When the Child Becomes the Caretaker
My experience supporting a parent through C-PTSD
My Dad has Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, also called C-PTSD. Though people may be more familiar with the very similar diagnosis, PTSD. Essentially, it’s the difference between having lived through a single traumatic event, and having been exposed to trauma over a prolonged period.
This is something he has been struggling with since childhood, though he didn’t get diagnosed or enter therapy until he was in his early forties.
He and I were separated when I was a toddler and only reunited when I was 17. As such, I had only known him for a short time when he was diagnosed and never experienced an everyday life with him. Even once he was in my life again, we were only able to see each other on holidays as we lived in different countries.
When I first learnt of my father’s diagnosis, I was 19. At the time I had no idea what it was or what it meant for him. All I really understood was that he was in therapy and dealing with something terrible. But I was in therapy myself, trying to come back from years of struggling with depression and a suicide attempt, so I didn’t think much of it at first.
Then I started to read up on it. He started talking about things that went on in his childhood. I moved in with him and started to see what he was like in everyday life, rather than on a holiday visit. And I was not prepared for what he was dealing with, or what I had to deal with in turn.
PTSD doesn’t just affect the sufferer, but everyone around that person.
PTSD is a scary and unfamiliar thing to most people. It’s something we associate with soldiers who went to war, not ordinary people with ordinary lives. But it can happen in so many more ways than you’d think and that perhaps, makes it even harder to understand, to imagine that it could happen to us. Right up till it does. And then you tumble down the rabbit hole into a twisted, nightmarish version of Wonderland.
Our parents are supposed to be the ones to look after, care for and support us. We know this, in our bones. And suddenly that’s just not possible all the time anymore.
You have to step up, be responsible, be strong… because there are times when they just can’t.
Some days, you have to be the one who does the laundry, buys the groceries and cooks dinner, because that day they didn’t make it out of bed.
Some days, you have to be supportive and listen to them talk about what they’re dealing with, because they need that so badly.
Some days, the same person who held you when you cried, you now have to try and hold them together while they’re trembling in your arms, lost in a flashback of pain and terror that you can’t even imagine.
Some days, you want to talk to them about your own problems. You can’t, because they’re having a bad day and you don’t want to add your problems on top of their own. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. If they feel better.
You read the books about how it comes to be and how it affects someone, and you’re horrified. You see the rate of depression and suicide, and realise that could become your reality.
You hurt and you cry, but still put on a brave face. After all, you have to be strong.
We can become so busy taking care of everyone else, that we forget to take care of ourselves.
It’s incredibly difficult to be in that situation, one that you’re not prepared to deal with. One that, quite frankly, you shouldn’t be in in the first place.
I remember days, nights really, when it was just me and my thoughts… and I was scared. Scared for what the future would hold. Would my Dad be okay? Would I wake up one day, to him being gone?
And I was angry. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to me; why did I have to deal with all this? Why did I have to spend nights crying over his problems? Didn’t I have enough to deal with on my own?
Guilt immediately followed. That wasn’t fair to my Dad. I loved him and he loved me. It wasn’t like he asked for any of this, and he was still trying to be supportive of me and the problems I was dealing with, despite what he already had to carry. What the heck was I even doing complaining, when he had to live with such horrible things?
But that wasn’t right. Supporting and acknowledging what my Dad was going through, didn’t mean that I should ignore or diminish what I was going through in turn.
Caretakers often forget that they’re being affected too.
There is such a thing called vicarious trauma. Essentially, it’s second-hand trauma, where by listening to the personal experience and impact of trauma, or viewing a particularly gruesome incident you get indirectly traumatised. It happens a lot to health care workers, nurses, abuse investigators, people who work in domestic violence shelters and so on. It also happens to the family and friends of the affected.
This was my Dad, and what he went through, the stories he told me, affected me deeply.
If I could go back in time and talk to the younger me, the first thing I would do was give her a hug. Because she needed that hug, so badly.
Then I would tell her that it was okay to feel as she did. That she shouldn’t feel ashamed for being angry and frustrated. What affects our loved ones also affects us, and it was completely natural for me to be scared and anxious.
I would tell her that it was okay to be angry, because it wasn’t fair. Not to him and not to me. We were both suffering from something we never should have had to deal with in the first place.
I would tell her that she wasn’t being selfish for wanting to think about herself and her needs. She should. She couldn’t spend every minute of every day worrying about him, she also had to take care of herself. It was okay for her to do that.
I would tell her it was okay to reach out and talk and need support, and want time not to be Tasha the worrying daughter, but just to be Tasha.
Your feelings matter, regardless of what your loved ones are dealing with.
My story is in no way unique. There are many similar stories out there, of people who have to be the strong one for their parents.
I was lucky, in that I was almost an adult when I found myself in that situation. I was even more lucky that my Dad made as much of an effort as he did to listen to me like I listened to him, and ensure that I was talking to a therapist.
Many are not that lucky. In many cases, it’s children in the situation of having to care for a physically or mentally ill adult. “Young carer”, “child carer” , or “adult children” , we call them. The number of young carers in the UK alone, is estimated to be around 700,000. In the USA, it’s estimated to be between 4 to 5.5 million.
They have to carry a burden from a young age that was never meant to be theirs in the first place. They can’t hang out with their friends, because they have to go home and care for a sick parent. Sometimes younger siblings as well. They fall behind in school because their responsibilities take up so much time and energy. They lose out on a social life and are likely to develop anxiety and depression, from having to shoulder so much.
Their parents may be the one who is ill, but they are suffering too. Frequently in silence.
Trauma is often called an invisible illness, and for good reason. It’s not something often spoken about, rarely acknowledged and not something people generally wish to speak about. And that creates both an isolation and a profound sense of loneliness, that you’re the only one in your world who has to live with this.
Of course, there are support groups, charities and local clubs for young carers. And that is good. There needs to be support for young people in that situation.
I know though, that something I missed badly wasn’t a therapist or a support group, but a friend. Someone who could take me out of the house for girl time. Someone who could give me a few hours of normalcy. Someone who didn’t have to try and come up with solutions, but who would just lend me a shoulder and listen.
Look around you. It happens everywhere you go. Is there a young person in your school, in your kid’s classroom, or in your class if you’re a teacher, who’s carrying such a responsibility?
What could you do for them?
