I hadn't thought much about the consequences of opening up. It'd been nearly a year since therapy had finished and I was seeing my homeopath/counsellor regularly. I just wanted to share my story and may be help others along the way.
Writing is one thing, but sharing it on an online platform and making it available to friends & family on social networks is another. It wasn't healing or therapeutic as one said on Facebook, far from it. It opened wounds again. I knew I had to press "pause" and come back to it when I'd be ready.
Wednesday 10 July 2013
Wednesday 9 January 2013
The day mum threw all the plates in the kitchen
I was 10. I came down to the kitchen to see what was happening. I don't remember what mum was saying, but she was angry. It all had become too much.
Dad was too quiet, he'd never been one to argue. I found him in the garage. He was crying. I wish I could now say I hugged him, but I didn't. I just stared in confusion and went back in. Mum was throwing all the plates in the kitchen.
Nathalie took me and Dom' outside. Our shelter was our metallic green Mazda 323F. She told me and Dom' that we needed to stay out of the way until things had calmed down. I was crying. We hugged for a while. Before we went back in, Nath told us to not upset mum further than she was.
Later on mum laughed that we didn't have any more plates to eat with. I couldn't stop thinking she'd made dad cry. It hurt.
Dad was too quiet, he'd never been one to argue. I found him in the garage. He was crying. I wish I could now say I hugged him, but I didn't. I just stared in confusion and went back in. Mum was throwing all the plates in the kitchen.
Nathalie took me and Dom' outside. Our shelter was our metallic green Mazda 323F. She told me and Dom' that we needed to stay out of the way until things had calmed down. I was crying. We hugged for a while. Before we went back in, Nath told us to not upset mum further than she was.
Later on mum laughed that we didn't have any more plates to eat with. I couldn't stop thinking she'd made dad cry. It hurt.
Tuesday 8 January 2013
He said everything will be better
1 April 1991. Around 8.20pm. Like any evening, we're watching The Cosby Show on M6 in our PJs. Something felt weird, like if we knew. The phone rings. Mum cries. It all happens fast, but almost in slow motion. Dad's finally done it. After several failed attempts, he took his own life. He jumped from the window of his fourth floor hospital bedroom.
The day before, dad had said to mum and my oldest sister, Nathalie that everything would be better, we'd start from scratch. Did he know then that he would do it? Did he know that our lives would change forever and, maybe, for the best? We will never know what he meant, but I'd like to discover what sort of man he was.
I was 11 when dad died. He had been ill for more than four years. Mum said he started to change when I was four. At that point, he'd lost the job he'd loved in a laboratory. From then, it just went slowly downhill until he was institutionalised when I was seven. I wasn't allowed to go inside the clinic neither the hospital he was in through the four years which made it hard. It made it hard to comprehend what was happening. I think I was angry at times. My mind has tried to erase that time as much as possible from my memory, but bits come back from time to time.
Most of the times I'd wait for him to come outside, he'd be in his joggers, looking like a veg. It wasn't my dad. It was a semblance of him. For years, I blamed the institutions, the tablets, the family who didn't come to visit and didn't do anything. But who could?
Dad did want to be interned. He had asked mum to be institutionalised. He probably had realised that she couldn't cope with him and us (the three girls) and so needed some help from somebody external. Not an outgoing person, he became more and more reclusive. He'd read a lot. He became closer to God.
The day before, dad had said to mum and my oldest sister, Nathalie that everything would be better, we'd start from scratch. Did he know then that he would do it? Did he know that our lives would change forever and, maybe, for the best? We will never know what he meant, but I'd like to discover what sort of man he was.
I was 11 when dad died. He had been ill for more than four years. Mum said he started to change when I was four. At that point, he'd lost the job he'd loved in a laboratory. From then, it just went slowly downhill until he was institutionalised when I was seven. I wasn't allowed to go inside the clinic neither the hospital he was in through the four years which made it hard. It made it hard to comprehend what was happening. I think I was angry at times. My mind has tried to erase that time as much as possible from my memory, but bits come back from time to time.
Most of the times I'd wait for him to come outside, he'd be in his joggers, looking like a veg. It wasn't my dad. It was a semblance of him. For years, I blamed the institutions, the tablets, the family who didn't come to visit and didn't do anything. But who could?
Dad did want to be interned. He had asked mum to be institutionalised. He probably had realised that she couldn't cope with him and us (the three girls) and so needed some help from somebody external. Not an outgoing person, he became more and more reclusive. He'd read a lot. He became closer to God.
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