It was a Sunday evening in September – always a Sunday evening. Top of the Pops was playing on the radio, kids around the country poised to press play and record for their latest mix tapes, Sinead O’Connor mournfully lamenting that Nothing Compares 2 U. My nine-year-old self sat, hugging my knees to my chest in the now lukewarm bath, tears rolling silently, constantly down my cheeks.
“It’s ok,” I would tell myself. “You’re ok.” I wasn’t very convincing, though, and later that evening, tucked up in bed, I’d allow my mind to wander freely. Piecing together a different life, an alternative narrative to my reality. I’d fall asleep, temporarily comforted, only to wake the next day with the familiar sense of dread and unease. A heavy, dull feeling in the pit of my stomach, a tight ball at the back of my throat.
I didn’t realise then – couldn’t have, at nine years old – that what I was feeling was a potent cocktail of grief, depression and anxiety; comfortable bedfellows, these three. The nightly tears were quite a habit - I remember once, my mum caught me, admonished me for not telling her how I felt. I’m sure she meant it kindly, but I took it as yet another way in which I’d failed.
You see, being happy was my birth right.
It was, quite literally, how I’d come into this world. My mother had suffered with severe post-natal depression following the birth of my older brother, right up until the point I arrived. “You cured me!” she would sing, and I felt so proud of myself.
It was only some years later that I realised the enormity of this responsibility. It felt as though I’d simply absorbed her pain. I’d taken it from her and made it my own, building my identity around it.
“You’re not special, you know,” remarked my brother, casually one day. “Loads of people feel like this.” And he’s right, I’m not alone in this journey. But for so many years I kept it to myself: a shameful secret, I worried I wasn’t quite right, not quite normal.
And it would come out of the blue, or not. Sometimes, there were warning signs, leaden weights on my chest that made it hard to breathe. I’d feel the walls closing in on me, till my vision blurred, heart pounding, I couldn’t catch my breath.
Other times, from nowhere at all, I’d feel a change inside me – an almost imperceptible shift. One moment I’d be managing just fine, and suddenly I would feel a creeping, foreboding melancholy drifting at the edges of my consciousness. I came to dread this feeling; it left me exposed, rudderless.
It controlled me. The fear, the anxiety, the dark clouds. Every decision I made was based around it, like an abusive, manipulative guardian angel, it kept me safe, it kept me on track. I couldn’t stray too far, couldn’t rebel, couldn’t be spontaneous and carefree. Even as a (slightly) rebellious teen, my hormonal pushing of boundaries was usually, swiftly shoved back down. Deep inside, it would lurk, festering, biding its time.
It might sound odd, but I found it strangely comforting. The rituals I created for myself, to make sure I was OK, to make sure I could cope, were so deeply ingrained that I didn’t even need to think about them anymore. In my bag I always carried some water, a paper bag, some Rescue Remedy. More often than not, I’d have a book – books were always my way of escaping my reality, dissociating myself into a fantasy world where I was safe, normal. If I tried really hard, I could imagine I was someone else.
One Wednesday in June, in a suit, on a hot, suffocating Central line train, I panicked so badly I ate my own hair. In an attempt to conceal the anxiety overwhelming my whole body, I shoved a handful of bangs into my mouth and chewed, trying to maintain the air of a professional, together young adult. It was ok, I was used to it – such was life.
But somewhere along the line, it became very much not OK anymore. It took me 30 years, but eventually I sought help. It was gently suggested that perhaps medication – which I’d always avoided – such a failure – would help.
And reader, it did. It does. These days, I can hop on a train without so much as a cursory glance in my handbag, without a second thought. I know that I’m safe. I know that I’m ok. But who am I, without my safety behaviours? Well, I’m working it out. One day at a time, always remembering to take the tiny pill that has opened up my whole world, I’m working it out.
Beautifully written, Anna. I also used to have a little handbag stash of things I kept for 'safety' including an out-of-date Rescue Remedy! I'm so glad you've found what works for you now.
The first two paragraphs of this piece as well as the detail about eating your hair in the subway are so vivid and powerful. I wanted to wrap my arms around you little 9 year old self. I am glad that a small pill has been able to do so much for you.