Tuesday 28th July
So I restarted therapy.
It’s been 2 years since I last had therapy, which was in the form of EMDR. If you don’t know what that is, it’s a type of trauma therapy where you start by mapping out your core traumatic memories and where you are talked through each traumatic memory and given a flashing light that moves side to side whilst they try to reprogramme your brain with how it should react to the trauma in the future. EMDR was great, but I was going through a lot of personal things at the time, as well. My ex best friend’s wife had physically attacked me on the street after the school run, whilst I had an 8 month old C by my side. Then about a month later, my mum was very randomly released from prison, which caused a lot of new trauma. Then there was the Carpal Tunnel’s surgery, which wasn’t anything major but I struggle internally with recovery periods because I feel like I need to be strong and doing everything all of the time. I don’t like being openly vulnerable or having to depend on anyone (in part because I feel as if everyone at one point or another ends up letting me down), which in itself is contradictory, because well, a personal blog is a form of vulnerability, isn’t it? I also had a cervical cancer scare shortly after where my smear came back abnormal and I had to go for a Colposcopy and was also told I was HPV+. It was actually a really shit time that year and all the hard work I had put into therapy the year before because I had, in my mind, wanted a fresh new start for a fresh new decade of my life and to finally put a lot of the Germany stuff behind me, just seemed to evaporate before my eyes because too many severe stressors occurred around the same time, leaving me feeling unable to cope. And that is ultimately what the issue always is and has been, ever since my dad’s murder. I have coped and been through so much, but then when smaller stressful events take place very close together, my head starts to shut down again and I start to go into survival mode with an over the top threat level. The EMDR meant I couldn’t have any other therapy for at least 6 months because your brain is rewiring and needs a cooling off period. And from that point, I toyed with the idea back and forth, but for various reasons, didn’t pursue the idea of yet more therapy. I think part of what was holding me back was that I, maybe wrongly, placed a lot of hope on the EMDR working so well, that it would change everything for me. Up until that point, I had never actually had therapy for what happened to my dad. I had spent 14 years on and off various anti-depressants and sleep meds, nothing which really worked long term. Fluoxetine, Amitriptyline, Citalopram, Diazepam, Mirtazapine, Paroxetine, Zopiclone…. just to name a few.
The EMDR helped, to a point. There were a few imagined memories my brain had created as to what happened to my dad, that were made a lot less threatening. For those who don’t know, my dad died a very violent death where he was subdued and then beaten at least 7 times to the face and head with a piece of wood. Not too dissimilar to what happened with Ann Widdecombe (a murder that I find incredibly triggering every time I hear or read about it). So for example, my brain had imagined, based on the evidence and facts I had been given as to what happened to my dad, the exact scene before and after it had taken place. The EMDR made it feel less threatening, seeing my dad’s body lying there, his face covered in blood. Equally though, there was a really deep sense of darkness that I felt in that room where my dad was, a feeling I hadn’t experienced prior to the EMDR. It’s like the therapy itself had awoken something new. It felt like I was there. I was walking in the room. I saw the two of them talking, but never saw the attack, but then saw the body and all the blood and amongst all of that, the room felt dark, it felt dangerous and I felt a really strong sense of fear. The most fearful I have ever felt. Just thinking about it now, I feel it. I can see the room.
Another core memory we worked on in the EMDR was something that happened to me when I think I was around 6 or 7. I sort of disagreed with using it as one of the 5 traumatic memories though, as this was nothing to do with my dad and was quite a random event, but I went with it because maybe it affected me more than I ever realised. When I was living in Dronfield, my parents had a cleaner lady called Julie. I can still picture what she looked like. Young, long blonde hair, nose ring, very gentle looking. One day my parents were out (I had no idea where my brothers were but they weren’t at home). It was just me and Julie. Until she invited her boyfriend over. He was a huge biker sort of guy. He came to me in my play room whilst I was playing, in fact they both did. He sat down on the bench and asked me to sit on his lap. With his other hand, he held out a 5p (or it might have been a 10p). He looked at me and said to me if I gave him a kiss on his cheek, he would give it to me. I remember feel really uncomfortable but also really unsure what to do. I was cornered in my playroom by these two adults I didn’t really know. So I kissed him. And he gave me the 5p/10p. I don’t remember what happened after that. My brain has very much blocked it out. But I do remember that as soon as Julie left that day and my mum was home, I blurted out about how I had seen her rooting around in my mum’s jewellery drawer. It was a blatant lie. I had no idea why I said that and didn’t just tell the truth. Maybe I was scared. But I think in hindsight, I must have been scared that he would come back, that I had to say something I felt would ensure Julie wouldn’t be returning to our home and by default, her boyfriend, too. Naturally, my parents ended up letting her go, but it did cause a deep insecurity within them. They were never able to trust people in our home after that and always ensured they had a lock on their bedroom door thereafter. The EMDR changed Julie’s boyfriend’s face. It was like, all of a sudden I couldn’t see his face anymore. It had been replaced with the face of a children’s entertainer, who didn’t feel threatening in the slightest.
