4

Shockwaves

 

RUPERT’S ACCIDENT BROUGHT us much closer together as a family; however, individually it affected each of us in different ways. For my parents, caring for Rupert took precedence over everything else, whether they wanted it to or not. Once my mum began to understand the new realities of Rupert’s life she became far more accepting of them. For my dad, it was harder to let go, and I think he still feels that accepting the changes means somehow giving up on Rupert. Magnus, who had always had his older brother, suddenly felt a weight of expectation to step into that role, and Guy lost the person he had always looked up to.

For me, Rupert’s accident and the terrible change in our family life brought huge sadness, which has never gone away. That sense that I never really got to know my brother as I should have done has always stayed with me. The theft of his life as it should have been has always been very hard to contemplate.

Even now, I can’t drive on the stretch of the M25 where Rupert had his accident without shivering, and without my thoughts keeping pace with what happened to him: ‘Rupert was fine up to this point. Still fine. Still fine.’ And then, suddenly, ‘Bang! Everything changed here.’ The accident happened beneath a bridge and every time I drive under it, I find myself thinking, ‘How is it possible? Up to here, he’s fine, and then a metre later his life just stopped?’

If I’m listening to the radio and hear there’s been an accident close to where anyone I care about lives, I have to ring them and make sure they’re OK, and if anyone I love goes on a long car journey, I always need to know that they’ve arrived safely.

I think it’s evident that the accident brought about a huge surge in anxiety for me. If I’d gone through a more natural process of growing up, I’m sure I would have developed in confidence and overcome my fears. But when a tragic accident happens in your family, you develop a sudden understanding of the stark realities of life and death: the implications, the danger, the possibilities of awful things happening. When I look back, it seems to me that I skipped a significant part of normal teenage development. I became an adult very suddenly, but with no emotional maturity.

This meant that throughout my teenage years, any time I had a struggle or a concern, I never felt it was ‘big’ enough to allow myself to express it, because it was always so much smaller than what had happened to Rupert. For me, that was the natural thing to do, not a conscious decision. So I kept all of my worries to myself and didn’t tell my family what I was going through.

Following the accident, I began to find that I couldn’t switch off. I couldn’t let myself relax, because if I did I wouldn’t be in control and something bad might happen. I had a fear that if I fell asleep I wouldn’t wake up, that if I stopped minding myself and let myself go, I might just disappear.

These feelings became the root of my anxiety, which became my close companion. I’ve taken to calling it ‘my friend’ because it’s with me constantly and because, ultimately, I’ve found it more helpful to think about it that way than as an enemy. It’s still a part of my life, even now, although I manage it far better these days.

As well as myself, I began to worry about the people around me, in particular my parents. I wasn’t able to fall asleep until I knew they were in bed sound asleep and safe. I just felt such an enormous sense of responsibility; in my mind, I had to keep the show on the road and so I felt I had to be alert at all times, in case something happened. At first, my anxiety was mainly confined to night time. I could fall asleep without too much difficulty but shortly afterwards would wake again in a panic. I’d sit bolt upright instantly, shaking with fear, in a state of complete terror. I felt as if there was a lion in my face, ready to attack me; something immediate and life-threatening, except I never had a name for what it was. I think an actual lion might have been easier to deal with, because what I had was fear of the unknown, fear of the future, fear of what might and could happen.

I didn’t hyperventilate, as I know some people do. For me, panic manifested itself as the icy grip of fear, and the effect of that fear was very physical. I would often spend most of the night on the loo with an upset stomach, and my legs would shake uncontrollably. It’s a surge in adrenaline that causes this: adrenaline is the fight-or-flight hormone and once it’s released the body gets ready to fight for survival or run away. Lots of things happen on a physical level to make you hyper-aware and reactive – including your heart rate increasing, your pupils dilating, tunnel vision and shaking. But when there isn’t any actual physical danger the sensations are very uncomfortable and, for me, frightening. It becomes a fear of the fear, something I understand a lot more now, but back then I didn’t, I just knew how bad I felt.

