Okay, okay. I *know*
I said I survived parental divorce unscathed, and in the main that’s true. I am
undamaged by the process, and it totally was best for everyone.
In the long run.
But a few years prior, when I was maybe eight, maybe nine,
my father left the family home to live with another lady. I’m not sure how long
it lasted, but he lived there for quite a while, to the point where my brother
and I visited him and his new lady friend at weekends, and took day trips and
stuff.
And this spell I took much harder
The details are unimportant, but I remember my mum crying a
lot. At some point my father moved back in, and we carried on as before, though
I realise now it probably wasn’t *quite* as before. But for the duration, my
enduring memory is of my mum crying.
A lot.
And me worrying about her.
A lot.
The most striking memory I have of this time is one that has
always interested me since, as it was my first encounter with psychosomatic
illness. To be brief- I used to walk to school through a residential area, then
climb a small fence, then run across a meadow to my primary school gates. It
was a sort of short cut that everyone used; all the mums used to walk pupils to
the fence, then stand gossiping idly whilst watching the children climb the
fence and make their way across the meadow.
Presumably, because they didn’t want their children walking
all the way alone, and because they didn’t want to scale the fence in front of
the other mums.
Then one day, we were going in late- because of an
appointment or something, one assumes –my mum bade me farewell at the fence, I
hopped over and made my way across the meadow. And I looked back and waved, as
I often did.
And she was standing there on her own. No other mums there
talking. And I became acutely aware that she was going back to the house on her
own. To be alone. And that she was on her own a lot now. And that she would
probably cry.
And she just looked so small.
And I turned round a few more times and waved as I walked
across the meadow. And then I stopped walking and started crying and just ran
back. I ran back all the way across the meadow, sobbing, until I got back the
fence. Mummy was a bit worried initially- I was crying wildly, and having a bit
of an unconsciously self-induced asthma/panic attack. I don’t remember the
conversation, but I ended up going back home with her.
But she knew.
She knew I’d gone back for her, because I was worried about
her, and felt guilty for leaving her on her own.
She knew what I was doing- so
I would be taken home and she wouldn’t be alone in the house. I think it
happened a couple more times before she addressed it more directly and nipped
it in the bud. I didn’t miss more than a couple of afternoons I expect.
But it was a strange turning point.
In my adult life, I am the emotional support for her and her
many, many issues. I don’t tend to need much emotional support from her now- so
our roles have reversed a bit. And that was it. That was the point at which I
started worrying about her, and orchestrating events to protect her from
things, which gradually evolved into me giving her advice about problems and situations.
Which I do quite a bit now.
I suppose I started seeing her as fragile, and adjusted my response,
and our roles adjusted accordingly.
It sounds a bit unhealthy when I relate it like this, but it
wasn’t really. She just needed more taking care of at that point than I did.
I’m not sure it ever switched
back after that, mind...
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