Justice can fuck you up, it transpires.
So. I think I might be able to write about this now. Five months later.
On the 26th April at about 11:10am, I was sitting in work in the middle of an MDT meeting. My phone was propped on the desk close to me and I'll admit to being a little distracted, but I was doing my best to engage in the meeting. At 11:10am, my phone vibrated just once and I looked at the screen to find a breaking news alert from The Guardian, saying the verdicts in the inquests had been returned and I recall seeing the words "unlawfully killed". I let out a sound that was part way between a gasp and a groan, I stood up, took my phone and left the room.
I went outside and once there, right outside the main hospital doors, I didn't know what to do with myself. I paced in a circle a couple of times, I looked up at the sky, I checked and rechecked my phone. I left the hospital grounds and I went up to the road and I walked up and down. My heart was pounding. My breathing was rapid and unsteady. On reflection, I recognise I was having something close to a panic attack, but I still don't know why.
I phoned Kat. She answered straight away. I burst into tears. "Have you seen the verdict?" I asked. "No," she replied. "Oh no, is it..." and before she could continue I said "No. It's right. Unlawful killing." and I cried some more.
It turns out that I did a lot of crying following the verdicts. I went home from work early that day. The next day, I was on a 12-8 and I arrived about 10 minutes early. I was just logging on the computer when our admin put her head in to let us know Staff Support had arrived. I took this as a sign and went in to see them. Because of the work that we do and the stress and the challenges and the people we sometimes lose, we have someone from Staff Support & Counselling Services come into work once per month, so we can debrief or vent or whatever we need. I've never used them before, but I went in on that day.
Less than a week later, I commenced counselling with my own designated therapist who had been trained in "trauma and critical incident counselling". I could have up to 12 sessions with her within the space of 12 months. All confidential, as you would expect, all free. Because the NHS is a wonderful thing. There aren't too many perks working for the NHS, but being able to access a counsellor at the drop of a hat is an important one that I'm extraordinarily grateful for. I also went back on my meds. I was determined not to repeat the mistakes of my past and to deal with this shit before it took over my life.
It transpires that when you want and want and want for something so desperately for 27 years, when you get it, you just don't know what to do with it. And it fucks you up.
I had thought that when we finally got the verdicts, it would be an end. That isn't the case. I think of it now as being the beginning of the journey to the end, but it certainly isn't all over. I didn't know what to feel. I didn't know how to cope with the mixture of emotions I was experiencing. I was crying at nothing. I was incredibly angry and I didn't know why. I mean, why? I've finally got what I've wanted for so long and... why am I not happy? This is it! Exonerated. It was them, not us. Here it is, finally, the truth and... why? Why was I feeling so incredibly shit about it all?
I have the answers to those questions now. I understand. Thanks to Carla, my counsellor, I was able to work this all out and realise that it's okay to feel like this. It's okay to still be angry because that anger is justified and I don't have to let go of it, I just have to not let it drive me in the wrong direction.
One of the things I particularly struggled with was conflict. Conflict between me the nurse and me the person. Me the survivor of Hillsborough. During the evidence, Duckenfield said he had suffered "profound depression", he said he had trouble sleeping and had contemplated suicide. Now, me the nurse (and me the person who's experienced a similar depression and thoughts), should be able to empathise with this. It's my job. I empathise, I help, I offer solutions and I try to help people get through these episodes. I give reassurance and I guide and give them hope. That's what I do. It's my job. But when I read this about Duckenfield, I just thought "Good." I was glad he had suffered and I hoped his suffering would never end. I was glad he couldn't sleep and I hope he still can't. I want him to be tormented by thoughts of suicide until ultimately he gives into them and he takes his own life because, fuck, the world would be a better place without that scum in it.
"Good. You should fucking suffer, after the suffering you've inflicted on so many with your lies and deceit following your monumental fuck up."
[I cannot forget and I still cannot accept that after giving the order to open Gate C, thus ultimately causing the deaths of 96 people, when approached by Graham Kelly of the FA not an hour later, still in the control box overlooking the terrace where people were at that very moment losing their lives, when asked what happened Duckenfield's immediate response was "The fans forced the gate."]
You fucking lying piece of shit scum. Yeah, suffer. Fucking suffer until the day you die.
I really struggled with this. But you know what? It transpires it's okay. Because harbouring these thoughts about him doesn't make me a bad nurse or a bad person. It doesn't impact on the way I do my job, because I don't think like that about all my patients - or even any of them - it doesn't impact on my job. I can separate the two and I can keep my anger reserved solely for him and that's okay.
I think I had 5 of my allowed sessions with Carla. I haven't seen her since June 7th.
The turning point for me was a wedding we attended on May 21st. It was in Sheffield and we stayed over and the day after the wedding after checking out, as we were preparing to leave, I asked Nikki and Matt (bride and groom) if I could take one of the small posies of roses that the bridesmaids had carried the previous day. They said I could and I told them wy I wanted them and they were happy with that.
