I didn’t choose estrangement, it chose me. I am not a writer, or a journalist, but I felt the need to share what I have experienced over the past two years because it has been life shifting. It’s like the tectonic plates of my life have changed, and many other things have changed in my life as a result.

It all started when I felt I needed some help with my mental health. Lockdown and Covid 19 had taken their toll. My husband and I had our own business, which had to shut down whilst lockdown was in place. He was always so sure, so certain about everything, so when he started to falter I did too. I had always like the idea of speaking to a third party, or getting therapy, but this seemed like the right time. I went via the Betterhelp app. I spoke to a friendly counsellor in America. He was a no nonsense, practical kind of guy. He was always sitting on a warm looking porch, while I froze in the Yorkshire winter.

He started our sessions by grounding me. Tapping and hugging myself, making notes about how I felt. The sense that someone had my back, and that I was being supported was lovely. I liked that he was an older man as he had a fatherly quality about him. We chatted about my business and family life. I didn’t actually mind teaching the children from home. They are great kids and I didn’t find that aspect hard as I had a background in teaching. The conversations about my husband too were fine. He struggled because he didn’t like financial uncertainty. We specifically bought our business because it was so solid and created a nearly guaranteed income. The curveball of lockdown was something he couldn’t foresee and knocked him for six. That was all so logical and understandable. I knew times may be difficult, but we would get through this and support each other in the process. Maybe it would also give me the chance to support him too as he had always taken a lot of the emotional load when the kids were young.

The red flags started to appear when I spoke about my parents. I had always just accepted my parents as they were. Everyone argued, didn’t they? I once mentioned that my parents used to shout at each other in the car when I was small and his eyebrows shot up. I got a sense that this was not part of everyone’s life. But I wasn’t hit, well once or twice, but not all the time. My dad lost his temper regularly, he had rage filled outbursts. Was this normal? Didn’t everyone have outbursts behind closed doors? I knew that my husband didn’t like shouting, but I put that down to him having a more steady character. He wasn’t filled with passion and energy like me and rest of my family.

Turned out it’s not normal, or healthy, or right. Growing up in a house where you don’t feel safe is not OK. It creates hypervigilance and control issues. It creates an environment where you think this is normal and you pass the same shit on to your kids. They hear you shouting a screaming and pushing all your anger on to another person, which I now deeply regret.

I had always been to close to my mum. She had always been the cliched ‘best friend’. I included her in every aspect of my life. I had always relished this relationship and felt very honoured whenever my mum wanted to spend time with me. I always knew that there were niggles in the back of my mind with some of her behaviour. Our shopping trips, which were ostensibly for me, always ended up with an extended search an essential item for her. Lots of her behaviour didn’t really add up, she gave the impression of a well adjusted, family orientated wife and mother, but I knew she had another side. I really felt that I never really knew the real version of my mum.

In reality I was her lap dog, I hung around the house so I could spend time with her. Sometimes she wanted to and other times she didn’t, I felt so clingy and needy, but I just wanted her. This continued well into adulthood. I remember waiting for her to call me, with butterflies in my stomach. I would be at her beckon call, always willing to drop everything for a chat with her. Even if I was juggling babies and it wasn’t really a great time, I would make time for her.

The first cracks in our relationship started on a walk. I had not told her I had been seeing a counsellor, something in me had stopped me from going there. We were walking and talking. She was at her best when we were alone, she gave the impression of really listening to what I had to say. I told her that when I was little she made me feel fat. I told her this because it was true. She listened and took it in. In the moment she apologised if she had made me feel bad when I was young. Wow, what a relief. I was pleased she had taken my candid sharing so well and maybe we could repair some of these childhood ruptures and move on.

The next time I spoke to my mum, she had obviously been thinking about our conversation. She was not happy with how I had represented her in my history. The mother who called her daughter fat. What would people think? The backtracking was immediate. The lovely repair in our history was re-ruptured and a crack appeared. She had never called me fat, she hadn’t made feel bad or controlled what I ate. Her love was unconditional and I had better remember that. The message was clear, shut up or be cast out.