So the EMDR was good, but it didn’t do enough. Maybe it was just too much trauma for such a small amount of sessions, or maybe I was going through too much at the time for my brain to fully dedicate itself to the healing. Or maybe it was something to do with the therapist being in EMDR training herself and I was the guinea pig who had said yes so that I could jump further up on the list. Or maybe it was all of that.
Anyway, I have, and I’m not ashamed to say, secretly struggled a lot with my mental health over the last two years. I lost most of my long term best friends, my friendship circle went with it, I became increasingly isolated. No more group whatsapp messages, no messages from friends, no more going to meet friends at the pub for a catch up. No more hanging out with our kids together. All replaced by extra trauma created by the friends I had to cut loose because of how they all treated me when I was really struggling during that year after the miscarriages. It was absolutely the right thing to do at the time. No one wants or needs toxic friendships, even if they have been in your life for 14 years. But there is a grieving process every time you lose a friend and it can take a long time to come to terms with your decision and what they did to you. I did at times, feel incredibly lonely. Then at other times I questioned whether maybe this is just my life now. Too damaged to really have people too close to me because no one can be that understanding for that long. Maybe I’m just meant to be a loner (you can see how quickly I spiral, right?). Losing the friends I thought would be with me until my very last day, put me into a very dark place, more so when one of them stalked me in her car after having walked past me on the school run and then ended up beating me whilst my baby laid beside me and then lied to the police about what she did. I questioned my life a lot in 2024. Questioned why I kept being dealt these cards, this hand, when I had already been through the worst possible scenarios anyone could dream up of. Like, what was the actual purpose of me being on this planet? Was it just to suffer? Was I ever going to find the sort of happiness in myself that I had before my dad was killed? Before I got dragged through trial after trial, domestic abuse, watched my brother have the worst death possible, was made homeless and lost everything… that girl between 19-25 was so free. So happy. So confident. I have chased after that girl for 16 years now. In part, I accept there is no going back. I accept that this is just how it is now, how I am now. Whilst I don’t expect to thrive in life anymore given everything, I would like to no feel like I’m only surviving it. I need to add that the life I have built around my children, that’s different. That’s a different kind of happiness in a separate bubble.
So three weeks ago I looked for a private therapist (I’ve actually never done private before). Found one who specialises in trauma and EMDR. I had an assessment and then last week was my first proper session with today being my second. My first session last week was mostly about my struggles in a relationship because of all that I come with in terms of trauma and the part it plays in how I am. Today’s session was about introducing her to the start of the trauma.
I started by explaining that since I became a parent myself, as is the case with a lot of people, I started to assess my own parents’ decisions and parenting. I started to question a lot of things they had done over the years, not just in my childhood, but also in my teenage and adult years. I told her how especially since January this year, a lot of puzzles pieces in my own mind have started to come together. The answers for the questions that have been circling within my head for years, would just randomly appear to me when doing the dishes or driving the car somewhere. Things started to make sense this year. I explained to her that I knew both my parents had their own struggles during their own childhood, and so I could make allowances and have a certain level of understanding for generational trauma/cycles, but there were some things I just couldn’t understand why or how you could do that to a child, to your own child, because I could never do that to my own children. For example, when I was 17, there was an incident at home in Germany. My grandma had not long split up from her husband, something my dad had very much attempted to orchestrate. He had moved out. My parents were out at the hospital with my disabled brother, Tom. I saw a car on our driveway and knew it must have been something to do with her, as no one had come to our door. I went out and up to her house next door. Her living quarters were all upstairs and her front door was downstairs. As I went up, I could hear raised voices. I opened the door to see my grandma, her ex and his best mate in a full blown argument. I knew he wasn’t supposed to be here and she seemed quite distressed, so I asked them both to leave. In fact, knowing me, I probably shouted at them to get out. I insisted on escorting them out so that I knew they really had left. