of course, I did, eventually. Bizarrely, it was not in the middle of a crisis but in a relative period of calm, and I didn’t see it coming. The day it happened was horribly public.
Don’t get me wrong, I have not been immune to all of this. I’ve had days of weeping and railing, and days where I have been unable to leave the house. I have cancelled arrangements at the last minute. I’ve been that unreliable friend. There’s been counselling and CBT, ballet, dog walking, over-eating, under-eating, I’m tempted to say wombling free – you know what I mean. However, somehow, I did just keep going.
When you are in full crisis mode, and particularly when you have other children to care for, the adrenaline rush kicks in and you just. keep. going. Even if you want to lie face down on the floor and scream, or cry, or both, you simply can’t. There is a whole array of life’s practicalities that you have to keep on the road, for a start. I’ve written before about the dichotomy of on the one hand – trying to get your head around literally a life and death situation – or having police officers sitting at your dining table discussing whether or not to section your child – whilst also dealing with payments for school trips, headlice, packed lunches, window cleaners and just the melee of family life. All whilst trying to keep up a charade to your other children and to the outside world of everything being completely normal. Move on – there’s nothing to see here. There is nobody else to keep the show on the road, and so you have to.
Then there are your other children watching your every move, because they take their cues from you. Both The Middle One and little M are acutely observant and like me, constantly on alert. I can feel them scanning my face for every flinch and blink, analysing my mood and picking up on the tiniest single signal. They constantly seek reassurance – “are you ok mum?” “is everything ok?” – at one stage The Middle One would text or call me often throughout the day. There is very little fooling them either – I can remember little M saying to me one day ” why do adults say everything is ok when sometimes you can see that it really isn’t?”. Rumbled.
I had some days at work where I struggled terribly to hold it together. Mostly I did, but on occasion the strain of pulling off being a normal civilian was just too much. My boss and I were prepping early one morning to go off to a really important meeting. He suggested that we take a walk round the park to rehearse how we were going to approach the discussion. At that time we did a huge amount of work whilst walking in the park next to the school we were based in, we were really stuck for meeting space and so if it wasn’t raining, we walked and talked. That day, we got outside and walked until we reached a bench. He suggested we sit down. Then he told me gently that I needed to go home. I was taken by surprise, then terribly upset. I had barely missed a days work in all the time I had been there, through all the debacles and dramas, I had just kept going. But he said ” I need you to go home, you aren’t well enough to be at work” and I was lost for words. I protested and said that I was perfectly able to go to the meeting – which is when he changed tack and said that he was telling me to go home. I packed up my things and got into my car. I felt stung. Work was my constant, and I was good at my job. It felt like the last straw. Naturally, I then howled all the way home, and went to ground. Which of course, proved him right, and me wrong. He is an extraordinary man and I was and am exceptionally lucky to have such an understanding employer. Not everybody does.
Getting back on track, I hit the wall in a very public way in September 2019. We had gradually been piecing things back together since The Terrible Awful, that January. The summer had been relatively calm and a kind of slightly uneasy, somewhat fragile equilibrium had descended. Throughout August though, I had become more and more anxious for no specific reason that I could name. It was as if the equilibrium had unnerved me and I was simply waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. It hadn’t come, but I got up one Saturday morning feeling very, very odd. It was the day of The Country Brocante at Daylesford, a key event in the social calendar that my sister and many friends and acquaintances would either be selling at or visiting. I had arranged to meet a friend there to help with some promotional work for Instagram. One of the days of the year that I normally really looked forward to, but I didn’t feel right. I was so agitated, it was the most terrible unnerving feeling and I didn’t quite know what to do. So of course, I put on a pretty dress, put my face on, and went. Stupid.
I arrived, and quickly, it was as if the crowds were swimming. I couldn’t focus. People’s faces in front of me, greetings, saying hello. My palms were sweating and I felt overwhelmingly sick. In fact, I was simply completely overwhelmed with feelings of extreme panic. I shouldn’t have come. I tried to do a lap and say hello to everyone who was expecting me and then do a runner, I started, but my legs wouldn’t take me. A kind friend let me sit behind her stand for a while and I sat, wringing my hands with tears streaming down my face. I just couldn’t explain why. It had crept up on me. Later, I thought I had calmed myself enough to emerge from the stand, but immediately – more faces, more hellos, more conversation that I didn’t really hear and couldn’t focus on. Then it started. I started looking for him. Stall to stall, getting more and more agitated. Have you seen AJ? Have you seen my son? My friends were puzzled – was he coming too? Complete strangers even more so – what does he look like? I looked and I looked and I looked, becoming more disorientated and upset. Then my sister appeared and just like my boss had done, she told me gently, insistently, to go home. I felt like a small child, not because I thought she had treated me like one, she hadn’t. I just felt very small and very afraid. I don’t remember how I got home, or indeed how I got upstairs and into bed. Once again the blinds were closed and I waited for sleep to come. I didn’t know what else to do.
