In my earlier Probable Link between Bipolar & PTSD article I allude to mental health problems cascading down the generations and destroying lives as often misunderstood by mainstream alleged experts.
My own story started when my Granddad on my Dad’s side was born out of wedlock in 1893, I knew very little of his early life until visiting his cousin Annie in New Zealand in 1991 and spending hour talking family. Apparently he was shunted between the family farm and his mum’s, she married a small business man in the nearby town, he kept her maiden name so I suspect he was at a bit of an embarrassment .
He served in the Royal Artillery during The Great War, so I expect he witnessed his comrades blown to smytherines disposing of a dud shell after if failed to fire, likewise my Dad in WW2. The dates suggest he had to marry my granny after he got her pregnant with my dad, but she really loved him anyway, despite apparent abuse of the fact as I was more recently informed. He used to go to the pub every night then stay in bed until nearly dinnertime leaving my granny to milk the cows and do the milk round, no doubt with help from the kids. A relative told how when he was staying at the farm with his sister,during the holidays he went into her bedroom and did a shit in the middle of the floor and covered it up with a rug. Then he blamed it on her and she had to go home !
Turning to my Dad there are probably a few contributory incidents in his childhood, perhaps starting with an accident involving his younger brother losing most of his little finger on one hand. My Granny was doing the baking and 4 year old Clifford reached up to the kitchen table and pulled a pint pot of flour onto him almost severing said finger, apparently there was blood everywhere. My dad ran down the hill to his aunties in the village and said ” Mother’s Killed Clifford ” the doctor did try to stitch it back on but he had to amputate a few days later.
My dad also lost his little sister to whooping cough the details and circumstances of which I describe in an earlier article, then there was the Police Raid during the investigation into the famous for being unsolved Bashall Eaves Murder. My granny had relatives there so the Police came unannounced one day and broke the door down searching for the murder weapon gun, apparently it completely freaked my dad out !
I think that I have prattled on long enough to give the reader the reader the general idea so perhaps its time to turn to my own case. I suppose it all started when I was about 4 and had to stay with my granny when my mum had to go into hospital to stabilise her Type 1 diabetes. I was asleep on the sofa when my granddad wanted his afternnoon nap, so he just roughly picked me up and tossed me onto the floor, he was also always getting at me for being brossen fat. Soon after when I was friends with the owner of the garage across the road from my home the mechanic there led me on to say ” Its buggered ” in front to the village school headmaster who had called by. Said headmaster of the school I was to attend then gave me a smacked bottom for swearing, probably seeding a latent fear of authority.
Fast Forward to 3rd year secondary modern and when I got the whack off the housemaster for not returning for registration after dinner ( even though we could go home straight after ) and going up onto the by-pass to catch a driver friend for a trip to Parbold. I lost all interest in pure academia and respect for teachers after that, when I was just into my final year I had a moped accident and got unfairly done fro Driving Without Due Care and Attention. I never had a fair chance to defend myself as the arrogant Traffic Cop came to interview me when I was in agony with the broken bone at the top of my arm knitting plus the local magistrates ran a Kangaroo Court anyway as far as motoring offences were concerned.
I was inspired at Accrington tech, especially in the first year when I gained an Award of merit in the exams,, perhaps due in part to the lecturers talking about life in general, one even floated that some members of the class might suffer from mental health problems in future. Things were not going that well at home though, my mum started having problems with here eye due to he diabetes and with hindsight I can’t help speculating the primary cause was the synthetic insulin she was forced to change onto. I was taking her to Manchester to see the top eye specialist, who got her into the eye hospital for a revolutionary new operation which probably failed because they fed her jam and bread for breakfast. I can remember bringing her home in the car and despite the fact that it was freezing cold outside had to open the window as the stench of acetone on her breath was overpowering.
About that time my mum decided that we should buy a new colour TV and give the old one to granny who still only had a black and white set we gave here when we got our original colour TV. We purchased a Ferguson 3V30 top loading VHS video recorder to go with it, ( as everyone we knew already had one one except us ) and I set it all up in the living room. Then my dad came home from work at the mill and saw it whereupon he went ballistic at my mum insisting that we had to take the VCR back and culminating in a Hissy Fit where he knocked the old manual wind dial phone off the top of the telly and cracked the VCR Tape Deck lid so we couldn’t !
By this time my mum’s and my GP had already prescribed her Motivol, and my mum gave me one the day I went for my second HGC Class 1 test on the Wirral, ( which I passed ) after having failed the first after my nerves got the better of me.
I must have written enough now for those on my intellectual wave-lenght to get the big picture, and the main point to bear in mind is that a Nervous Breakdown is often the culmination of a train of life events. In my case the final straw was the probability that the North West Labour Party office on Wilderspool Causeway at Warrington were attempting to shut me up by setting me up to get sent down for benefit fraud in 2000 !
I felt liberated when my dad died in spring 2013, but the key article in my self cure was the Norman Bettinson one, thanks Theresa May for the Hillsborough Inquiry, now we need to explode Child Sexual Abuse by people in high places ASAP and save our NHS a fortune !