Talking about the ‘T’ word

I’ve tried to sit down and write this at least 5 or 6 times now, and every time I’ve stopped myself before the words could get to full flow. The first time I opened the page, I couldn’t even type the word out, let alone understand what I wanted to say, but I finally think I’m ready to talk (and write) about trauma. Specifically, mine.

When mum came home from hospital just over a month ago, I felt nervous. I thought nervous was the right word for the feeling and after all, it fitted. Of course I would be a little unsure, a little worried - it would take some time to get back to normal. We had plans made with professionals, I had a plan about how I would cope. I was nervous, but it was normal.

So, imagine my surprise last week when I finally realised after a few weeks of sleepless nights, loss of appetite and a constant hum of anxiety that racketed up to a heavy drum beat when my mum didn’t text back within 5 minutes, what I was experiencing wasn’t just a few nerves, but a full on trauma response.

Trauma was something I had briefly (and uncomfortably) discussed with my counsellor over the summer, when mum was in the middle of a lengthy hospital stay without an obvious end in sight. Sure, I could remember how difficult the worry and fear had felt, but I wasn’t keen to discuss it. Trauma as a word, as a ‘thing’ - didn’t feel right to me. It felt too big, too real and too ‘meant for other people who’ve been through worse’. 

And yet, here we are.

I still feel like a fraud. Like I shouldn’t claim trauma in case something ‘genuinely bad’ happens to me. But then in the kindest way possible, I have to sit myself down and remind myself just what the last year has been like. Not just the big, chaotic, terrifying moments - but the small ones that festered away and put just enough fear into my veins to keep me alert. The moments where the niggle took hold and never let go. 

My logical brain tells me things are different, that there is a chance it won’t be the same. That quite practically we have minimised risk and taken steps to prevent the same thing happening again, and yet the lump in my throat lurks around pretty much all the time now. 

I guess the thing is, the body knows, doesn’t it? The body remembers and the body processes fear in a different way. A few weeks ago I was cruelly reminded of this when my mum didn’t answer her phone for our usual morning check in. So many reasons she wouldn’t be answering, and yet my body knows that we’ve been here before, and last time, it was bad. It was the worst (again). It caused me to sit in a corner of my kitchen sobbing, preparing myself for the news that my mum was dead. And so yeah, trauma starts to make a bit of sense now.

I both want to be home and to see my mum, to see her with my own two eyes, but then also don’t because my anxiety goes into overdrive, hypervigilant to everything she says and does in case I miss a sign and don’t do something I should. I want to enjoy the good moments because I know that they are all too fleeting, and when will I next need to get this memory out to comfort me when things get difficult. Most of all, I’d like to relax enough for one minute to believe that it might all turn out ok, stranger things have happened.

The Mind website tells me that it's important to remember when considering past trauma that at the time, you survived however you could’ and this is something that makes a lot of sense to me. When you are looking after someone who is potentially a risk to themselves, you get ‘good’ at processing incredibly painful bits of information as a way of being a good carer. If someone is suicidal, a helpful thing to do is to ask them about it. That’s a good thing to do as a carer. It is also an incredibly hard thing to do as a daughter, when you are utterly terrified of the answer. But you do it, because you have to, and so that fear gets buried under the weight of ‘coping’ instead.

One thing I have tried to explain is the limbo you are in when you care for someone who has previously tried to hurt themselves. Every day you make calculations based on logical risk, and try to override your emotional instinct, but that response and those feelings have to go somewhere, and I guess that’s what I’m finding out now. 

So much of being a carer is swallowing down your own emotional response to what is happening to the person you love. To be practical and cope in that situation is what helps, but it is also very difficult. I had been doing what I could not only to survive myself, but to keep my mum going too. It all starts to make a bit more sense when I look at it that way.

For so long I kept my ‘powder dry’, deep down knowing that if I asked for help now, maybe I wouldn’t get as much if it got worse. There were months and months when that felt like a genuine calculation I had to make - when was it bad enough, when does a tough time become something that causes long-lasting trauma? What if she dies and everyone is already bored of the situation?

And so, when I consider these things - when I actually stop and let myself open up the memories - I’m not so angry at myself for feeling this way now. Sure, it’s annoying and it’s sad that when people say to me ‘oh, you must be so pleased your mum is home’ I don’t want to tell them the truth, but it is what it is.

I don’t have an answer for how I fix it, except for knowing that I need to at least start by accepting it. Accept the word, the concept, the reality of the last year. I need to give myself permission to do that, and to ask for help from others in doing that. I need to learn that you don’t always have to wait for something ‘worse’ to happen to say it’s been a bad time, and even if you do, your body will remember for you.