2 years and goodbye

The weather is prosaic.
Dark clouds, with bright sunshine breaking through.
Blustery winds.
On again off again rain showers.
Dampness in the air.

2 years is a long time.
A long time to keep opening up and revealing yourself.
Time and again.
A long time to spend with someone and never really know them.

2 years is a long time to prepare for an ending that you can't really prepare for. It's a long time to have a safety net; how do you prepare for that safety net to disappear overnight?

I sought counselling because I was grieving, angry, and mentally unwell.
2 years later the only part that doesn't remain is the grieving part. Not in the ever present way it did back then.
It's taken 2 years to realise I can't be fixed and be made "whole" and "perfect" the way I so desperately desire.
Knowing that and not desiring it are  as different as fire and water.

Hours of ranting and raging, crying and laughing.
Hours of my life, gone.
Hours of who I was, who I am and who I could be.
Hours that have set me up for this next step; the step after the ending.

What is my life going to be without you?
I'm taking this next step and I know I'll want to tell you. 
And you won't be there for me to tell. 

2 years is a long time to be saying goodbye.

#WorldMentalHealthDay

Last night, shortly after I'd settled into my bed, I heard what at first I thought was my sister arguing with my dad. Question Time was on, and she was still downstairs cooking something for her dinner today, so I figured they were just having a heated debate about something. Then after a moment or two I realised I recognised those noises - they were the noises of utter desperate crying.

I literally leapt out of bed and ran downstairs, to find my sister crying into the shoulder of my dad as he hugged her.

I stood there until they parted and asked "What the hell happened?" I was so bemused - I'd been upstairs about 10 minutes and when I'd left them all was well.

And then my sister said, "Dad asked me why I was cooking."

Now, that doesn't sound like a reason to burst into tears. But my sister had started cooking a bit before, and told our dad she was cooking something to eat for her dinner tomorrow [Friday] night. 

Dad: Oh right. Where are you going tomorrow night?
Claire: I'm going to a gig at Wembley. I'm seeing a comedian, Miranda Hart.
Dad: Ok.

So how, approximately 15 minutes later, had my dad forgotten this entire conversation and asked my sister again why she was cooking? He is not elderly and suffering with memory problems. 

The simple fact is that he is an alcoholic and he was drunk.

My sister leaves early in the morning for work, before my dad, so she often doesn't see him until she gets home. And by the time she gets home he's already had a glass of wine or two. At weekends he gets up at 10am and starts drinking about 1pm, unless he's driving somewhere. Added to which my sister works alternate Saturday mornings. This means that on average, my sister sees my father sober for about 9 hours a week, give or take. 

There are 168 hours in the week. So that (if my maths is right) means my sister sees my father sober for less than 6% of the week. 

He repeatedly forgets conversations we've had, because we only really get to have conversations with him in the evenings, by which point he's almost near the end of the first bottle of wine, or starting on the second. He frequently falls asleep at his desk downstairs, or even at the dinner table. I've found him asleep downstairs at 1am. He has even fallen asleep whilst eating his dinner.

Our father is an alcoholic. Addiction is a mental health issue. And today is World Mental Health Day.

My family has had a range of mental health issues on the years, the most significant being depression. My sister has been recently treated for it, my mother has had it, her mother has had it, my uncle has had it, and my grandad currently has it. So literally everyone on the maternal side of the family. I was treated for "behavioural" problems that was probably depression when I was younger. This had made us - especially my sister - hyperaware of the strength of our mental health, and protecting it. And right now my sister's mental health is not being protected. She is not in any regular counselling and whilst she is not being treated for depression now, that is not to say she cannot be treated for it again. Living in a house with an alcoholic father who has pointedly said he doesn't care if his drinking kills him is not the easiest, most loving environment for my sister. It's not the one she needs as she delves into the working world, having got through her depression and graduated from one of the toughest universities in the world.

It's not that we don't love our dad, and we don't doubt that he loves us. He just needs alcohol more than he sees the need to grow old and see us through life as far as he possibly can. 

And we said as much last night. He did his sad puppy dog face when he knows he's in trouble, and he went and sat down in his computer chair, hanging his head. It was hard to know what to say. So we just told him the truth: that it is hurtful and painful for us to accept that he doesn't care about us enough to care about living. "What if we have kids", Claire asked. "Will you be around to see your grandchildren? Don't you want to see how we turn out?"

