Family Fall-out
Helen Byrne
To explain my early life, I had a very large family. I am an only child but I never felt like one. We all pretty much lived in the same area of Cardiff, and there was always a cousin to spend time with. My nan’s house was always full of people, and if we visited I’d always see my cousins there. We’d play out in the garden and have lots of fun. I was never lonely. My family were a vibrant bunch of people, and we were never allowed to take ourselves seriously. There were regular social occasions and meet up opportunities. I felt very secure and confident in a large group of people who I loved. They had taught me that I could be anyone I wanted to be. The family was full of female role models who encouraged us children to be who we wanted to be.
When I was thirteen my life changed. Mum and my nan fell out. My youngest uncle had committed the sin of meeting a girl and wanting to marry her. Mum was thrilled, nan wasn’t. Months of niggling began, with mum defending the intended marriage. One day it blew up and suddenly we were on the outside. It was Mothering Sunday and there they were, arguing. I loved them both and wanted it all to stop, but my mum was my priority.
Weeks went by and I felt bereft. I hadn’t seen anyone and there was a stillness in my life that I had never experienced before. No comings and goings, just hushed conversations in rooms where I wasn’t. One day mum asked me if I’d like to see my nan again, and I jumped at the chance. I’d hoped things could be sorted, because I was thirteen and the worst arguments I’d experienced were with friends at school about who should be the milk monitor. Not me I should add. School milk made me feel sick. In my little world arguments could be solved with a quick rendition of ‘make up, make up, never ever break up’ and all would be well with the world.
I visited my nan with my cousin and began to feel uncomfortable with the way nan talked about mum. I felt she was putting me in a difficult position, and I was too young to understand how to defend mum and not upset nan. Life was black and white then and I wasn’t mature enough to be able to cope. I’d go home after seeing nan and mum would ask if I was ok. No more than that, no probing, just checking on me. I felt this huge weight on my shoulders. I couldn’t lie to her, but thankfully she never asked the questions that would necessitate that.
One day I rang my favourite aunt and uncle. I explained what had been going on with my nan and how it made me feel. They were neutral in the squabble and asked me what I felt was the best way forward for me. I thought about it and decided I’d stop visiting my nan. The relief was huge! I felt so grown up suddenly, like I’d made a life changing decision that had given me back some control of things.
I was asked to be a bridesmaid at the wedding of my uncle and the so called ‘demon bride’. We were given the choice of pink or peach dresses. Not much of a choice for a goth in training. Every time we went back for another fitting of the unflattering pink dresses the seamstress would prod me and say ‘you’ve lost more weight’ and have to take mine in again. This went on for a while and they thought I’d just lost weight to look better in my dress. They didn’t know I’d stopped eating. Only after much therapy years later did I realise eating disorders don’t happen because you want to lose weight, they happen in times when you’ve lost control. Now I had something that only I could control, and it was addictive. My life had become turbulent and difficult, but I could secretly stop eating. It was intoxicating. Going to bed hungry became my addiction.
The weeks turned into months and suddenly we were at the day of my uncle’s marriage. All of my family were there, some of whom I hadn’t seen since the day of the argument. I felt unsure of myself amongst the people I had loved the most. I had to think about who I could talk to, and I felt a lot of resentment. I overheard a conversation that two ladies were having about my mum and the things my nan had said about her. It was like I was stuck in a moment, the whole room becoming a blur. For the first time in my life I didn’t know what to do, shout at them that it was lies and cause a scene, or stay quiet and mention it much later. I decided on the latter, but the whole day felt like a trial for me.
When my grandfather became ill a few years later my mum went to visit him. She asked me if I wanted to see him. I refused. The years without my family had been lonely and I had learned to live without them. I realised I didn’t really need them. Well, that’s what I told myself as a coping mechanism. By now I was years into an eating disorder and had ‘grown up’. I had my friends as a new and much improved family. What I’d actually taught myself was how to keep people at arm’s length, something that I’ve never grown out of. I also spent a lot of my young adult life waiting for people to leave me once I’d got to know them. I still don’t really form proper ties with people, and although I have lots of friends, I keep a very small group of close friends. I couldn’t cope with the rejection of losing people in my life. It wasn’t really rejection, but I had programmed myself to believe that if I became attached to anyone, they’d probably go anyway, so best not to.
My family did eventually get back together again, but once again a girl came into our lives who wanted to marry one of my cousins. It seems we don’t do too well at weddings in our family. There was another falling out. I remember the day as chaos happened in the living room, and I quietly made the tea in the kitchen. I felt the emotional shutters coming down as I realised I’d let myself believe we could be a normal family.
Being part of a large, close family was such an important thing to me. I didn’t have siblings. To lose them was more than I could cope with at such a young age. I have found it hard to remember those times and the hurt I felt. Sometimes my brain tells me a different story of my life, but then I remember that I missed so much time with them. When my nan became ill we only had two weeks with her before she died. I was left alone with her one day and she was sleeping. I looked at her and all that had happened and it was as if something clicked. We don’t have very long here. We don’t have time for petty arguments. At that moment I told myself I wouldn’t allow my life to be wasted with silly disagreements. I’d face up to them and deal with them. I’d moved on from the lost little girl who didn’t understand what was happening to a woman who knew the value of happiness, and for living life to its fullest.