Tag: Mental Health

Goodbye 2021

If 2020 was the year of shock, numbness and surrealness, then 2021 was the year of reality. The year of trying to adjust to our “new now” (I don’t like the phrase “new normal” as who is to say what is normal anyway?) I should have been writing this blog in New York. Our first overseas trip just the two of us, the prospect was both terrifying and exciting. But just over three weeks ago I made the decision to cancel, the reality was that everything about it was adding additional stress and worry, rising case numbers, change in testing regulations, closure of activities in New York. Need I go on? Because this is reality. I am still trying to adjust to widowhood and solo parenting while living in a pandemic. COVID-19 hasn’t gone away.

But what is different about the end of 2021 compared to the end of 2020 is that I consciously made a decision to avoid stress. I just don’t need it. I don’t need to be putting myself through it. I think back to this time last year. I crashed on 27 December, it was all I could do to get up each morning and when I did, I pretty much just laid on the sofa. Mr C’s Memorial Bench was installed on 29 December and I had to summon the energy to get off the sofa to see it. Because I’d run and run and run to get to Christmas. I’d done so much. I’d tried to do very personal keepsake gifts for his immediate family. I’d tried to make everything perfect for our daughter. I’d tried to honour him in every way I could. But do you know what? It didn’t make him come back. I didn’t get to Christmas Day, get a pat on the back and get told “well done, he can come home now.” Reality hit. I’d got to Christmas, put myself under so much pressure and for what? I was quite simply mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn’t go back to work. I had nothing left to give.

This was how I went into January 2021. Exhausted. And then reality give me a real slap in the face. One of my most loyal, closest friends who had done so much for me after Mr C died lost her partner to COVID-19 on 2 January. Two days into the New Year. I felt helpless. I couldn’t bear to see her. Because to see her would make this real. To see her would be to see the tears in her eyes and know that there was absolutely nothing I could do to take her pain away. This wasn’t meant to happen. Nobody else I loved was meant to go through this pain. I had to tell my daughter that once again the pandemic had taken someone from our lives. Someone who had made such a difference to my friend’s life. Who had put the sparkle back in her eyes.

And then reality and the unthinkable happened again a couple of weeks later. I received a text asking me to give my colleague a call. It was a little odd as I’d only spoken to her that morning and wasn’t working, but I still did it. She had to break the news to me that one of my colleagues had been killed in a road accident. He was just 29. I thought back to the first meeting I’d had with him after I returned to work following Mr C’s death and the compassion and kindness he had shown me. How on earth could he have died in such a senseless way? His partner is in my immediate team at work. She is one of the most selfless people you could ever hope to meet. Simply lovely. Again. I felt helpless. I remember walking into my lounge after the call and my daughter asking me why I was crying again. I wanted to make something up. I couldn’t bear to tell her the reality that yet again somebody else I knew had died young. All you want to do as a mother is protect your child from hurt and pain, and here I was again telling her just how unfathomable life can be at times. How reality really can suck at times. But we had the conversation. Because this is what reality is. I can’t shield her from it. I can’t shield her from pain.

It’s why we have such an honest relationship. Because I’ve worked out that she deserves honesty. For a child of 11, she has been exposed to so very much. It breaks my heart. And while I don’t tell her everything, we do talk about so much. Because our reality has meant we’ve had to, we can’t shy away from pain, hurt and suffering. We talk about the fact I have counselling. Because over the past 21 months, I’ve spent 11 of them in counselling. It’s made me look at myself. It’s made me question a lot. And it’s also given me answers and helped me begin to come to terms with my reality. But nearly a year in therapy? I’d never have expected this. Even though I know how beneficial it is, the reality is that it’s still hard to come to terms with needing it in the way I have. To help me survive and be able to live a daily life. And despite the dialogue on mental health changing, it can at times be slightly taboo to talk about it and be open about being in counselling. To the point the fact I was having it was used against me at the start of the year.

