed. I broke on my daughter. I just kept saying “I’m just so tired. I’m so tired.” I spent nearly an hour on the phone to a counsellor via our Employee Helpline. I needed help. I knew that. And it wasn’t help that any family or friends could give.

Yet despite this, the very next morning I logged back on to work. Because I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t realised it, but work had become my security blanket. Around lunchtime, I had what was to be my final meeting for a while. When I was asked how I was, I just cried. I revealed what had happened the day before and was asked why I was working. The classic line was said to me. “If someone was telling you what you’re telling me what would you be saying?” I knew I shouldn’t be working. I knew I needed time out. But the simple fact was I was too scared to take it. Because to take it would mean acknowledging that I needed to stop. That I needed to deal with this. My husband was dead. 15 months later and it felt as fresh as it had on 19 April 2020. But for one of the very few times in my life, I listened to what was being said to me. I will always be so grateful for what was said to me and the care shown. I put the out of office on. I stopped working. And then I sat. I realised it was the first time I’d been in my house since he fell ill that I’d been by myself and not worked. I literally had nothing to do. My daughter was at school. I’d never been in the house during the day without her since he fell ill when I hadn’t been working. That was a real wake up call for me. Had I been looking after me at all for 15 months? Or had I been prioritising her (which I’d do again in a heartbeat)? Had I been hiding behind work? I’m a firm believer that you must look after yourself as you can’t pour from an empty cup but in that moment, I realised I’d not really been looking after me as an individual. I’d not got used to being on my own with nothing to do. I rang our Employee Helpline back. They did an assessment. They referred me back to counselling. I felt I was starting all over again.

Except I wasn’t. Because the difference was that I knew I needed and was able to have help from others. And while I barely told anyone what had happened, I did tell a few people. My amazing friends rallied around me. They fed us. They listened. They met me for lunch. They didn’t balk at my incredibly long WhatsApp messages getting my thoughts out of my brain. They knew they couldn’t understand fully, but they tried. They just let me do what I needed to do. When I was first widowed, I couldn’t get this help in the same way. Lockdown prevented it. Lockdown prevented us seeing others. It prevented physical contact. But now I could have it all. One of my oldest friends told me to embrace the hugs. As hard as I found hugging people, I knew he was right. I needed people to put their arms around me and just let me cling to them.

I’m not going to lie. Listening to my body, accepting when I’ve done too much and resting when I need to has been so hard for me. Yesterday was a prime example of me not doing this. Today is different. Asking for help and accepting I can’t do this alone has been so hard for me. But I’ve realised that I have to. It is simply not possible for me to do this alone. I can’t. And I’m one of the luckiest people in the world, because I don’t have to. All those people who have been there for me have shown me that. Yes, my husband died, and you might think that would leave me feeling unlucky. In a way, it does. But I refuse to feel hard done by. I won’t let this define mine or my daughter’s future. You either sink or swim when something like this happens to you. And I refuse to sink. I won’t let my daughter see me sink. Yes, she’ll see me struggle. She’ll see me cry. But not sink. I have to set an example to her. Because who knows what else she will go through in life. She needs to know that you keep going. You don’t let life beat you.

While last week took its toll and is one I suspect I’ll reflect on as being pivotal in months or years to come, it was also the perfect example of the amazing people I have around me. My friends let me drop my daughter off early so I could make it to the office slightly earlier. They let my daughter go round after school and fed her because I was in the office late. They then had us round for a Sunday roast because I’d had a heck of a week. The grandad of one of my daughter’s friends took her to her dance class for me. My long-standing colleague and friend let me wobble on him, waffle and share random thoughts til the early hours when my brain was overthinking. My mum and stepdad did the school run and had my daughter for two nights so I could do a late-night event and then an impromptu trip to Leeds to see Jason Donovan. A fabulous Twitter friend I’ve made offered me those Jason tickets because she felt I deserved them. My friend who said yes when she got a random message saying fancy a trip to Leeds? The people I’ve never met but have connected with because of what’s happened to me and got in touch because of the report into the pandemic that was issued. The Widowed and Young team for telling my viewpoints so beautifully in interviews. The team at ITU who let me go in and see the ward because I’d never been and felt that I needed to see where Mr C spent his final days. To see the machines that would have helped him to fight. The doctors and nurses who remembered him. Who were able to talk to me about him.

That’s when it hit me. Stuart Charlesworth made an impact on everyone he met. He left a legacy. And this is another reason that we have such amazing support. Because as much as people are doing it out of love for me and my daughter, they’re also doing it out of love and respect for him. They’re doing it because they know how I would treat them if they needed me. They’re doing it because they know it’s what he would have done for them. They’re doing it because they know he’d want his wife and daughter to be supported. To not be riding this rollercoaster alone.

