Category relationships

I had the privilege of attending a Catholic all-girls secondary school for seven years, and besides a love for science and a strong sense of discipline, the most valuable thing I walked away with was an undeniable, universal love for women.

I spent hours upon days upon months upon years, in an environment where not only were my companions female but also the majority of my teachers, the auxiliary staff and the administration! We even had a convent on the school grounds.

Being exposed to essentially only women from ages 11 – 18 has resulted in an inexplicable need to connect with the women in my life. I think the insular nature of secondary school and the fact that we were all discovering ourselves and the world at the same time led to a bond being forged that honestly I don’t think boys understand, and frankly can’t replicate. Though, in my opinion, it’s not their fault! Boys are taught that it is not acceptable to cry unless you have lost a limb, or perhaps your nan or mum, while we girls are given attention and sympathy the moment we begin to tear up. Now that is a whole other story.

Think about your closest group of girl friends, how you relate to each other and rely on each other for almost everything. Go ahead and scroll through your phone, take note of the amount of pictures you have of your nights out, the group messages you are a part of that consist of two to four of your nearest and dearest, the screen shots in your gallery of messages boys (or girls) have sent you that you have forwarded to a friend for the their opinion or a laugh, recall those moments you popped round to theirs to share a bottle of wine or because you didn’t want to be alone after a break up, or it was Valentine’s Day and you both committed to spend it together.

1. Stonewall
2. Mermaids
3. akt
4. Switchboard LGBT+ Helpline
5. LGBT HERO

See what I mean?

Women are encouraged to share our experiences (‘Did you get your period this month? I think mine is late’).

To have each other’s back no matter what (‘That’s Stephen’s new bird’ ‘I already hate her’ ‘No, it’s fine you don’t have to’ ‘You sure?’ lol).

Uplift each other (‘Do you think I’m fat?’ ‘Are you kidding me? I would KILL to look like you’ ‘Shut up, you’re perfect’).

And because of this never-ending sequence of love and support and commitment, we become closer and closer, forming our own little society. I can honestly say that without my closest friends my life would be decidedly less fulfilling. I don’t know how it is for the lads, but I feel like my girls are reflections of who I think I am and what I’d like to be. I have to admit that I am that friend who is like the mum, and because of that, my best girls are a little crazy and out there; they party hard, travel often, snog lots of boys and have an intense zest for life. If I were left to my own devices I’d be on the floor of my flat almost every Friday night reading or watching Netflix.

Fortunately, I have these women who encourage me to put on makeup, go out, have a few pints, talk to boys and embrace the beauty and spontaneity of life. I like to think that I play a symmetrical role in their lives, offering advice, quiet nights in after too many parties, and homemade sausage rolls while we watch movies. We provide balance and inspire all the aspects of a woman: the mum, the wild child, the introvert, the extrovert, the badass, the seductress, the academic and so much more.

Now I know that there are girls out there who say that they aren’t a ‘girls’ girl’ and this honestly makes me sad, because female friendship is rewarding and empowering. There is simply nothing like it. I don’t think male/female friendships can offer the same type of satisfaction.

Life is difficult. It’s even harder for women. From unequal pay to the physical/sexual/verbal abuse faced by many of our sisters around the world, politicians telling us what rights we do and do not have regarding our bodies, the institutional ‘boys’ club’ in many professional areas (engineering, architecture, finance, science, politics…) and the media constantly barraging us with images of what we should look like, sound like, and act like – it is absolutely imperative to lean on each other.

Go ahead and tell your girls that you love them, plan a dinner, a Skype call, or just go to their flat and dance around to music you haven’t listened to since you were 13. We are going to be bombarded with so much in the next dozen years: heartbreak, children, weddings, husbands, ex-husbands, job loss, migration, funerals, infidelity, sickness, and financial struggles. It is going to be difficult – there is absolutely no doubt in that – and we are going to need each other through all of it. Hold on to your girlfriends and walk through life knowing that you have not only your strength to count on, but that of others to carry you through.

It seems like it was always at night when my parents fought, probably to spare their only child the sharpness of their words to one another. However, even as a young girl, I was very perceptive and could tell when the volcano was ready to erupt. Mum and Dad would say prayers with me and tuck me in with the same half-hearted smiles they feigned during Sunday morning church. I was supposed to be sleeping but would tiptoe to the end of the long hallway that led from my room to the kitchen. As I crouched down to hide by the oven to remain unseen, I held my only source of comfort – a stuffed bunny named BunBun.