It was a very English breakdown. Other than that day, which was so public – you would not have known unless you looked very closely. Even the people closest to me had no idea of the depths of my emptiness. It was quiet, without fuss or bother, and terribly polite. I became more and more withdrawn from real life, and more absorbed in my tiny world. I spent most of that Autumn and then into Winter looking for him, even though for the most part he was right there at home.
He wasn’t the only person I looked for though. I looked for my grandma, who had died in 2005. I went back to her house over and over again and looked for her peering through her window, as she always did. I haven’t told another soul that until I just wrote it down. I looked for a dear friend that I had lost a few years previously – I saw them at Marylebone one morning and ran the length of the platform to say hello. Of course, it wasn’t them, and on realising that – even though I think my head knew it wasn’t them – I dissolved. Having only just arrived in London for a Board meeting, I stood on the platform with tears streaming down my cheeks, before boarding the first train for home. I told my colleagues that I was ill, and I guess I was. I was distraught on the train that day. Most people looked the other way, embarrassed I guess. A stranger approached me and asked tentatively if I was OK. I couldn’t speak, I think I was afraid to start, in case I didn’t stop. She looked at me searchingly and in the end, sat down next to me and stayed until I got off. I wish I could have said thankyou.
The searching for people who had already left me went on and on. What started in September 2019 was still going the following February. We went to Milton Keynes for Milo’s birthday and again, I saw the same friend in the crowds. Only, obviously, I didn’t. I was so afraid that I was going mad that I told no-one. Literally not a soul. It had been six months and I was still obsessively looking for people that were not or could not be there, or were right there in front of me.
My madness was hiding in plain sight. It can be an unpopular word – but I choose it to describe that period – I can’t think of a more accurate description. At night, I started to check that AJ was home and in bed. I would watch over his sleeping face searchingly. Where had he gone, my child? And would he ever come back? I went to him over and over and over, as I had done when I was a little girl, checking to see if the dog was still alive. I was exhausted.
Whilst this came on very suddenly, it left very gradually. Even at the start of lockdown, it was still there – in the sense that I had to stop myself from going down to check. Perhaps lockdown cured it – in a way. There was nowhere to go and we were all together at home – and so my rational head had to work overtime to tell my mad side not to check. It got better, and it has thankfully now passed.
Perhaps I have been looking for the child I feel I have lost. What I do know is that I have been grieving, and at times that grief has consumed me whole.
You blow me away…..đ
I was looking in a mirror reading your post, except I wasnât looking for anyone, only for a way out of my own head.
Is there something in the saying âthis to shall passâ. I do hope so. Xx
Yes I do think there is Lynn, it’s just some days it probably doesn’t feel like it x
Such raw honesty. Thank you for sharing – it helps others so much. Seems a bit pathetic to say that my heart goes out to you and your family but that’s all I can do.
It’s a very great deal Judith, thankyou, and I am very grateful x
I wish I could hug you.
Reading your blog makes me feel so sad, Lisa. Iâm so sorry youâve had, and continue to have, such a challenging time.
Having known you from our OCHA days (over 20 years ago!), latterly from a v long distance, all Iâve ever seen is a super talented woman, totally âtogetherâ, adept at spinning a trillion different plates, signing up for all manner of additional responsibilities and seemingly having-it-all. I now realise thereâs been so much else going on alongside.
Where do you go from here I am thinking? Whatâs gonna give, to make the space for you to simply be you? To feel youâre winning a difficult battle with life? You have nothing to prove to anyone. Youâre an absolute winner. You âmade itâ a very long time ago. Surely itâs payback time for you.
Personally I know my limits and over the years I have said no more often. Iâve pared things right back to make sure the wheels donât fall off the Hampden bus! Itâs the best thing I ever did. My husband and I have shared the heavy load of us both working, having the boys and running the home. I couldnât have done this without him. Now our boys have both grown up and graduated, we now have even more time. After all, surely itâs important to step back and think … whatâs the point of it all? Family first for me. Work is less important.
I do wish you all the very best.
Hi Kathy. So lovely to hear from you, and thankyou. I read this comment yesterday and I have carried some of your very wise words around with me ever since. So many things have chimed and I will continue to turn them over. So thankyou, really, your timing could not have been better. Take care.
I can’t read them Lisa, I can’t read them without crying, I can’t read them without thousands of sorrows beating a path through my mind trying to find solutions.
