My Mother----My Self
Without Prejudice
It has taken me a long time to "Get Over " my Mothers death. To forgive her for dying at 53 and leaving us, her children alone.
I feel like I have become the woman that she would have been if she had lived and hadn't been ill.She was strong, hated pretension, loved kids and was a feminist, before feminism came into being. A mover and shaker, the Special Needs Adoption people called her. She was a Tartar as my sister Jackie said. A genius and a depressive with schizophrenia. She died by committing suicide as a lot of schizophrenic's do.
Natalie Wilsher, she was, no middle name. Born into a poor mining family in West Yorkshire. She had three siblings, Jack, Betty, Patricia. Aunty Bet is the only one still alive and is now 91. Her Mother was Lucy who I am named after. And her Father was George Wilsher who my brother is named after.
She was a child prodigy at school, same as I was, and won a place at a posh English Grammar school when she was 12. My brother and I had the privilege of going to the same school, Thornes House Grammar in Wakefield, U.K., when we returned to the U.K.from Australia. We were on scholarships requested by my Mother at her old Alma Mater. I was 12 when I started and 16 when I left, reluctantly, as my Dad was out of work.
Mum went to War, she was 19. My Aunt, her Sister Betty, said she had a brilliant mind, a beautiful mind and was so clever. She was in the RAF and became a war plane flight plotter in London. I have since seen a documentary on these women and they were based in the War Rooms at Churchills Head Quarters.
She was badly injured one night on cycling back to her barracks in Brown Out, strafed by a German Bomber with machine guns going off all around her. She ended up in Hospital. And later found wandering around London not knowing who she was. That period lasted three months. She was eventually found and packed up and sent back to Yorkshire, to home and Family.
I questioned my aunt last time she was here in Australia and she finally admitted that Mum saw a psychiatrist at that time. For Schizophrenia. My aunt was reluctant to talk about it as Mental Illness was not spoken of then and was one of those awful family secrets that no one wants to talk about.
Mental illness was seen as shameful and when she became ill with Graves Disease in her late 40's, the schizophrenia returned and the treatment was not anti depressants in the 70's it was sedatives which only served to make her worse. She hated psychiatrists with a passion and somehow she would convince them she was sane, they gave her more sedatives, and as soon as she left their office would be exactly the same. Mad.
Dad and I would follow her out of the psychiatrists office and try and stop her running off into traffic. I was 16 and had been called up to Queensland to help take care of her. Not a chance, she was unrecognisable to me. Most of the time she didn't know who I was and I had to lock her up in the house with me. At that point she was as nutty as a fruit cake.
She trembled, she "saw" things, things that I could not see and heard voices. Thank God they weren't the type of voices that told her to kill me, but she attacked me a few times and even though skinny she had the strength of ten men. There is nothing sadder than writhing around on the floor with your Mother trying to subdue her while her blue eyes blazed with unknowing. She could be terrifying.
When my Sister and I were diagnosed with depression we were numb. I refused to believe it at first and even though crying my eyes out still thought I had some sort of hormonal imbalance. My Sister diagnosed six months later was in shock as well. We both were. But our treatment was simple, anti depressants and changes to our lifestyle. Simple compared to Mum.
But when I was first diagnosed all I could see was me becoming my Mum. The doctor told me to not be stupid, my Mother was ill, he said. But for a time I was sure I would turn in to her and that thought sent me into a tail spin for a few days. I also get S.A.D. In winter which makes me want to withdraw from social contact, hibernate, eat lots of carbs and lifts when the spring returns.
I am used to it now but at the time it was truly terrifying and exhausting. My big Sister and I at least can commiserate with each other. I'm the cryer and she is the snappy one. We get by. All we have to do is remember to take our Anti Crazy pill every day and ignore the brilliance of the idea that one day we can stop taking them. Unless we want to go the E.C.T. Route for shock treatment. Neither of us fancy the idea, so we don't. Shades of One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest,
It's simply hereditary and is a simple chemical imbalance in the brain. I try to live a very healthy lifestyle, a selfish sort of lifestyle, simple, basic without too much stress as anxiety goes hand in hand with depression. When I do feel anxious I clean. Clean and clean and clean. My unit is spotless and when it's all shiny and tidy and perfect, I feel a lessening of anxiety. Mum couldn't have cared less about how the house or herself looked.
Not looking after yourself is one of the first signs of depression, that and early morning waking up and not being able to get back to sleep. Mum once she became ill, stopped looking after herself and would sleep. Just sleep, sometimes all day, not shower or do her hair. The house would be a mess, dark and dirty and my Sister would go over to the house and yell at Mum and end up doing the housework herself.
