Growing Up With a Mentally Ill Mother and the Dream of Escape.

January 5, 2026

Caz Burrell, Author

Tom O'Connor, Publisher

I always believed that I could outrun my childhood. Like many children of dysfunction, I carried the fantasy that once I moved away from home, I would be free of all that went on there. It was a comforting illusion, and the promise of freedom was a bright, steady flame that kept me hopeful.

School was my refuge, and I felt happy and prosperous there. It was a world that made sense to me; there were rules to follow and a system I could fit into. At home, things were not like that.

My Mother Struggled With Mental Health. 

Much of the time, she was cold and distant, heavily medicated and lost in her own mind. I grew up in England in the 1980s and 90s during a period when no one spoke openly about mental health. I was never explained the way she was, I was only told that she was 'ill.'

It was a word that sounded so temporary. People who are ill go to the doctor, take their medicine, and get better, don't they? But my mother never got well. Although she took her tablets every day, she remained the same.

I was unsure how to behave around her. There were moments when she seemed to look through me, as if I were invisible. And other times when she wanted to dote on me, treating me as her baby, long after I had grown.

Tried To Keep Out Of Her Way. 

Luckily, she didn't interfere in my life. I was a capable, independent child, and I cherished my freedom. I had no curfew and few rules to follow. I also had my father to look after me. But as the illness worsened, things became difficult.

She would become angry, raging at the world and the injustice of her fate. Sometimes she would talk nonsense about how the Queen was going to send her a letter of praise, or how the hairdresser wanted to run away with her. 

When she started yelling at the blackbirds to stop pecking the lawn — blackbirds that weren't there — my father called the doctor, and she disappeared into the hospital. The house would breathe a momentary sigh of relief, but very soon she'd be home again. Heavily medicated, staring at the walls, and the cycle would restart.

Sail Away to University

I poured myself into my studies. Education was my life raft, and I planned to jump in, paddle hard, and sail away to university. I still remember the day I left home. At 18, my father's car was packed to the roof with almost everything I owned. Finally, I was leaving her. Finally, my life would begin.

Unfortunately, the euphoria didn't last. The first weeks of university blurred into a frenzy of alcohol and excitement, a frantic kind of celebration. But beneath it, something hollow began to form. I hadn't realized how much of my strength had come from resisting her, or how defining myself against her chaos had given me purpose.

Unraveling at University and Beyond

Without that opposition, I seemed to unravel. The determination that had driven me for years dissolved, leaving a strange emptiness behind. I no longer knew what I wanted or who I was meant to be. I was no longer motivated to study, and I had no idea what career I wanted to pursue. I only knew how to survive; I didn't know myself at all.

Now, I'm in my forties, and I'm a mother myself. I've spent the two decades since leaving home trying to make sense of the past. I must have read dozens of books on the psychology of mental illness and had many more conversations with friends, and even strangers, talking about my childhood. My mother is often the first thing I mention when I'm getting to know someone new.

I wonder if I'm searching for someone who has had a similar experience to mine, because my childhood has always felt so different from others. Or I'm hoping someone will offer a perspective that finally helps it to make sense. Or it's simpler than that because having a mother like her is so tightly woven into the fabric of who I am.

*If you are relating to Caz's article, you might also like What is Adult Child Syndrome?

Finding No Answers

Whatever the reason, it hasn't brought me answers. The most common reaction I get when I talk about my mother is that people go quiet, unsure what to say.

Although my mother has passed away now, as I grew into adulthood, she didn't really keep in touch. My father tried for a while, but eventually that too faded. He was engulfed by caring for her, and there were times when I felt angry and exasperated by their behavior, and it was better for us not to speak.

I've struggled with feelings of depression and sadness. The past was always something I wanted to run from, but writing and creativity are helping me to explore it instead.

Jeanette Winterson, an English author and one of my favorite writers, once said that writing can help to bring freedom from the past: "As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience."

I'm beginning to understand what she means. In writing about my mother, I'm not running from my memories anymore. I'm learning to turn towards them, not because I want anything to change, because I know from experience how futile that is, even though I have always longed for her to be different. It's a way of unburdening myself of difficult emotions, a way of letting go.

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Caz Burrell writes about women with ADHD, motherhood, and mental health. She is currently a PhD researcher. Caz is also a lover of words and connection. If you want to read more of her articles, please visit https://medium.com/@cazcazcaz.

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