So much love to you xxxx
Thankyou Lynn. I am so missing that time we had stolen from us earlier this month, I am absolutely sure that spending time together as we had planned would have been such a tonic. There will be another time, let’s hope not too long x
â¤ď¸ hugs for you
Thankyou Iris x
Thank you for sharing . I hope you find your writing cathartic . Xxx
I do, thankyou. Painfully so, but it seems necessary just now!
Thank you for sharing this, you are indeed a darling đ. I felt every word you wrote. There are so many of us that suffer in silence, Keep our thoughts and fears to ourselves for fear of upsetting someone else, especially our children. We carry on trying to keep a cool calm exterior when inside you are a raging fire of emotion.
As I get older I have realise that I CAN let the facade slip, Iâm not normal, never have been and never will be đ¤Łđ¤Ş but thatâs ok. It makes me the person I am – a crazy wonderful messy ME. You are wonderful messy crazy YOU. đđ donât be afraid to let your wonderful self show . Loads of love. Gayna x
Thankyou Gayna. And who wants to be normal anyway? I think it’s wildly over-rated. Hard going huh? It is really tough I think – hat fear of upsetting someone, including and especially our children. Whilst mine have agreed to my writing about our story they have none of them read this blog – and I think that is probably the right thing just now. Take care and thankyou x
Sometimes I’m not sure what to say, but I know I need to say something, even if the words are difficult to find and not always the right ones. I’m glad that overwhelming feeling has reduced during the last few months. You can only keep grief locked up inside for so long. It has to come out. Continue to surround yourself with those who care and love you. You’re brave. You’ll get through this… â¤
Thankyou Trish and you know, I think I will. I am so much better than I have been, and generally speaking he is much much better than he has been. I think knowing the path back isn’t going to be linear is important – but we will make our way back. I just want to try and put all that heartache to good use, if I can.
As soon as I started to read this I recognised grief for the living, I’ve been through it and I know how utterly painful and terrifying it is. My acute phase has passed but the little boy I loved, who is now a man, did leave.
Oh Carol, I feel it takes a mother in this position to recognise another in the same position. Much love to you.
Firstly can I say thank you.. your words always just hit the spot and resonate so loudly with me. breakdowns come in all shapes and sizes… 4 years ago my life started to unravel for many different reasons, 4 years later I am changed but grateful. My breakdown saw me mute in bed for quite a few months, my saviour came in the shape of my psychiatrist , he delved deep and I spoke of things I didnât dare tell anyone, I unburdened my self and I have never picked that baggage up since. Weirdly I am grateful for my breakdown, it has freed me in many ways. I read your words and just want to make it all ok for you and your family, that sounds trite, it isnât meant to. You come across as such a brave and inspiring woman. Your gift of writing may just help you to unburden yourself too. Much love Karan xx
Thankyou Karan, and it doesn’t sound trite at all. I am very grateful for your kind and wise words, and I do think you’re right. Our experiences make us the people that we are – with all those scars and imperfections. I’m not sure if my writing is a gift, it feels like a compulsion at the moment!
As always, Iâm in awe of your honesty and strength Lisa. Sending you massive hugs. Xxx
As ever, thankyou Mandy, and gratefully received x
Crying writing this, I wrote on the flowers at my
Mumâs funeral that she was in the distance & I couldnât quite catch-up to her
(at the supermarket where we went together every Sat (I canât go to that supermarket now)
Oh Lisa I’m sorry. I know that feeling well. There are lots of things I can’t look at any more and places I can’t visit. Too many memories. Much love to you x
Reading your posts brings back the terrible times from nearly 30 years ago when I sought help over my only childâs behavior which tearing my life apart.
A full time head of a large department in a large secondary school, aged parents one of whom certainly in the beginning of dementia. Divorced with an ex husband not offering any help, a new much loved partner being more like a father than the real one. A 15/16 yr old who lied, stole and was never prepared to take responsibility for actions.
So the medical authorities decide that âfamily therapy â was the best approach.
I have to ask the head of the school permission to attend these meetings – explaining why. Leave work for my art classes ( never easy ).
Then to sit week after week with my partner and my child and have every aspect of our lives examined.
After each meeting I drove back to school tears streaming down my face to then try to pull myself together and teach 32 sixteen year olds .
After many of these sessions being made to feel it was primarily all my fault.
My child refusing to join in any conversation but once talking on their own to someone.
We were told ( my now husband and me ) that they didnât think they would ever change.
They were right of course and I made the tragic mistake of always hoping that things would get better.
They continue to manipulate, to turn the knife whenever they can.
Now the manipulation starts on my grandchildren who are being encouraged to think they are in the wrong bodies, encouraged to call themselves âtheyâ .