It has taken me a long time to "Get Over " my Mothers death. To forgive her for dying at 53 and leaving us, her children alone.
I feel like I have become the woman that she would have been if she had lived and hadn't been ill.She was strong, hated pretension, loved kids and was a feminist, before feminism came into being. A mover and shaker, the Special Needs Adoption people called her. She was a Tartar as my sister Jackie said. A genius and a depressive with schizophrenia. She died by committing suicide as a lot of schizophrenic's do.
Natalie Wilsher, she was, no middle name. Born into a poor mining family in West Yorkshire. She had three siblings, Jack, Betty, Patricia. Aunty Bet is the only one still alive and is now 91. Her Mother was Lucy who I am named after. And her Father was George Wilsher who my brother is named after.
She was a child prodigy at school, same as I was, and won a place at a posh English Grammar school when she was 12. My brother and I had the privilege of going to the same school, Thornes House Grammar in Wakefield, U.K., when we returned to the U.K.from Australia. We were on scholarships requested by my Mother at her old Alma Mater. I was 12 when I started and 16 when I left, reluctantly, as my Dad was out of work.
Mum went to War, she was 19. My Aunt, her Sister Betty, said she had a brilliant mind, a beautiful mind and was so clever. She was in the RAF and became a war plane flight plotter in London. I have since seen a documentary on these women and they were based in the War Rooms at Churchills Head Quarters.
She was badly injured one night on cycling back to her barracks in Brown Out, strafed by a German Bomber with machine guns going off all around her. She ended up in Hospital. And later found wandering around London not knowing who she was. That period lasted three months. She was eventually found and packed up and sent back to Yorkshire, to home and Family.
I questioned my aunt last time she was here in Australia and she finally admitted that Mum saw a psychiatrist at that time. For Schizophrenia. My aunt was reluctant to talk about it as Mental Illness was not spoken of then and was one of those awful family secrets that no one wants to talk about.
Mental illness was seen as shameful and when she became ill with Graves Disease in her late 40's, the schizophrenia returned and the treatment was not anti depressants in the 70's it was sedatives which only served to make her worse. She hated psychiatrists with a passion and somehow she would convince them she was sane, they gave her more sedatives, and as soon as she left their office would be exactly the same. Mad.
Dad and I would follow her out of the psychiatrists office and try and stop her running off into traffic. I was 16 and had been called up to Queensland to help take care of her. Not a chance, she was unrecognisable to me. Most of the time she didn't know who I was and I had to lock her up in the house with me. At that point she was as nutty as a fruit cake.
She trembled, she "saw" things, things that I could not see and heard voices. Thank God they weren't the type of voices that told her to kill me, but she attacked me a few times and even though skinny she had the strength of ten men. There is nothing sadder than writhing around on the floor with your Mother trying to subdue her while her blue eyes blazed with unknowing. She could be terrifying.
When my Sister and I were diagnosed with depression we were numb. I refused to believe it at first and even though crying my eyes out still thought I had some sort of hormonal imbalance. My Sister diagnosed six months later was in shock as well. We both were. But our treatment was simple, anti depressants and changes to our lifestyle. Simple compared to Mum.
But when I was first diagnosed all I could see was me becoming my Mum. The doctor told me to not be stupid, my Mother was ill, he said. But for a time I was sure I would turn in to her and that thought sent me into a tail spin for a few days. I also get S.A.D. In winter which makes me want to withdraw from social contact, hibernate, eat lots of carbs and lifts when the spring returns.
I am used to it now but at the time it was truly terrifying and exhausting. My big Sister and I at least can commiserate with each other. I'm the cryer and she is the snappy one. We get by. All we have to do is remember to take our Anti Crazy pill every day and ignore the brilliance of the idea that one day we can stop taking them. Unless we want to go the E.C.T. Route for shock treatment. Neither of us fancy the idea, so we don't. Shades of One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest,
It's simply hereditary and is a simple chemical imbalance in the brain. I try to live a very healthy lifestyle, a selfish sort of lifestyle, simple, basic without too much stress as anxiety goes hand in hand with depression. When I do feel anxious I clean. Clean and clean and clean. My unit is spotless and when it's all shiny and tidy and perfect, I feel a lessening of anxiety. Mum couldn't have cared less about how the house or herself looked.
Not looking after yourself is one of the first signs of depression, that and early morning waking up and not being able to get back to sleep. Mum once she became ill, stopped looking after herself and would sleep. Just sleep, sometimes all day, not shower or do her hair. The house would be a mess, dark and dirty and my Sister would go over to the house and yell at Mum and end up doing the housework herself.