I don’t hold it against the person who said it to me, because the reality I’ve come to accept in 2021 is that there is still a lot that society doesn’t understand about grief, mental health and life in general. I had a conversation at work recently about how society as a whole tends to focus on the negative, what you haven’t done, what you could do better etc… You hear the phrase “can I give you some feedback?” and instantly bristle because you assume it’ll be bad. To say “I’m having counselling” can, in some instances, cause judgement. The perception is you’re not right. You’re not good enough.  

But do you know what? 2021 has seen me become ok with that. I’ve come to accept that I will never be good enough for everyone. I’ve come to accept that there will be things I do that people can’t understand. Because that’s reality. But equally, I judge and do it to myself. I will automatically talk about everything that I’ve not been able to do since Mr C died. Because isn’t that what we’ve been taught to do? Focus on the negative? I’ll tell you I’m not as efficient as I once was. My brain doesn’t work in the same way. I’ll walk away rather than fight for what I believe in because I can’t handle stress. I don’t have as much patience or tolerance. I forget things. I buy presents for birthdays and Christmas and worry that they’re not good enough, but the truth is I’ve simply run out of energy at trying to get everything right. I have mum guilt like never before. I haven’t achieved as much at work as I’d have liked. I don’t call or message people enough. I haven’t been as good a friend as I might have been before because I don’t put as much effort in.

Yet this is where the counselling has helped and the Emma at the end of 2021 compared to the Emma at the end of 2020 tells herself to wind her neck in. Because I need to acknowledge that I’ve achieved a hell of a lot this year. I deserve to feel proud of myself. Whatever anyone else thinks or says. That is the reality. I have launched my own blog that has not only helped me but has also helped others. I organised my late husband’s Memorial Service which gave so many people the chance to say goodbye to him. I’ve learnt how to show my vulnerability. I’ve continued to work. I’ve kept a roof over our heads. I’ve organised home improvements. I’ve pretty much done everything we used to do as part of a partnership single-handedly. I can now go into supermarkets again. I’ve become an ambassador for Widowed and Young. I’ve taken my daughter away, to friends, to festivals, to theatres. I’ve given her new memories. But more than that. I’ve somehow got out of bed on days when I don’t want to. I’ve still put one foot in front of the other. Every single day. My daughter has not gone without love. There has not been a single day she hasn’t felt my love even when I’m in the pit of despair. This is my reality that I need to focus on more. What I have done. There will always be people who are quick enough to tell me what I haven’t done or should have done differently. But I need to have more faith and belief in myself. To remember what I have done. What I have achieved.

I’ve been reminded so much of this throughout this month. In the run up to Christmas, my daughter said “I just don’t understand why this Christmas is so much harder than last year.” We spoke about how last year we were in shock and survival mode. Whereas now we’ve spent the whole year coming to terms with the reality that her daddy really is gone. He’s never coming home. We will never spend another Christmas with him again. And that’s why it’s so much harder. Because it’s real. As each day passes, our reality and life without him crystallises. I listened to her repeatedly tell me she was over Christmas. I watched her sit on the sofa and refuse to move. I’ve just had to cuddle her because there was nothing else I could do to help her. But Christmas Day came and the punt of an idea I had for her present changed everything. She smiled again. She laughed. She sang her heart out on the karaoke machine. Yes, Christmas Day resulted in me being absolutely exhausted again because of the energy I’d needed to put into helping my little girl, but seeing her happy made everything worthwhile. I achieved that. I helped her get through it. And this just reinforced the reality that I’ve had to come to terms with in 2021. The ability to accept the rough with the smooth.

I can’t lie. I have very mixed emotions saying goodbye to 2021. The first year since 1974 that Stuart Charlesworth hasn’t been alive for any of it. Since 1996 that he’s not physically been a part of my life. A year which has caused so much new heartache and pain. A year which has seen relationships break down. A year which has seen me fall apart repeatedly. Yet it’s also been a year which has seen me smile, laugh, dance and hug more. It’s been a year that has seen me start to think about my future and my new reality. For the first time in such a long time, I can answer “I’m ok” and mean it when people ask me how I am. That’s not to say I’m of the view that life has become all cupcakes and rainbows. It hasn’t. I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to. Because I’m going to make sure I remember one thing in 2022…

I am good enough.

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.