Trigger warning: this text contains mention of suicide.
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There have always been mental health issues in my family.
My father had many problems associated with compulsive obsessive disorder such as an excessive dislike of many foods. He would never eat poultry of any kind. The only vegetables he ate were potatoes, but they had to be either baked in the oven or fried. As for salads, he would only eat the tender leaves at the heart of a salad, celery and tomatoes with their skins and seeds removed. He didn’t eat soup, stews, pasta or beans. He did like roast beef provided he could get the roasted outer layer. He never touched pork or lamb but would eat cured meat such as bacon (just streaky), ham and even tongue. He like rice pudding but it had to be dried up and served with the skin at the top. As for fish, he would only eat plaice and it had to be battered and deep fried. He didn’t like eggs except in an omelette but did like cheese. My grandmother (who was an excellent cook) didn’t know what to do with my father and sent him off during the vacations to spend time with her sister who had a boarding house near the sea and prepared him bacon sandwiches “Southampton way”! My mother (who was not a good cook) obviously found my father’s food choices very difficult to deal with.
I remember from a young age my father throwing his plate of food on the floor, resulting in my mother losing her temper. In retrospect, this has its comical side, but at the time, this deeply affected me, and most probably my brother, and led me to run away to my grandparents’ house each time it happened. Another reason I spent so much time with my grandparents until I went to secondary school was because I also had a problem with food. I wouldn’t eat.
My mother also had mental health issues, stemming from the fact that her mother died when she was ten. Since her father was not able to cope after the death of his wife, the family was split up and she and one of her sisters ended up on a desolate hillside sheep farm with no amenities and having to walk several miles to school in all kinds of weather. After finishing school at 17, she trained as a nurse but had to give this up when she developed tuberculosis. After leaving the sanitarium, she had nowhere to go, so she told me that she ended up marrying my father, although she was warned not to by my grandmother. Despite all these hardships and challenges, she developed resilience and determination. However, her childhood experiences deeply affected her and resulted in depression, difficulty with relationships and lack of empathy at times.
My brother, when in his teens, started to develop traits of obsessive compulsive tendencies. He loved geology and would fill his father’s small car with so many rocks that the boot would almost touch the ground. When using the bus, he would take a newspaper to sit on. He also had issues with food and smells. He couldn’t tolerate the smell of cooking fish and would get very angry with anyone preparing it. An artist, he went to several art colleges but could not stay; he was unable to get on with his professors. Despite being very intelligent and knowledgeable, he never had a salary and lived with his parents until my mother could no longer stand his constant flareups, his abusive behaviour, and his hoarding: he would fill the small house with boxes of books, model cars, planes, trains. My mother gave my father an ultimatum and they bought another house. However, this didn’t solve the problem completely because my brother would still go to prepare his food at their house every day and he filled it with his boxes. They never succeeded in keeping him away. When I used to go to see my parents with my two daughters, we would dread my brother turning up because we knew he would soon start getting angry. This affected my children because my brother could be very cruel.
Growing up, my children did not seem to have many problems with mental health, although we all suffered to some extent from anxiety. My elder daughter decided to study medicine. An excellent student, her anxiety worsened and she started getting panic attacks. Because of this, she decided to shorten her residency and study family medicine. That was probably not a good choice for her. After graduating, she decided to work in the hospital Emergency department. An avid cross country skier and cyclist, she injured her knee which led to chronic pain. Depressed with her boyfriend, her profession and her chronic pain issues, she was given antidepressants and opiates. A combination of all these factors led to her taking her life.
My granddaughter, who was born three months before my daughter’s death, helped both my younger daughter and myself to deal with our grief and guilt. The death of a child is something a parent never gets over. It’s a tragedy and we all bear part of the guilt. We can’t avoid it, but we have a choice between giving up or carrying on and making the most of the life we still have left – that is a gift in itself.
By Margaret Brunelle