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, the ex opened a drawer in a unit and attempted to take a bunch of keys out. I slammed the drawer shut, so he couldn’t. His best friend grabbed hold of me and swung me so that I went flying to the other side of the room. They grabbed the keys and left. I went to tell my grandma what had happened but simply got told it was my own fault and I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I then went back next door to our house and called my parents, who were equally angry at me for not having stayed put. My dad was so furious with the situation when he got back, that he inspected me very closely for any marks and bruises, but there were none. The next day, I was stood next to him on my grandma’s balcony, admiring the beautiful view across the many farm fields in front of us. Without warning, my dad grabbed a chunk of my flesh on my upper arm and twisted it really hard. I screamed out from the pain. He simply told me that there would now be a bruise there for him to photograph and document so that he could take this man to court. There was a bruise and it was a horrific one at that. Then there is the sheer amount of control both our parents exercised over our lives. We had no say in where we lives as teens or adults, no say in where we could go. No say in our career choices, that was decided for us. No support over anything any of us really wanted to do, and if they disagreed with any choices we tried to make for ourselves, they simply removed us from them and placed us into choices they felt were more suitable. If we refused, we would be reminded about how our rent and bills were paid for. There was a huge amount of coercive control in our childhood and adolescence all the way up into adulthood. We became anxious adults who were too scared to say no to our parents because of the consequences that would no doubt follow. And because my dad could be a very scary man behind closed doors. We lived in and grew up in fear and it was seen by very few people because our parents were so good at putting on a charming front. They very much hid behind the parents-of-a-disabled-child image and so most people, if anything, felt really sorry for them. Don’t even get me started on the 50k loan that was signed in my name behind my back a few months before my dad died that I was then chased for by a German bank after he died. When I received a copy of the signature on the paperwork, I recognised the handwriting on that signature. It’s taken me some time over many years to come to terms with some of the things my parents did to me and why I wasn’t blessed with having the type of parents so many others I know have. It’s why I have worked so hard over the last 8 years to become the exact opposite of my parents to my own children. To always be there for them, always support them, always have their back, always love them. But it can be very hard and very conflicting, trying to raise children whilst knowing how you were raised.
I then went onto explain, what my mum is really like. My exact words were ‘she treats everything as a competition with me’. The stealing my perfumes that my dad had bought me, the not allowing me to keep the dog I got for my 10th birthday unless she named it. The telling my exes how much better she was than me. Telling me my dad had had an affair with one of our secretaries the day after I had started to miscarry (because good or bad, no one can have it better or worse than her), and how when I took the next flight out to Germany after I found out that my dad had died, having agreed to meet with her at the airport and let her sit next to me on the plane after over a year of her not speaking to me because I had wanted to reconnect with my dad after their split, she sat and sobbed the whole way there about a miscarriage she had had with her then bf (my dad’s killer), some few months before. Now I am by no means unsympathetic about miscarriages, having had a few myself, I know how devastating they can be. But my mum, she made no secret over the years as to how she wished her subsequent boyfriends after her split from our dad, were in fact our actual dads. She made no secret over the fact she wanted children who were nothing to do with the man who ripped her life apart and how much she hated the fact we were a reminder of him. In her mind, no one is a bigger victim or more successful in life than she is. No matter how good or bad, she always has it better or worse. Telling me about her own miscarriage less than 24 hours after finding out about my dad, simply meant that she had to have the attention put back on herself. She didn’t want to be the person who held me up during my grief, and nor was she. She happily took the sympathy off others, though. The grieving widow, who was still technically married to her husband. Straight after my dad’s funeral, she made plans with her then bf, the killer, to go on holiday to France. They had decided this before they had even got to Germany for the funeral. I’ll just leave you with that thought for a minute.
I started to tell my new therapist about that fateful day when I received the call about my dad missing and how it all unfolded, explained to her that I was back and forth for hours between different people, trying to track him down, all the while knowing that something very serious must have happened. I had to take a pause when I told her about that last call that came through about what the police had found in the house. I said ‘I can never forget the words in that call, because I see and hear them almost every week’.
‘They’ve found a body’
It is the single biggest trigger for me. Hearing or reading those words takes me straight back to that moment. It brings with it a feeling of such deep empath for whichever family is now experiencing, knowing what it is to experience and live through those words. Those words break people, they break families. Destroy lives. Annihilates futures. Worlds come crashing down. Screams of despair.
I explained to her that for the first few seconds I went through every denial option possible. Whose body? Can’t be his! How do they know it’s even his?! Before it dawned on me it was my dad’s body. No matter what my dad was like to me, how messy our relationship was, or the fact I had to stop contact with him the month before for his inexcusable behaviour towards me, he was still my dad and I still loved him. I went on to say how I wasn’t told about how he died during my call with the German police shortly after. That they were incredibly rude to me when I asked how they knew for sure it was him, as obviously none of us were there to identify him.
