My Truth

Mental. Health. 

Mental? Health! 

YAY MENTAL HEALTH! WOO HOO! 

I’ve never liked the term “Mental health”. It makes you sound like you’re a bit bonkers and that’s not what I’m looking for in the playground. I guess they find mindfulness too much of a mouthful. It seems to be the buzzword of the moment in the same way it used to be the “Floss” or the “Macarena”. Soon enough people will move onto the next craze whilst my pain and anxiety will remain and I will cope with it as best I can. 

Celebrities are everywhere telling their truth on terrestrial and streaming channels, how their lives may look great but really they’re very unhappy. Their stories are all very similar and end with them justifying their oversharing to the millionaire interviewer by hoping it helps others share their own mental health stories. I bet the cheque for ten million dollars to share their truth helps make their pity party something to remember as well though.  

What does a 12-year-old girl get if they share their truth with someone? A Twix and a Fanta, if I’m lucky! Most of the time I’d be rewarded with an uncomfortable silence, maybe a snigger or two and an inappropriate joke or the default “Get a grip!” or “Is it your period again?”. So even though I’m not famous or even worth anyone's time I thought I would write down my story in the hope it at least helps me and maybe others in the future. 

The first five years of my life were wonderful with parents who loved me but sadly within twelve months of my fifth birthday Mum and Dad were both dead and I was put into foster care. I resented everyone else at school who had parents still alive when I had done nothing wrong and yet was now alone forever! It wasn’t fair. What had I done to deserve this? Sure I had been naughty at times, like any young kid, but that didn’t mean I had to be punished in this way. It took me a long time to really process this as was so overwhelming. I was too young to know what grief really was so at my young age I saw it as if Santa had decided to gift me with dead parents for Christmas instead of that new bike I’d asked for. Part of my brain still hates Santa for doing this to me and then I remember I made that up and the feelings subside. 

To write about these things I have to unlock the room in my mind where all the memories of my parents deaths and that time in my life live. It was the only way at six years old I could try and deal with the emotions hitting me all at the same time. Foster parents don’t want a little kid constantly crying, running away and punching walls so I agreed to lock those memories that trigger me into this room in my head. It’s really worked even though the downside is I struggle to remember their faces now and again but I have a couple of photos to refresh my memory. In recent months puberty has hit and all the confusion and emotions that come with that time of life. This has caused the door to Mum and Dad’s room in my head to unlock on it’s own quite a lot. It’s so overwhelming as I’m trying to get used to sanitary towels and my body developing, then my brain hits me with Dad’s face the last time I saw him and that’s the rest of my day ruined trying to deal with it. 

I’ll never forget when he told me about his illness. I’d heard of cancer before but only as part of someone reading my horoscope. When he said he had cancer I immediately thought, “Why is a star sign killing my Dad?” but he soon explained that it has more than one meaning. Still didn't make sense, why call a horrible illness after that? Does that make me a horrible illness as well? I stopped using the C word to say which star sign I was but when my mate at school told me “Crabs” were lice in your pubes I decided to give up with horoscopes completely. 

Dad was so proud of the size of his tumour when they removed it. “Size of a fist!” he’d say acting like he’d won a huge boxing match. That humour soon disappeared as he had to go through endless rounds of treatment and learn to walk again. The tumour was at the base of his back so it took months for him to get better. Mum had been amazing, still doing the school run and making sure our life continued whilst Dad was in hospital but I could always tell when she’d been crying.  

The last day I saw Dad I could tell this was not a normal visit as Mum's tone was much more serious than usual. We walked into the ward and Dad’s face was so pale underneath all the tubes and beeps. I sat down next to him and stroked the back of his hand. They told me he could hear me but I wasn't so sure. The cancer had returned in his lungs and this was where I found out the word “terminal” wasn’t just something you hear at airports. Why would you use that word to talk about going on holiday and a disease that will definitely kill you? I still don’t know. I remember many years later asking my foster parent Steve about it and he said “You’ve never been to Butlins!” 

Dad died that night, his body had been fighting back from the huge tumour he had in his back so it was simply too much for him. At the time, I lashed out because I wanted my Dad back but I know now that he would have been in so much pain. I still talk to him now and again and some people don’t even get six years of time with their parents. 

The funeral and all the fuss was a blur but I vividly remember that by the end of that month Mum looked really tired and drained. She would sleep all weekend and I had to learn how to make my own breakfast and lunch. I would keep telling my Mum to see a doctor and she said she would but I knew she was lying. After a few weeks of this behaviour I came downstairs in the morning and Mum was unconscious on the floor. I called 999 and within an hour we were back in the hospital seeing doctors and nurses we’d hoped we’d never see again. They diagnosed her with type 1 diabetes and she was immediately on dialysis three times a week. I’m sure that’s why I hate the sight of blood so much. 

It was horrendous. Over the next ten months Mum lost so much weight, the doctors kept her hopes up by adding Mum to a list for a new kidney but finding a donor took time. I still remember the call, Mum was giddy with joy. They’d found a donor and she needed to go in for tests. I had to stay with the neighbours overnight. I didn't mind as it had become quite a common occurrence as Mum had more and more off days. I didn’t hear the phone call but my neighbours sat me down to say Mum had a fall whilst in hospital. By the time we got to the hospital it had been upgraded from a fall to “renal failure” and by the morning Mum was gone. I was six years old and had gone from a blissful life with the greatest Mum and Dad and now I was on my own.   

It’s fair to say this sent me into a spiral of emotions and reactions that made it difficult to find foster parents who were brave enough to take me on. I got through six foster homes in six months as I pushed against life in every possible way, ways that I will never write down as I’m far too embarrassed by my behaviour. It wasn’t understandable or justified, it was unfair on those foster parents who really wanted to help me but I was too young to really understand and explain my emotions to anyone. It was pure rage at the world that dared to take my Mum and Dad away from me.  

Lots of people were making choices for me to try and give me some stability in my life and I was rejecting it at every turn. That was when social services arranged an appointment with a psychiatrist and she helped me create Mum and Dad’s room in my brain. That was the key to the person I am today and I met my long term foster parents Marion and Steve soon afterwards. They helped me settle into a new school, make new friends, meet people my age who had gone through similar experiences and most importantly enjoy life again. 

After many years of therapy and returning to some kind of normality, the first few weeks after Mum and Dad’s door was unlocked again was overwhelming. I spent lots of that time in bed off school trying to deal with the wave after wave of memories and emotions paralysing my mind and body. But my shrink told me that I needed to take back control and make my own choices so that’s what I did. Mum and Dad are a part of who I am and that includes their deaths. Yes it still feels unfair they’re no longer around but I have to use that as a strength rather than a weakness. That’s how I choose to think about it anyway... most of the time.  

I enjoy opening the door now and again to revisit all those happy memories before that dark year and know it is unlikely I will ever experience anything as tragic and challenging as those twelve months. As I write this, I may only be 12 years old but my life experience is much older compared to my peers and I own that now. I’ve not had to take medication yet but if that’s ever necessary to keep me alive and safe, so be it. This is my truth, I own and control my mental health and mindfulness now and I don’t need to go on TV to tell the world about it to aid in my own happiness. But if anyone has a spare cheque for ten million dollars that would also help.