Turbulent Waves

by Sheena Crichton McKenzie

 As I began printing, I really didn’t know where I was going or what I’d like the end result to be. Printing was simplistic, so very different to my son’s life which had presented so many difficulties. But I wanted to depict his life in all its intricacies, flaws and beauty and my picture wasn’t cutting it.

I thought about his poem ‘Turbulent Waves’, written at the tender age of 11 when he should have been carefree, happy and excited about all life had to offer. Instead, my son struggled; trying to take control of his confused thoughts. Life for Hugh was very much a mix of pushing, stopping, escaping and hiding.

Under the theme’ Slipping Through the Net’, I imagined how Hugh might have felt, often trying desperately to reach out and fit in, and family, education and health professionals trying in their own way to reach him ... but not quite getting him.

I remember holding my darling boy, thin through lack of food, a disordered eating pattern developed as a way to gain control, and recognising that either something was going to click; the right understanding and support would be given or I’d be burying my son. These were tricky and distressing thoughts for a mother, silently kept but oh so real. 

And so, life went on a bit for my boy, occasional triumphs but more often times of conflict and despair. Yes, there were some that got him, understood and accepted him. But many stood in judgement of him and of us. Mental ill health is so often stigmatised and those suffering and their families are unwittingly marginalised.

The decision was taken to print hands; his hands reaching for help he so urgently sought and mine, trying to help, cling on to him and offer him a reason to live for. I agonised about his arms and what colour they should be. Should they be black because he was so often in a very dark place? Jane, however, saw his arm as pink, fleshy, not battered and instead full of potential and youthful vigour. I went along with that, but with niggling doubts. His hands were not perfect. His were bruised and torn as he tried hard to grapple with societal expectations, negative thoughts and suicidal ideation. And my hands weren’t like the fisherman’s glove that I rashly printed. Fishermen catch. Christ was a fisher of men, but I couldn’t save my son, try as I might.

With these thoughts obviously showing in my face, Jane said to me that I wasn’t happy. She was right. This simple printed teacloth didn’t portray angst, pain and desire to be free and she suggested that I go away and deconstruct it. I went away with these thoughts to deconstruct this piece of art. His life, all 19 years of it, was not a pretty, perfect picture. Instead, it was beautiful, flawed, mixed up but with all the potential to be put back together. Thus began the process of deconstruction and putting back together.

If only Hugh could have waited for this second stage. And so, he slipped through the net. Some scrabbled, trying to help whilst others looked on, some choosing not to care. We tried so hard, but he slipped through our fingers, and we couldn’t hold on. Bless you, my darling.