Alcoholism

My grandmother was an alcoholic.

That sentence might elicit images of tears, tantrums and chaos, but that wasn't the case.

My grandmother was the most important adult in my early childhood. My mother struggled after I was born, and was then in hospital for most of her pregnancy with my sister. My father worked; from what I understand he worked all the hours he could to support his new family. This meant that I spent a lot of my formative years with my grandmother.

Both of my parents will surely have issue with the above, but the fact is that without my maternal grandmother they would have been lost. By lost I mean completely fucked.

I have so many memories with my grandmother that it would take hours to describe them. She was a wonderful human being, who loved my sister and I unconditionally. She had a beautiful garden, full of rose bushes, apple trees and a multitude of berries. I can still picture her stirring a giant pot of fresh raspberries and sugar before transferring it into jam jars. I remember her scolding me for eating all of the ripe gooseberries from the bush, and her threats of stomach ache when I stole fruit from the cooking apple trees.

She collected me from playschool and gave me a 10p bag as I watched Bosco and Mr. Ben, and if I was quiet all the way until tea, there was a glass of cream soda or red lemonade. She waited for us with the lollipop lady and asked about our day; she made me dinner with the butter in a dish straight out of the 20's and tucked me in with an electric blanket. When I was sick, she brought dry toast and 7up and dragged the smaller TV to the bedroom so I could watch cartoons. She let me stay up a little bit later than my sister to watch Prisoner Cell Block H, and then shooed me to bed the second it was over.

My sister likely has a head full of her own happy memories.

But even doting grandmothers have their flaws, although as children they aren't apparent. I don't think children see flaws in those around them, they simply adjust their expectations to match their reality.

My grandmother started to leave the house a lot more in the evenings. My sister probably didn't notice, but our mother worked nights a lot so I was already anxious about being home alone. I felt the need to stay up until I heard the squeak of the gate the signaled her return, until I didn't have to be responsible anymore. I didn't think of it as a problem, minding my sister was my job and I got to watch Unsolved Murders.

She slept in a lot later; there was rarely cereal and milk but we managed; there was more than one near miss with the grill while making toast. After a while there were no Rice Krispies, but we would wake to discover bowls of marshmallows and penney sweets for our breakfast. She tolerated me riffling through the sheds full of old junk, and building forts in the garden. she sent me on pilgrimages to the newsagents to get more cigars, and more importunately, let me spend the change on sweets. She forgot to buy food, but she always brought home a bag of funsize bars. I think we lived on miniature Mars bars and sugar for a large part of our childhood. When one of us caught nits in school, it was my job to administer the treatment and clean the sheets. To this day I have a crippling fear of head lice. When I wasn't tormenting my little sister(sorry Emz), it was my job to make sure she washed, had a clean uniform and that we got to school on time. I had not problem with any of this; it wasn't all of the time and I would have done anything to help my grandmother. She loved me, and I loved her and that feeling of unconditional love was worth a million nights waiting up and doing laundry.

Until the day she used me to try and hide her alcoholism. I have always been a socially awkward person, and the only other 'kids' nearby were two years older, which is significant when you are ten. One summers day I was called into my grandmothers house by my mother. It was in the front room; my grandmother was there, in her chair beside the fire, and she remained silent as my mother demanded to know what I had done with the money. I had no idea what she was talking about so I professed my innocence. I was dismissed, in disgust.

I went outside to the back-garden, where my aunt and uncle were. They ignored me. Then my father arrived; at this point my parents were separated so the fact that my mother called him was significant. He took me to Killiney Hill, a regular walking spot on our weekends together. He sat me down and asked me about the missing money. I had no idea what he was talking about so I professed my innocence. I cried, I begged him to believe me. He told me how disappointed he was, and silently drove me back to my grandmothers. I was branded a thief, looked upon with disgust by the adults in my life and punished.

A few years weeks later(possibly months, childhood timelines are murky), my grandmother was caught trying to double cash a cheque and the extent of her illness was revealed.It turned out the missing cash (approximately €200) had been spent on alcohol, and having no money for her bills she had asked her children for money. When they asked where her alimony had gone she told them that she had cashed the cheque and the money went missing. Then she told them that she had noticed that the kids on the road were being nicer to me, so she suspected I was using the missing money to buy them sweets so they would play with me.

On paper, it's such a little thing. A moment in time that was fleeting and insignificant. But imagine being 10 years old, and finding out that not only did your family believe that you needed to buy friends, but that you were also capable of stealing from your grandmother to fund said transaction. 20 years later and i can still feel the pain in my chest when my dad told me how disappointed he was in me for lying.

The purpose of this post is not to illicit sympathy; but to highlight how impressionable children are. I'm sure my parents and aunt don't even remember that day, but it has haunted me for most of my life. The things you do, and the way you relate to children can have meaningful and long-lasting effects. Be kind to your kids, even when they make mistakes, because there are no do-overs.

I love my grandmother. She was an amazing woman, who loved me and brought light into my life. But her alcoholism has had a huge effect on me; so choose your children over a drink, choose your grandchildren or even better, choose yourself.

ED Recovery

I've typed this sentence countless times over the last two months, and then deleted it. I want to tell you that it's because everything has been going so well that I have nothing say. But that's not the case. The truth is that I have been struggling for the last few months, and I haven't wanted to admit it to anyone. More and more I have been hiding behind that familiar mask, the forced smile and throwaway words when someone asks how I am. That voice in my head, that darkness, convinced me that if I opened up to people they would turn away. That my friends and family are sick of my problems, sick of the burden of having me in their lives. Maybe that's true, I'd understand, but not talking about it isn't getting me anywhere.