There were nights when the anxiety would come and go for four or five hours; other nights it lasted just half an hour or so. When it passed, I would feel such relief, as if my body was being bathed in a calm, warm feeling – that’s the endorphin release, after the intensity of the fear – and I would fall back asleep. But it was exhausting, physically as well as emotionally.

Once morning came, I could busy myself and try to push the panic out of my mind. I would get on with what I had to do – school, music and homework – but always, underneath it all, I knew that it would be night time again before long, and that once it came I would experience the fear all over again.

After a while, the panic attacks began to leak into the daytime, specifically triggered by any kind of change. If I ever had to go away – for a school trip, or a music course – I became very nervous and didn’t want to go. Over the years, the fear worsened, reaching a peak when I was with Escala and often had to gig overseas, usually on very short notice.

I never really spoke to anyone about Rupert – about what had happened and the way I felt about it – until eventually, a good few years after the accident, a friend’s aunt who was trained as a therapist asked me out of the goodness of her heart to come and have tea and biscuits, and to have a chat to her. She’s a beautifully intuitive person and could see I needed to talk.

At first I found it very difficult to actually say anything, to express myself at all, but when I did finally start to talk about it, it was as if the room went black. Suddenly I felt I was back at the time of the accident. Something unlocked inside me and I told her things I didn’t even know I felt. It was wonderful to let it all out – the sense of relief was overwhelming – but once was enough. I never really spoke about it again. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t see the point of going over and over the pain and the trauma.

I found my own way of dealing with worry and anxiety, and that was to remain in control. At the age I was, all you really have the power to control is yourself. So I chose not to drink, for example, and I still don’t. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a few, and I can remember clearly how awful I felt afterwards. Also, being drunk means you’re out of control, and I hate that. I never seemed to get nicely tipsy like other people do. I tend to bypass that stage and get quite fiery. Alcohol just doesn’t go with my character. I never liked it, or what it could do to me. I still don’t like the way it can change someone’s personality.

As part of my need for control, I’d plan what I had to do very carefully, even obsessively. I didn’t make any spontaneous decisions and, as far as possible, I didn’t travel. I kept as tight a rein on everything in my life as I possibly could. Even so, there would be occasions when the anxiety gripped me so hard I couldn’t sleep, or concentrate. I certainly couldn’t shake it off.

In my mind, this anxiety had a profound impact when it came to wanting to start a family. What happened to Rupert gave me a craving to have my own family; there was something about it that felt like a fresh start. I thought that grandchildren would be another chapter for my parents, too; something to look forward to. For Rupert as well, as he’s unlikely to have children of his own, a baby would mean the chance to be an uncle. So as much as I wanted a child for my own and Harry’s sake, I also felt that bringing new life into the world would be a really positive thing for my family.

For all the wanting and craving, I think my long struggle with anxiety had something to do with the fact that it didn’t happen naturally, and it also contributed to my PCOS diagnosis. When it comes to fertility, if you’re constantly in an anxious state, or worried, or in that heightened fight-or-flight mode, your body doesn’t naturally do what it needs to do to reproduce. Looking back, I feel I was trapped in a vicious circle. Women with PCOS are thought to have higher levels of anxiety and depression than those without. When you’re under stress for long periods, the body releases hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol into the bloodstream. Without getting too scientific (I’m no doctor), this plays complete havoc with your hormone balance and is therefore believed to contribute to the symptoms of PCOS.

I believe that my body was telling me that it wasn’t safe for me to be pregnant because I’d essentially spent ten years living in a heightened state of anxiety, keeping myself in check all the time, which takes a huge toll, physically and mentally. It was so frustrating to hear other people telling me that I just needed to relax. If only it were that simple! Even though I did everything I could think of to calm my anxieties and conceive naturally, I believe now that my body simply wasn’t able to let go of the tension. And probably, the more I wanted it and the harder I longed for it, the less likely it was to happen.