The inconsequential and the meaning of life

Little things over the years have included: my son jumping into my car to fetch his bag, accidentally sitting on the handbrake and rolling the car down the road, damaging the door badly (April 2014), me writing off a car because I drove it very quickly through a ford, for no logical reason (March 2003) and a car being stolen from outside our first house (1993).

These things were very stressful at the time, with phone calls galore, insurance claim wrangles and unexpected expenditure.

Bigger things have included negative equity (1995), moving to Japan for several months with two small kids (1997) and training as a secondary school teacher with three (2005).

The biggest things have been falling in love (1992 and 2015), having children (1994, 1996 and 1999), getting divorced (2015) and my daughter’s bulimia (dates are a blur).  The trouble is with Generalised Anxiety Disorder is that there is little difference in the stress levels between the levels of perceived threat like financial loss and practical inconveniences and the biggest, most life changing situations.

I had a moment today, though, when I got a blinding moment of clarity as I was driving home from Aldi.  I have these sometimes, pootling along through life, and BOOM there it is.  Sudden awareness and a spine tingling, tearful moment of pure joy and gratitude for the insight.

For the last four days I’ve been stressing (nothing new there) about my buyers suddenly announcing, last Tuesday, that they wanted me to complete decking as a condition of their offer.  They told me that the estate agent should have told me.  It wasn’t on the offer, nobody had mentioned it before, and the estate agent denied all knowledge.  I had promised ALL my house viewers, upon viewing, that if my buyer wanted decking I would do it, as the garden is half finished.  But she never said that she was going to offer, never mind that decking would be a condition of that.

I’ve got two weekends left in Leicester before going away to Scotland to get married and then, hopefully, completing and moving.  So it isn’t much time!  I told my solicitor that the buyer can have decking but will have to pay a further £1000 to cover the costs and the inconvenience.  She already got £13000 less than the asking price.  I haven’t heard back since last Thursday.  She texted me today to ask if everything is ok and it seems that her solicitors haven’t passed on any message.  I’m wondering if the sale’s going to fall through.  I need to move by September as my new job starts then, and blah and blah and yadda and yadda and the full screamo band of crappy nonsense was skadoodling around my poor, addled brain when I remembered, with a smile, an earlier phone call from my daughter, pictured above as a cute little babby.  She wanted to catch up about life and talked a while about her Summer job.

After completing her first two years of a degree course at the University of Durham, my girl has secured a Summer job prior to going to Germany then France for her year abroad.  She has just started work as a National Citizenship Service group leader, working with a group of 16 year olds.  She was tired and a bit frazzled after a weekend at an outdoor camp, and long working hours, but feeling engaged in the role, chattering enthusiastically about managing the youngsters and clearly enjoying their company, their talk, how they share their problems and how she might encourage the quieter ones to contribute more and be less dominated by the few noisy ones.  As a teacher, I knew how she felt and how rewarding she was finding it and I loved hearing about her experience so far.

When my baby was 15, she had anorexia.  She was brave and honest and told me just after Christmas how hard she was finding her obsession with dieting.  She went to the GP, got a diagnosis, and we waited hopefully for treatment.  Anyone who has a child with a mental illness, however, will know how naïve we were.  The CAMHS waiting list was long.  The most acute cases took priority.  The anorexia morphed into bulimia, accompanied by depression, anxiety and self-harm.  She got some interim CBT which didn’t help much.  I wrote letters monthly.  I quoted NICE guidelines.  My local MP, the wonderful Jon Ashworth, got involved and after a year, she received treatment and made a good recovery.

Any recovery from an ED takes time, patience, setbacks and triggers.  Going to university was difficult for her even after a year out.  Transitions are difficult times for people with mental health conditions.  I know that even more as I now realise that I have had similar mental health issues for years, although mine were more buried beneath layers of denial.

I’m not going to go into the hell of her ED.  It’s in the past and it’s private.  If you know, you know, and if you don’t, good.

All I’ll say is that my baby, my beautiful, innocent, precious child who I swore to protect and love forever, was hurting so badly that nobody and nothing could help her.  I felt guilt, frustration and deep, raw, gut-wrenching, soul-destroying pain.  Knowing that her pain was worse was only bearable because she needed me not to fall apart.  I learned so much from her.  Her courage and honesty led to mine.  She has become an advocate for the mentally ill and has promoted mental health in her role as president of Heads Up Durham.  She was determined, brave, even humorous about her illness.  She became my hero.

And as I drove home from Aldi, with my head full of decking, house sales, buyers, deadlines and completion dates, I suddenly remembered the phone call and I thought, ‘she is ok’.

And that – THAT – is a Big Thing.

 

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