Both my sister and I are worried about our drinking habits. Having seen what wine has done to both our parents (our mother's drinking habits have significantly improved since she got a new boyfriend, because having her two daughters intervene and cry about how much she drank was not enough to make her stop or even cut down, but a disapproving new boyfriend was), we are worried about becoming dependent on alcohol. On "needing" alcohol. It is an issue we will probably both be concerned about for the rest of our lives.

That is why treating mental health is so vitally important for everybody. It has been the "underdog" of the NHS - never treated the same as physical health. But my father's addiction to wine is going to have physical implications - he is overweight, and he is doing daily damage to his organs. Can you see how connected everything can be?

And there's the rub. Our mental health adversely affected by the mental health of our father. Aspects of our futures wrapped up in actions of an alcoholic. 

For my father, his future lies at the bottom of his second bottle of wine. At the 4th, the 8th, the 13th. 
7 days a week, my dad drinks about 2 bottles a night. 

If a vampire were ever to attack, I'd be surprised if blood flowed from my father's veins. Instead the vampire would probably just get drunk.
Then they'd have something in common with my father.


Update 12/10/14: On Friday night (10th) I was leaving to go out. My dad had arrived home from work and when I said "I'm off to Sutton." he asked "OK, are you meeting Claire there?" I started to say "No Claire is in London" and halfway through I realised this question meant he didn't remember her telling him where she was going. And I had a bad feeling he didn't remember their argument either.
I was right. Saturday morning, when we all got up, Dad admitted that he couldn't remember Claire telling him where she was going...and he couldn't remember their argument. He looked sheepish (as he had done Thursday night), but at least this time he was sober when we told him the reasons why we had argued - his drinking, how it affects us, and how horrible it makes us feel.
He's on glass of wine number "no idea" (his words). I estimate 2nd or 3rd. It's 7pm.

40 Days and 40 Nights

[Trigger warning] self-harm 

Tomorrow, my countdown to Australia hits 40 days.
40 days.

Erm, how did that happen? I do not feel like I will be stepping on a plane in 40 days and heading off to the other side of the world.

I mean, that's only a month and a half. No, it's less! It's less than a month and a half! Unless that month is February. But that month is not February! 

I don't even feel remotely ready. So many things to do, so little time. When I keep getting days of nausea, and my head is bad or good or great or worse depending on the day, I wonder if I'm going to be ready. If I'm going to be okay. 

My biggest fear is that I won't cope. Won't cope being away from family, from friends, trying to get work, adjusting to customs, and the heat. And I haven't in the past been well known for my coping skills. 

In fact, I have a history of engaging in destructive behaviour as a way of coping. Selfish behaviour that I would say I will never fully exorcise from who I am today, or who I will become. 

Because the way I used to "cope" was with self-harm.

The reason I'm mulling over this in particular today is because I caught a glance at my arm. And the scars there are minimal, despite everything I inflicted on them. But the light caught them, and for a second my mind froze, and I thought to myself "ah yes, that's how I'll cope if things get bad."

No. No no no. 

I recognise that I will never get over that part of me. Not just because of the scars that remind me daily of my selfishness. But because a tiny part of me remembers the feeling of ecstasy with every cut. The bitter happiness. The feeling that I was taking control, of something, anything, at times when I felt nothing was ok. 

The cuts were my anger, directed at myself because I wanted to direct it at others and had been chastised for doing so. I still have anger management issues. I smashed a wall with my fist in Tombstone, Arizona, in an act I am so ashamed of I practically blank that night out from my memory. I was angry that I couldn't cope, that my brain wasn't processing shit properly. 

I am ashamed of my behaviour that night, and I am ashamed of all the times I harmed myself. Let me go back to the word I used above - it is selfish. And this selfishness is good and bad. It is bad because a self-harmer does not consider what effect their actions have on other people. Not until afterwards. When you are in such desperate need to hurt yourself, to numb the pain, to just cope, you are only thinking about yourself. And that is the good part. I am not advocating self-harm in anyway. I am simply saying that by taking your feelings into account, and trying to find an outlet for them, that is a good kind of selfish. But these actions you take have consequences, sometimes fatal, and always life-altering. 

It's okay to need to cope. And I can cope for the next 40 days. And the 40 days after that. And the next. I don't need that way of coping anymore. 

In my darkest times, it's comforting, like a reassuring hug. But I'm staying in the light. I'm "clean", and I'm staying that way.