Can I do anything – of course not.
I am blocked if I try to raise any opinion.
When I asked for help all those years ago I was left with the distinct feeling it was all my fault but no more.
I did my best, got pain and it stays with me like a raw wound.
I find I prefer to hide myself away from other than the closest of friendships.
I donât want to be asked the usual questions about family and hear too much about others .
The wounds are raw and the plaster comes off far too easily.
Hello Diane. Goodness that sounds like a very heavy burden to carry with you. I do know what you mean – they ether decide to make the changes that they need to make – or they don’t, and there is precious little you can do about it. I’m sorry. It really is a kind of grief isn’t it? I understand that feeling of being told pretty much that it’s your fault – but you know as I do that it’s not helpful or true. Hard to shake that feeling though. I think we all deal with this stuff differently. I’ve spent too long (for me) not talking about it and now I’ve started I can’t stop. My mum however has a coping mechanism which is simply to pretend things haven’t happened – and she would say that it has worked for her. I’m not so sure but at almost 83 I’m not going to argue with her! Take care.
I dont know what to write, other than to say, thank you for sharing. Our bodies and minds are amazing. I am so sorry for what you have gone through. I recently experienced a literally mind blowing experience of amnesia brought on by an argument and outburst at my nasty tempered 89 year old dad. He loves to be cruel to me and push my buttons only this time I retaliated apparently. I have no recollection and woke up crying on my bed with my son. He said it was like a switch and he couldn’t believe how I suddenly lost all memory of the incident. The doctors said it’s our brains way of shutting off when it overloads. Your searching was probably your brains way of cutting out the pain of loss and taking you back to a time before? I am glad it has passed. Dont be fearful of it, it’s just healing you through your trauma. Take time…you are important too in all of this. And there is someone else to take over to take control? It’s ok to not be the leader and regroup. Your followers are right beside you. Xxx
Thankyou Ann. And I’m sorry, that sounds like a really difficult situation with your dad. I think elderly parents can be terribly cruel, it’s as if they are taking all their frustration out on you. I think you are right too, the brain does have a way of trying to protect you. My sister has pretty much no recollection of being in intensive care and when she was in there the doctors told us that if she survived she would almost certainly remember none of it. And so it was. We are getting there – in a very non linear way! Thankyou and take care x
I haven’t snapped yet…I’m still managing to hold it together…but it’s coming as I can feel it. I’m the most laid back person ever but my fuse us getting ever shorter and one day, soon, I’m going to lose it and break down.
You are such a brave, wonderful lady and you inspire me to keep pushing forward đ
And you will, until the day you don’t, and when that happens know that it will pass. Take care x
Just sending you such big â¤ď¸ Grief is a strange and awful place with no map. The hyper vigilance went on for me for a long while, checking and checking. I had no idea anyone else saw people that couldnât be there and ran after them , like you I never told anyone it was just easier to pretend I might have been mistaken and I was too embarrassed anyway. Things change eventually into something else, whatever that is. Peace to you lovely .
Thanks Jo, and the same to you. And we must have that lunch when all this madness passes.
Really well written and when youâre in the middle of it you canât see it happening… mine wasnât public but in front of the fire, in front of my wife, nursing a glass of wine and not that long ago! I felt a failure, itâs the âstereotype of malesâ stiff upper lip and all that but I broke down, admitted I couldnât cope and needed help…counselling, and actually went for quite a few sessions.
So glad youâre writing all this – you are helping a lot of people
Did you find the counselling helpful Jason? I have had some that really wasn’t, and some that really was. It was hard work though. And you aren’t a failure – I hope you know that. Just human, and a rather lovely one at that!
Thank you. Itâs when youâre down the road you realise yourself youâre not a failure. Iâve had two separate counselling sessions…one a long time ago for trying to save someoneâs life with cpr who subsequently died – I had a breakdown of sorts after that having been trained to save lives, it was all so false and one when I broke down…in 2018…the first set helped enormously- the second set helped temporarily and I stopped as I felt I was paying for the same session over and over again – but it must have helped at the time. You know when it does donât you?
I have no words , only virtual hugs x
very gratefully received, thankyou.
No words. Out of breath. Feeling this so hard. You are so brave to share. Thank you.
Thankyou, really appreciate your kind comment.
Hello Lisa.
Your honesty is your strength. I hope you continue to write, even with trembling hands. It may be your starting point to a path of healing.
I hope your sons read this one day. I wonder what they will make of it all.
I hope so, it feels cathartic and hard work too. And I am not at all sure what they will make of it! Thankyou for dropping by x
This breaks my heart my beautiful friend,
We’ve both been there and got the T Shirt. The ties that bind x