‘It’s not like how you see on tv, Miss Meng!!’
I remember taking a deep breath and thinking…
‘Right..ok.. this is how it’s going to be, is it?’
I explained how when I got to the police station in Germany, I hadn’t been told that I was going to be interviewed (so obviously I didn’t know what my rights were or whether I should have had a lawyer there with me). I had travelled there thinking my dad had died from an accident or a heart attack. When I sat in that room and realised I was being interviewed, or better said, interrogated, I felt my heart sink. I was told in that room mid interrogation, that my dad had been murdered by being beaten around his head and face. More precisely…
‘Do you know who would want to beat your father around the head then?!’
‘What?! What do you mean? I thought he had a heart attack?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because he told me he had a heart condition and was taking Beta Blockers, I’ve even seen them myself’.
‘There was nothing wrong with his heart, we’ve already done an autopsy’.
So they’ve already done an autopsy, cut my dad open and they didn’t tell me…
I watched how at points, my new therapist put her hand to her mouth in disbelief. I ended things by saying to her that even now, as I hear myself say all these words, it doesn’t feel real. I myself struggle to understand why or how authorities of any country, would treat victim’s families like this rather than show empathy or compassion during a person’s worst and most vulnerable point in their life. There was always, however, a part of me that understood and rationalised that the police had a job to do and had to rule family members in or out of the investigation. But there is a way to do it and a way not to, support should have been given to me afterwards, and it wasn’t. In fact, I never saw or heard from those two officers ever again. They just left me to it without a single care of the life they had helped to destroy and traumatise.
I explained to her the role my abusive ex-husband played in all this, from the abuse itself, how I lived in a house filled with knives and swords, a machete by the bed and a gun in the wardrobe and photo albums with charred bodies from Afghanistan. Went through the threats to end my life, the ones made privately and publicly, how I had to leave to save myself and how I lost everything I had ever built, ever worked so hard for, how he took my dead dad’s dog away from me, how his family supported him, how emails and handwritten letters from the female members of that family had been sent to my workplace telling them to fire me, telling them I had cheated on all the boyfriends I had ever had, how I had to call the police on them all, how one year later they colluded with my dad’s killer to support him in an accusation against my mum (to punish me), and how a year after that, they threatened Just Giving with a lawsuit to remove information from my story when I tried to raise money for Domestic Abuse victims (JG gave into them). I sat there and described how the German courts tried to get us both to appear as witnesses in my mum’s trial, on the same day, at the same time, waiting in the same room, and how when I sat down to be questioned by the prosecution, I was asked (with a smile on his face), why my ex-husband would ever lie about his statement.
‘Because he abused me. Because he almost killed me and because he tried to rape me’.
And I sat there and watched how the Prosecutor’s smile widened in a way, that told me I wasn’t believed, and when there was no further questioning on that, I knew they definitely didn’t believe me. And how when I left that court room, I wanted to run. I left walking as quickly as I could, not wanting press to see me and not wanting anyone to see the huge amount of shame I felt and I have carried that shame ever since. It’s hard enough when Joe Bloggs down the road doesn’t believe you, but when authorities who are there to support people like me, turn a blind eye, it’s absolutely crushing.
I’m not daft, I know I have been in survival mode ever since. I lost so much of myself and had to grow up so quickly. I think at this point, I recognise that the extent of trauma has mostly dominated my adult years. I also recognise that this will probably always be with me until the day I die. I may forever be trying to work with it so that it stays by my side rather than taking over full control of me. I accept it’s there, I just find it hard seeing what it’s done to me and my life. Part of my mourning is mourning the person I could have been and the life I could have had, had my dad not been killed and my brother not have died. Had I not been dragged through years and years of murder investigations and cruelty from my own mother. Sometimes I feel sad at the person looking back at me in the mirror and the person I see in the photos pre-2009. The last two years in particular, I have lost all of my self-confidence. I hide myself away. I criticise the way I look. I feel incredibly ugly. I am very much trying and learning to love myself and find out who I am. Somewhere between trauma and motherhood, I disappeared. I don’t want to just survive, I want to thrive and fall in love with life. I want to feel proud of myself and unapologetic. And it all starts here, with this new therapy. I can’t yet say what the plan is, how long I’ll be in this new round of therapy for, or even how much it will help me, but it’s a start.
N. x
