In 2022, I thought a lot about my Mum’s mental health and mine

Published on 20 December 2022

At the beginning of this year I reached breaking point. I was stretched too thinly. I was being snappy. I was taking things too personally. I was unable to function at work. I needed to stop. It took me having a melt down after a work call to realise I needed to admit to myself I wasn’t coping.

Mum knew though. She was all too familiar with the signs – she had first-hand experience of them. She knew what to look out for. This time though, she was the observer looking in. 

In 2022, I thought a lot about what led up to my Mum’s breakdown, years ago. I thought about what I learnt from seeing it happen to her and I thought about the warning signs – the glaringly obvious warning signs that were flashing and screeching at me earlier this year.

I remember coming home from university for the summer. I’d just broken up with a boyfriend was hurting. I remember seeing Mum, our eyes crossed paths but no words were spoken. It was one of those looks where we could sense each other’s pain. In that moment we both needed each other more than we cared to admit.

Looking back, it had been a tough couple of years for Mum. Lots of change, lots of responsibilities, lots to juggle. Running a business with my Dad, helping 2 teenagers with GCSE and A Level exams. Supporting her Dad when he was in hospital while caring for her Mum with deteriorating Alzheimers. All the while missing her mother-daughter connection – a best friend.

That summer, Mum told me she was waking frequently in the night, she felt like her next panic attack was imminent. She was stretched too thinly. She was unable to function at work. She hadn’t told anyone how much she was struggling. I told her everything would be ok and took her to the doctors to see about getting some help. Medication was recommended. Nothing else. So we came home with a packet of pills to solve a much bigger issue.* 

On 4 July, I woke up to eery silence. No sound of the kettle boiling. No quiet shuffle down the stairs in her dressing gown. No whispering on the other side of my bedroom door: “Are you awake? Would you like a tea?”

Was she up yet? Not in the bedroom, maybe downstairs having a morning cup of tea? Nope not in the kitchen, where is she? 

I found her slumped in the downstairs toilet with a razor blade on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. It looks like she’s cut her neck.  

I rang emergency services but I barely recall the next few minutes. I do remember going in the ambulance with her. Getting to the hospital. Finding out she had surgery to stitch the cut in her neck. That if it had been much closer things would be very different. She was lucky. 

As it was deemed she had experienced psychosis she was being sectioned under the mental health act. 

We spent the next 3 months living very different lives.

Mum was in a psychiatric unit, following a strict routine with different family members visiting her every day. She was convinced there was nothing wrong with her and didn't need to be there yet the heavy doses pulsed through her veins. 

I was holding down the house. I was cooking, taking care of my brother, supporting my Dad with his business, working part-time in a bar. I didn’t tell my new uni friends – or any friends actually – what had happened. Nobody from any health care authority asked how I was. They offered no support.

In March, when things were starting to build towards my crisis point, I remember meeting Mum for the day. I’d just taken a week ill off work and I was hurting. I remember seeing mum, our eyes crossed paths. It was one of those looks where she could sense my pain. So we did what we do best when we’re in a tough place. We walk. Side by side. We get out in nature where we are our happiest. We listen. We eat food. We hug. We know we can get through anything with each other in our lives. We know how precious this bond is as it was a few centimetres away from being taken away from us both.

Looking back, it had been a tough couple of years. Lots of change, lots of responsibilities, lots to juggle: leading a voluntary team through the pandemic. Lone working. A part-time MBA. Self-induced pressure and expectation on myself. Uncertainty about work. 

I came through that tough spot I had earlier in the year – I spoke to my counsellor, I got the support I needed and I took time off work. I was able to connect the dots between how I was feeling and my Mum’s situation 15 years ago – history was beginning to repeat itself and that was what scared me the most. I recognise the pressure my Mum felt for women to be superhuman and I see the unattainable, impossible standards she held herself to: excel in a job, look after family and extended family, maintain friendships, support our communities, cook, clean, look great. I also see how these standards have crept in and embedded into my psyche. I have had to redefine what’s realistic and re-learn that it's not selfish to put myself first so I can meet my own needs. I’ve learned what self-compassion looks like. 

In 2022, I’ve thought a lot about why we don’t hear more stories from survivors of parental suicide. This is the first time I’ve shared mine. I hope that it might help break the taboo of sharing the impact of our families’ mental health on us. I hope this might help people reflect on their family trauma and consider how it might be holding them back.

These have been the hardest words to write but they have helped me heal. 

* This is not dismissing the importance of medication but it turned out my Mum had a Psychosis so a more drastic intervention was needed.