I was discharged from an eating disorder unit last August, after 9 weeks of weight gain and various therapy groups aimed at breaking the hold my ED had on me. I gained 11kgs during my stay as a result of a high calorie diet and a largely sedentary lifestyle. The first few weeks at home were difficult and I lost a few kilos, but for the last four months I've maintained the same weight. Which is good for my body - I am healthier than I have been in years. Outwardly, I am doing great, at least that's what people keep telling me. Inside is a different story.

Recovery from an eating disorder is not just about gaining or loosing weight, in fact I would say the numbers on the scale are the easy part. Here I am, a healthy weight with everyone around me commenting on how great I look, and I feel like someone has taken my brain and shoved it inside the Stay Puft marshmallow man(Ghostbusters). In the eight months since my discharge I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror. The most I can manage is focusing on one body part so I can check how fat it looks in whatever I'm wearing. Then more often than not I will go and change. I live in pajamas or tracksuit bottoms for most of the week - today for example, I walked my dogs in my pajama top and a pair of ugly grey tracksuit bottoms, that were inside out. And then I went to the shop, in the same outfit. This isn't a rare occurrence either, some days I just stay in my pajamas; I'll do the shopping, walk the dogs and even go to therapy in my pajamas. It's not that I'm lazy, or haven't done the laundry. It's because I am so deeply ashamed of my body that I can't stand to wear anything that might draw attention to just how fat and revolting I am. I would rather be seen in a pair of Harry Potter pajamas, than a pair of leggings. At least when it was colder I could hide myself under big jumpers and frumpy coats. What am I going to do when the summer arrives?

I wish I could like my body, or just accept it. I wish I didn't want to cry every time I shower or have panic attacks in changing rooms. I wish I could look at a magazine or watch TV without comparing myself to every female on it, berating myself for being lazy and weak. I wish I wasn't compulsively rubbing my collarbones as I type this and telling myself how much better it was when they were sharper and more defined.

When I was in hospital they told me recovery would take a long time, but I didn't really comprehend what that meant. I thought eating would be the hard part, that once I stopped crying over mashed potatoes I would be at the end of the process. In reality, that was just the beginning. This is the hard part, this is when you really have to work. It would be so much easier to fall back into the same pattern of restricting and purging than to try and accept myself the way I am now; to separate my self worth from the numbers. It seems like an insurmountable task to me, and I have no idea how to accomplish it. Perhaps wearing actual clothes to walk the dogs is a good place to start?

A Life Lost

I have written the below with consent from Stephens' mother:

This isn't my first time discussing the mental health services in our country, but sadly today I am not writing on my own behalf.

On Friday the 15th of January Stephen Byrne attended Beaumont A&E to seek medical assistance. He was 20, a devoted father and suicidal. A few days prior, he had attempted to hang himself multiple times while in police custody; at that time he was brought to the Mater but was released. Despite informing staff at Beaumont of his intent to commit suicide, he was discharged. The only help he was offered was that his file would be sent to his clinic in Ballymun.

On Tuesday the 19th of January Stephen went missing; his body was discovered two days later, on his daughter's second birthday. To date, nobody from the Ballymun clinic has made contact with Stephen's family.

As anyone with mental health difficulties knows, asking for help when you are at your lowest is incredibly difficult. It takes unbelievable strength to fight your own mind and reach out. This is especially true for young men, as historically our country has stigmatised those with mental illnesses as weak or failing in some way. Men are statistically less likely to seek treatment for mental health issues, but they are four times more likely to die by suicide then women. Yet, when a young man found the courage to walk into an A&E department he was turned away, with devastating consequences.

I know all too well the pain and desolation of reaching out when all you want to do is die, only to be dismissed and invalidated by the very people who are supposed to offer aid. It might sound histrionic to some, but they might as well help you to step onto the ledge.

After my last suicide attempt, as soon as I regained consciousness I was discharged from Beaumont A&E without ever speaking to a doctor, let alone a member of the psychiatric team. I know a young woman who just last week attempted suicide inside the hospital grounds, and was simply patched up and sent on her way. I know that there are many people with similar accounts, especially those with a history of self-harm or suicide attempts. This is because certain hospitals, as a result of overcrowding and staff shortages, have a policy whereby patients who present more than a handful of times with self-inflicted injuries, including suicide attempts, are no longer referred to the psychiatric team for assessment. We are seen as a waste of resources.

This is not just a local issue, across the nation there are thousands of people waiting for referrals, many of whom will have to travel for hours for an appointment as a result of hospital closures. In some areas the wait for a psychology referral is two years. In 2014 nearly 3000 children and adolescents were on waiting lists for psychiatric referrals and children are routinely admitted to adult psychiatric units.

As a country we are finally starting to break the draconian cycle of shame and secrecy that surrounds mental illness, but our mental health service remains inadequate, underdeveloped and underfunded. The government and politicians are quick to promise change and reforms, but while we wait for them to turn words into actions more and more lives will be lost. Sadly any improvements will be too late for Stephen, his family and his little girl Ava.

Stephen Byrne asked for help and he was rejected; someone decided he was not important enough for their time, their care or their compassion. At what point does someones life become dispensable? Who are we supposed to turn to if our own healthcare system deems us unworthy? They tell people suffering from mental health difficulties to ‘speak up’; to talk to a professional; to not suffer in silence. They ask for our trust, and then break it. Ask yourself, if you were living in hell; if you were in so much pain that you would take your own life to escape it, would you put your survival in the hands of an institution that will likely make your life even more unbearable?