18 months ago today, I felt the most alone I’d ever felt. I didn’t know how I was going to cope on my own. Three months ago, I felt broken. I didn’t know how long it would take me to piece myself back together again. I still haven’t. But I’m doing it, slowly but surely. In the words of John Mayer, “I’m in repair. I’m not together, but I’m getting there.” My husband still died. That will never change. I’m still a widow. I’m still a mother. But I’ve started to realise I’m also a person. A person who is so unbelievably proud of herself and all she has achieved over the past 18 months. A person who will live to fight another day. A person who will honour her late husband’s legacy. A person with the most supportive family and friends anyone could ask for. A person who knows she has so many people to call upon whenever she needs help. A person who has realised that asking for help doesn’t make her a burden. A person who has so much love to give. A person who can start to think about her future. A person who knows all of this is exactly what her late husband would want her to know.

He would never, ever have wanted his death to be the thing that destroyed me. And it won’t. It will be a part of me always. But I’ve learnt so much about myself, my daughter, and the people around me. I still love my husband. I always will. I still miss him every single day. But 18 months on, I’m starting to acknowledge that I can’t hide behind being his widow and a mother forever. I have to become my own person and keep living for me. Because I’m now so acutely aware of the legacy he left. And I’ve come to realise that as well as my own attitude and determination, this is what will see me through. Always.

The art of being social

Since 3 July, I’ve posted five times on Instagram. I’ve posted 12 tweets. For someone who usually posts a daily #BeThankful on both platforms and actively uses them, this is unusual behaviour. But taking this step back is absolutely something I’ve needed to do. I’ve needed to take some time out from the world. To take stock. To look after me. To have some very much needed R&R. This was what I shared with the world on Wednesday when I decided I was going to start dabbling on social media again. With a picture of a quote from one of our favourite John Mayer songs “I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there…”

Because I am getting there. And as I reflect on the past month, I can honestly say that I have missed being “social.” Not to begin with, because social media can be a double edged sword. As much as I like it, seeing people celebrating wedding anniversaries, moving house, having fun in couples, going on holiday or photos of dads with their children can at times just be too painful. It’s a reminder of what I’ve lost. But over the last week or so I’ve found myself wanting to start using these platforms again. Partly because I consider myself to now be in repair with a brain somewhat functioning again (rather than being at rock bottom) but also because it’s become a part of who I am. I know social media is an intensely personal preference. Some people love it, some hate it and some are in between. And don’t get me wrong. As much I as enjoy using it, I don’t profess to be a social media influencer (mainly because I don’t even know what that means!) but I do like and value the platform social media gives me (even if at times Instagram confuses me!)

It’s why I made a very conscious decision to use social media as a way of telling our story when Mr C fell ill last year. It would have been easy to hide away and not use it, but that’s just not who I am. I firmly believe social media isn’t just about the positives. Life isn’t cupcakes and rainbows all the time so why should your social media feeds be this way? But more than that. When Mr C fell ill, we were right at the start of the first lockdown. There were no such things as support bubbles or childcare bubbles. The only support I was able to get was via phone calls, via messages, via Zoom calls or via social media. The wealth of love and support I got was overwhelming. I’ll forever be grateful for it. One of my colleagues and friends sent me a Twitter DM and asked how I was on a particularly bad day. I answered honestly how I was feeling, and she then promised to check in on me every single day. She did. It meant a lot. And despite the physical loneliness and pain of what I was going through, I can remember thinking at the time how fortunate I was that all this was happening to me at a time when technology made that contact that much easier. I knew that via any number of platforms, there would always, always be someone I could reach out to if I needed to. And just type what I was thinking. It was invaluable. Why? Because when your world is falling apart and you don’t know which way is up, actually speaking to people can be so, so hard. I lost count of the phone calls I had when people would ask how I was, and I’d not be able to answer or would just simply cry on them. I was always so very mindful of how hard that must have been for those at the other end of the phone. Unable to do anything but merely try and offer small words of comfort to a woman whose entire life had been torn apart.

Yet despite this decision, there has been so much over the last 16 months that I haven’t shared. Because so much is incredibly personal to me and my family. What you see on any of my platforms is the snapshot of my life that I am comfortable to share. There is so very much more to me than this but I actually feel it would be quite dull if I shared everything, because in all honesty, I’m just a 40 year-old trying to get by and I really don’t do very much. If I was to post every time I have a wobble or a cry or a bad day or even just something I consider a small win, it really would get quite monotonous. But the people who know me, know that despite whatever I choose to share on social media, these everyday occurrences, falling apart and good moments are still happening. But I also don’t post about them all because I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of them in years to come via Facebook Memories or Timehop. I’m regularly sideswiped when memories of family activities or time with Mr C crop up, I don’t need to be reminded in years to come of how ridiculously difficult and heartbreaking my life has been since 22 March 2020. Because without a shadow of a doubt these feelings and memories will stay with me for as long as I live. Instead, I want to be reminded of the new memories my daughter and I are creating. What we’re doing to honour Mr C. Things that are making me smile. Yet, unwittingly, to the outside world this seems to create a parallel reality. A few months ago, I had someone tell me via a Facebook post that I am “always so happy.” Seven months after my husband died. At that point I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d have used the phrase “so happy” and so quickly refuted that statement on the post. I’ll openly acknowledge that I share aspects of what we’re doing, and that I am having to continue living my life. For me. For my daughter. But the phrase that was used to describe this started to make me think about the perception social media inadvertently creates vs. reality.

