Why my husband calls me Trunky – how to reverse a lifetime of chaos and make a real difference
After more than 30 years of craving approval, and suffering the consequences, Sam Mccoll went cold turkey. As she publishes a novel, she reflects on her journey so far
In order to stay safe as a child, I spent most of my waking hours second guessing the moods, thoughts, and actions of my family. And I did it pretty well. Certainly I can only remember sparking my father’s anger the once.
I hid in the hot cupboard, squeezing myself between the slatted shelves. I remember him dragging me out, though I don’t remember the beating or the crime.
It would be many years before I understood that no child is responsible for a parent’s violence, but back then my sister’s challenging behaviour incurred his wrath almost daily and the tension which led to frequent rows or beatings was a constant force to be dealt with. Being the “good child” has consequences, and I both loved, pitied and feared her in equal measure.
And then when I was 12 and she was 15 both our parents were killed in a car crash. Things were different in 1964. We never went to the funeral, let alone were given time to grieve. We were at a new school within 24 hours. “Treat her like any other girl’, they were told at assembly. “Whatever you do – don’t mention her parents”. Amazing. Talk about elephant in the room. I discovered that other people were involved in the crash through a newspaper article, at school: “Car Crash orphans to share £4,000. Drunk driver charged …” But I never said one of the girls was me. Wouldn’t have been right, would it?
A year on, at the age of 13,
I was kissed by one of my guardian’s friends, whose wife and two children of my own age were preparing tea. A long explorative kiss. This is shocking enough, but when I told my 94-year-old aunt recently, she laughed and said, “he always was a sly one”. Now that’s shocking!
I think I went into a kind of lock-down. I continued to do what I did best: craving approval from those who weren’t interested, I sniffed out and gobbled greedily any lovescraps thrown my way, like a scavenger.
My first boyfriend was a budding alcoholic. He played Leonard Cohen songs for hours on end in a smoke filled “den” in his parents’ house. They thought I was an angel and when my guardians found out I was sleeping with him aged 15, his parents covered for us, so desperate were they that I continued to visit them.
And so it went on. The only love I really ever wanted was my sister’s, and I pursued men who, like her, found me lacking. And usually got them. I would then spend several years balancing on a fraying tight rope, before running away. I might then find someone who genuinely cared for me, but I was an addict, and I always went back to the wire.
To soften the falls, I worked furiously. I gave birth to three children, built houses and gardens, gave myself little time to think about much, except how to change the person I was with. Because they were mean, right?
And then, in my late thirties, I found myself alone again, living in a caravan with my two youngest children, scared to death I might lose them. Finally I sought help. And it wasn’t until I began to tell the story of this child, who happened to be me, that I allowed myself to see the tragedy that was her life. With a therapist we created a strict but kind inner-mother, and drew up some boundaries for that lost girl. First she had to break her addiction. I went cold turkey. I gave up cigarettes, my husband, my sister and any friends who didn’t make me feel loved and appreciated. Everything I lived for.
My strict “inner parent” only allowed me to have friends who didn’t scare me or trigger that, must-have-or-i’ll-die feeling, and there were many false starts. I got off on being scared, felt alive when I was winning someone’s affection. But I was desperate for different outcomes, so I listened to that steady inner voice, stayed with the feelings of loss (probably very much the same feelings of loss a child should be allowed to experience if their parents die in a car-crash) and very soon every day was a safe day – and that alone brought about huge changes. Never underestimate the side effects of being safe.
Cleared of so much mental clutter, I couldn’t fail to notice the many other ways that my past impacted (and not in a good way) on my present. For instance, if I lost something, I’d find it hard to rest until it was found, could think of little else. It didn’t really matter what it was – I’d taken my eye off the ball – and that meant trouble. Only it didn’t. Not anymore. I try not to beat myself up – because the panic is real enough. Instead, I metaphorically hug the scared child, reassure her that there’s no threat any more, that whatever is lost will turn up, can be replaced or just isn’t that important.
I still don’t handle loss very
“I gave up cigarettes, my husband, my sister and any friends who didn’t make me feel loved”
well, but that flicker of alarm no longer takes control, mostly I can resist the urge to turn the house upside down for a sock.
I’m still learning. I often want to dig too deep, ask too many probing questions, panic if I say the wrong thing, but I’ve nailed some important work. I have friends who call me as many times as I call them, I’ve been married 20 years to a brilliant guy, and the kids… where do I start?
I changed my name eight years ago to Sam, but my family call me a few things, Samu-el Jackson, Shammy, Why-bird and the one my husband uses when the expression on my face, or the tone of my voice warns him that I’m about to climb inside his brain: Oi! Keep your snout out, Trunky!
● Call Billy 07899 232007 by Sam Mccoll is out now, at £8.99, see http://sammccoll. webstarts.com; Blackwell’s Bookshop on Edinburgh’s South Bridge is hosting a launch event for the book tomorrow from 6.30pm-8pm