I’m still not sure why I so desperately wanted to hear what they were arguing about THIS time, but I think I came to the conclusion that it was weak attempt to extract knowledge, to be left in the loop.

On an average day, walking around my house wasn’t necessarily eggshell-like circumstances, but more of a landmine – one misstep and the grenade exploded. My father would come home from work and sit in his recliner, eat dinner, then retire to their bedroom. These phases would last for months and then cycle through times of manic happiness. The silence was deafening and I never knew what mood he would come home in or when something I said would set him off. Since my father is a registered psych nurse, he often turned to self-medication and refused to admit he needed help to feel normal, a struggle I myself battle with to this day. Despite my father’s second-generation bipolar disorder diagnosis, there was never a doubt of how much he loved me (and still loves me). Even then I somehow related to him, an understanding my very black-and-white logical mother would never grasp. I understood him because he and I are alike. We both live down the same strange rabbit hole of mental illness and because of this, building relationships from childhood would prove to be tumultuous and confusing.

My parents divorced when I was in junior high once my mother could not try to understand him any longer. I didn’t know how to react and most of my friends were well off and still lived in their perfectly placed nuclear homes. Over time, things became easier. Both of my parents remarried over the next few years and I myself began dating.

It was then when I truly realized how sick I was. I sabotaged relationships and created chaos because I thought that’s what love was. That was what love looked like to me. I would explode much like my father. My heart would tell me everything was fine, but my head created scenario after scenario that never and would never come to fruition. I became paranoid and erratic and labeled that “crazy chick” you overhear during bro conversations at a bar. I didn’t want to be her anymore. I was sick of her and, if I was sick of her, I knew everyone else around me must be also. I was spiraling out of control and knew I needed help. I knew I had a mental illness that could not be ignored any longer.

At age 18, remember sitting in Stephenville, Texas at a Chili’s Bar and Grill across from my characteristically stoic mother when I broke down into tears and told her I thought I needed help. I was dating my then boyfriend at the time, now my husband, and I refused to allow he or our future children to live in the same atmosphere I did. She calmly said, “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me this.” I guess everyone saw it but me. I immediately felt my face flush with anxiety and embarrassment. Sometimes our qualities we try so hard to hide are the very same ones which are the most obvious.

On July 7, 2007, I married the man who I half jokingly say “puts up with me.” Only it’s not even half a joke; it’s not a joke at all. He is even-keeled daily and is the kindest most patient man I know. That makes our marriage much easier. Instead of calling me crazy or telling me to chill out, he hugs me tighter and understands that there is an element of the illness that I truly cannot control. I stress and worry constantly that he’s going to wake up one day and realise what he signed up for and leave. When I have these irrational fears, he calms me instead of insulting me. And while yes, he is an amazing husband and father to our two beautiful children, one thing that needs to be understood is that, even in long-term relationships, YOU are the only one who can pull yourself out of the chasm of depression.

Our marriage is full of good days and bad days, like any other couple. The key is for us to be constantly aware that there is a giant elephant in the room (one that often needs a stout dose of tranquilizer). Seek a partner who supports you and doesn’t dismiss you. Pray. Daily. Pray for understanding from not only your significant other but for yourself. And last but not least, I cannot stress this enough, DO NOT ever sweep mental illness under the rug. That is where it goes to fester and grow into a parasite that can easily kill a marriage. Talk about where you are emotionally every day. Do it so much that it becomes habit. Being invariably aware of your thoughts and emotions each day fosters a feeling of normalcy. Over the last 9 years with my husband, communication has been the most important offering of respect we grant each other. Don’t hold things in when you’re upset. Let them out in a productive way that opens a healthy dialogue.

I feel like I’m married to both my husband and my mental illness, only the oath that the chemical imbalance has taken with my body can never be broken. The cliché “the first step is admitting you have a problem” is equal parts trite and unequivocally true. I wake up every morning next to my husband and to my inner struggle. Both are work but I have to be the one to put forth the effort. My husband convinced me that taking medicine is OKAY. It is. It doesn’t make me weird or abnormal or anything negative; if anything it gives me a chance at the abundant life I’ve so graciously been given. People may not understand it, but there is truth to the adage “better living through chemistry”.