As I’ve said, I’ve been incredibly lucky with the support I’ve had via social media. But for me what is interesting is the different approach people have to what they say on social media vs. their everyday actions. I’ve had people comment that they will “always be there for me” but then not return phone calls or acknowledge messages I send. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but if you’re telling the social media world that you’ll always be there for me but aren’t in the real world isn’t that a bit of a disconnect? Now don’t get me wrong, I know only too well how much of a juggle life can be trying to fit everything in and stay in touch, but little things like this get me thinking.

I’ve had people de-friend me since Mr C died. I’ve had people delete posts they’ve made where I’ve offered a different perspective to their viewpoint. I struggle to understand why. Isn’t the clue in the title? Social media? Isn’t the whole point of it to be able to share different views, have conversations and generally be social? Again, I don’t profess to know the exact reason that I’ve been de-friended or why posts have been deleted, but from my point of view if you can’t offer a different perspective when people make posts, then I’m not sure it’s worth it. It’s like in any other social setting. I can spend evenings with friends, family or colleagues and we can have discussions. Not everyone will think the same, not everyone will agree and there will always be different viewpoints, but the difference is you can’t just delete something you’ve said in person and try to pretend it never existed. Why should social media be any different to the real world? I love a good debate, I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinion as me and in fact I’d hate it if we suddenly all had to agree and be the same. That would make the world an incredibly dull place in my view!

But, what makes me most sad, is that on more than one occasion this year I’ve used the phrase that my daughter “is for life, not just for social media.” She’s only 11 and, despite her constant badgering for TikTok, I don’t yet allow her to be on any social media platform. Mainly because, in my opinion, she doesn’t have the emotional maturity for it. She’s a child. She’s trusting. She takes people at face value. She believes people when they say they’re going to do something. So, if she had seen half of the comments I’ve had on the various posts I’ve made over the last 16 months, she’d have had far greater expectations of people. And right now, she’d be feeling incredibly let down. Because it’s very easy to put a comment or a like on a post I make but the reality is that she doesn’t see these and needs real-life support. And while I’ll always be so very grateful for all the virtual support I’ve had, and will continue to receive, over the past few months I’ve realised that I’ve also needed that real-life support more than ever. And I’d underestimated just how much until Mr C’s Memorial Service last month.

It will probably come as no surprise to those who know me or who are familiar with grief and bereavement that this Memorial Service is what ultimately led me to withdraw from social media for a while. Quite simply there was too much in my brain in the lead up to it, and in the immediate aftermath to even begin to think about posting content. But over the last month or so since I’ve taken a step back, I’ve also realised how much of a part of my everyday life social media has become. How it can actually be used for good and have a great impact. When your friend has a baby but because of all the various lockdowns you can’t physically visit them, you can still see news about them and watch them grow (we’ve finally be able to meet the baby who is now 13 months old and every bit as gorgeous as social media would have you believe). When you post a blog and a stranger takes the time to send you a message to say “I don’t know if you need to hear this, but I wanted to let you know you’ve helped a stranger today.” When you feel like the only person in the world to have a problem and post on the private Widowed and Young group and receive a ton of encouragement and support to reassure you that you’re not alone. When someone from the other side of the world messages you because she’s heard your podcast, noticed the similarities of your stories and subsequently becomes a friend you can turn to. I could go on. But ultimately social media has, and I’ve no doubt will, continue to have a positive influence on my life.

So, as I continue my repair of me and head back to work tomorrow, I know that my social media usage will be increasing again. Because I’ve missed my work Twitter family. I’ve missed the banter with all the Jason fans (although admittedly this has been on the increase over the past few days). I’ve missed doing a daily #BeThankful. I’ve missed engaging with people that I’d never normally come into contact with. But if I’ve learnt anything during my time away, it’s that as the world starts to open up again there is absolutely a place in my life for both social media and the real world. I don’t want to withdraw and hide away from the real world because it’s easier to hide behind words and pictures. I need physical and real-life contact. I value social media interaction more than I can really articulate and wouldn’t change it for the world, but I will always, always need the phone calls, the messages, the chats and catch ups. But most importantly. The hugs. I know that as I work through this current phase of my grief, I’m going to need a lot of hugs and hand holding. And you simply can’t get that through watching the likes and comments increase on a social media post.

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.