My name’s Rob. I’m 35 years old and I’m messed up. Except,
I’m not. Well, not really. But that doesn’t stop me thinking it. Let’s face it,
we all do. And that’s perfectly normal. There are periods in all our lives when
we feel empty and hopeless; like we’re searching for answers in a world full of
questions. I’ve found that life is not easy. It’s not the fairy-tale we
imagined it to be as children. The big, bad world is an unforgiving place,
particularly for delicate souls.
In this blog I’m going to document the demons I’ve faced on
this journey we call life and how I have (or haven’t) dealt with them. I hope this
will be a cathartic exercise for me, written at a point in my life where I
stand at a crossroads, unsure of which direction to head. It will be personal
and honest. At times it might sound brutal. But it'll be me, completely unfiltered, unveiling my innermost
thoughts and hopefully providing reassurance to others.
Coping with bereavement
Losing a loved one is a sad reality of life. The first time it
happens can be a harrowing experience. As youngsters we aren’t exposed to this darker
side. But everything changes when someone close passes away. A piece of you, an
innocence and naivety, leaves never to return. I lost my granddad when I was
six years old. My memories of him are sketchy and I was too young even to go to
his funeral. To some extent I was shielded from that pain.
When I was 13, mine and my family’s lives changed forever.
On January 2 1998, my younger brother Chris, was diagnosed with Leukaemia. Two
decades later I still have a vivid recollection of that day. It turned out
Chris, 11 at the time, had contracted a very aggressive form of the disease
that conventional chemotherapy could not cure and, just several months later,
he had to undergo a bone marrow transplant. As a consequence, he spent several
weeks in isolation at Bristol Hospital to protect his vulnerable immune system.
I visited at weekends and recall standing outside his window trying to
communicate with him through the glass, with varying success.
For a short while the transplant seemed to have done the
trick. But in June of that year, less than six months after his initial
diagnosis, the Leukaemia returned and was terminal. I’ll never forget exactly
where I was stood when I was told the news and the emotions that rushed through
my head. Chris only had two weeks to live. He returned home, I finished school
for the year and we spent that time together as a family. Chris was very weak
so our activities were limited, but I remember a day trip to the Isle of Wight.
He and I still sparred, as brothers do, as I was keen to treat him as though everything
was normal, even in the most abnormal of circumstances. He passed away in his
sleep on July 17.
Chris was the best brother I could have asked for. He and I were very different in some ways; he was extremely gregarious and loud - qualities that did not come naturally to me. We shared a bedroom for most of his life and despite the brotherly arguments, we always looked out for each other. Alongside the bravado he had a heart of gold. What I remember most about Chris during his horrendous illness was that not once did I hear him complain or ask 'why me?' He remained true to himself throughout and for that reason and so many more, he will always be my hero.
As a young child I too was quite outgoing,
but shy around people I didn’t know. With age I’ve become more of an introvert.
The first thing we’re told when something bad happens is not to bottle our feelings.
That it’s not healthy. But it takes courage to be vulnerable. Nobody wants to feel
exposed. I went to some group counselling sessions at school with others who
had experienced trauma. But I never really opened up and felt I had been forced
to go rather doing so of my own volition. I always thought nobody could relate
to what I had gone through, so what was the point? Losing a sibling felt a lot bigger
than having to deal with parents divorcing, for example. Those parents were
still around; my brother wasn’t coming back.
It may sound unusual but I cannot remember every crying about Chris. During my teenage years and even into my 20s, I rarely spariousoke
about him. I often thought about him of course and cherished his memory, but
I found it hard to say his name. Anniversaries and birthdays were dates I
dreaded. It’s not that I was trying to forget him, I just didn't want to process
what had happened to me as a 13-year-old. I always tried to lighten the mood
with a joke when the conversation became poignant and I saw others getting
upset. It was my coping mechanism.
As I said earlier, I’d never been a crier. That changed when
my nan passed away in 2012. After Chris’s death, I didn’t lose another family
member until two of my grandparents passed away in the space of two years. My
nan’s death was unexpected and came as a great shock. That evening I went to
see my girlfriend and cried uncontrollably, for what must have been an hour or
more. I didn’t see it coming, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t
just a few tears; I was struggling to breathe. I was having a breakdown that
almost certainly was not only about my nan. Fourteen years of repressed emotions
had erupted in spectacular fashion. All it had needed was a trigger.
In hindsight I should have identified that episode as a warning
sign. All was not well. Apart from my girlfriend – the only person with whom I
felt able to be my true self – nobody else knew what had happened; not even my parents
or closest friends. Keeping it to myself was a mistake. I should have opened up
and shared my grief. But my reluctance to confront or talk
about my emotions is a theme that has run through my life. And, as I will explain, it has impacted me in so many other ways.
Comments
Post a Comment