So we left the hotel, Kat and I, and I drove to Hillsborough. I haven't been back there for about 22 years. I used to go on the anniversary early on, but then I stopped and it's been many years since I've been back. I parked up at the entrance to the Leppings Lane terrace and just looked. It's all different now, the layout has changed, but even though it's so different, it's also very much the same and I can't accurately describe what I felt as I stood there looking at the turnstiles and the back of the stand. I was looking for the memorial. I knew there was a new one - new to me, anyway, I used to go to the small headstone just up from the ground - but I was unsure where it was. I had assumed it'd be at Leppings Lane, but it clearly wasn't. Frustrated, I told Kat to get back in the car and I'd just drive to the old one. We set off, turning left out of Leppings Lane and as we waited at the lights to turn right, I noticed this big motherfuckin' memorial to the left of me. We'd driven past it once, but I wasn't looking for it so I didn't see it and... yeah. Anyway. We parked up around the corner and we walked back to the memorial. Both it and the railings behind it were covered in football shirts, scarves and flags. They were from an incredible number of football teams, both UK based and overseas. There were flowers and photographs and cards and messages and very few of them were from Liverpool supporters.
There was one in particular that caught my eye. It was from an amateur football team from Brighton. (Brighton & Hove Albion had recently played Sheffield Wednesday in a play-off game at Hillsborough.) It read:
"To the relatives of those who lost
their lives and the injured of the
tragic events of 1989, we applaud
your resolve, perseverance and
desire to seek justice.
It is a travesty that you have had
to fight a climate of deceit, media
propaganda and lies that contravene
the ethics of any human being.
You did it!"
This message was undoubtedly my turning point.
The realisation that people understood. They understood what had gone on, what we'd been through, what we'd been up against. The acknowledgement that we were right to continue the fight. It was overwhelming. These people were entirely unconnected with Hillsborough, and yet they got it. They understood.
I can't even.
The next session with Carla after visiting Hillsborough that day was my last. I haven't needed to see her since. I've stopped crying. I haven't stopped fighting, but the fight now is for accountability. We have justice, now give us accountability.
Lies are not okay. The truth will out.
I have written to AFC Varndeanians and offered my thanks. After what they've done for me, it's the very least I could do.
On the 26th April at about 11:10am, I was sitting in work in the middle of an MDT meeting. My phone was propped on the desk close to me and I'll admit to being a little distracted, but I was doing my best to engage in the meeting. At 11:10am, my phone vibrated just once and I looked at the screen to find a breaking news alert from The Guardian, saying the verdicts in the inquests had been returned and I recall seeing the words "unlawfully killed". I let out a sound that was part way between a gasp and a groan, I stood up, took my phone and left the room.
I went outside and once there, right outside the main hospital doors, I didn't know what to do with myself. I paced in a circle a couple of times, I looked up at the sky, I checked and rechecked my phone. I left the hospital grounds and I went up to the road and I walked up and down. My heart was pounding. My breathing was rapid and unsteady. On reflection, I recognise I was having something close to a panic attack, but I still don't know why.
I phoned Kat. She answered straight away. I burst into tears. "Have you seen the verdict?" I asked. "No," she replied. "Oh no, is it..." and before she could continue I said "No. It's right. Unlawful killing." and I cried some more.
It turns out that I did a lot of crying following the verdicts. I went home from work early that day. The next day, I was on a 12-8 and I arrived about 10 minutes early. I was just logging on the computer when our admin put her head in to let us know Staff Support had arrived. I took this as a sign and went in to see them. Because of the work that we do and the stress and the challenges and the people we sometimes lose, we have someone from Staff Support & Counselling Services come into work once per month, so we can debrief or vent or whatever we need. I've never used them before, but I went in on that day.
Less than a week later, I commenced counselling with my own designated therapist who had been trained in "trauma and critical incident counselling". I could have up to 12 sessions with her within the space of 12 months. All confidential, as you would expect, all free. Because the NHS is a wonderful thing. There aren't too many perks working for the NHS, but being able to access a counsellor at the drop of a hat is an important one that I'm extraordinarily grateful for. I also went back on my meds. I was determined not to repeat the mistakes of my past and to deal with this shit before it took over my life.
It transpires that when you want and want and want for something so desperately for 27 years, when you get it, you just don't know what to do with it. And it fucks you up.
I had thought that when we finally got the verdicts, it would be an end. That isn't the case. I think of it now as being the beginning of the journey to the end, but it certainly isn't all over. I didn't know what to feel. I didn't know how to cope with the mixture of emotions I was experiencing. I was crying at nothing. I was incredibly angry and I didn't know why. I mean, why? I've finally got what I've wanted for so long and... why am I not happy? This is it! Exonerated. It was them, not us. Here it is, finally, the truth and... why? Why was I feeling so incredibly shit about it all?
I have the answers to those questions now. I understand. Thanks to Carla, my counsellor, I was able to work this all out and realise that it's okay to feel like this. It's okay to still be angry because that anger is justified and I don't have to let go of it, I just have to not let it drive me in the wrong direction.
One of the things I particularly struggled with was conflict. Conflict between me the nurse and me the person. Me the survivor of Hillsborough. During the evidence, Duckenfield said he had suffered "profound depression", he said he had trouble sleeping and had contemplated suicide. Now, me the nurse (and me the person who's experienced a similar depression and thoughts), should be able to empathise with this. It's my job. I empathise, I help, I offer solutions and I try to help people get through these episodes. I give reassurance and I guide and give them hope. That's what I do. It's my job. But when I read this about Duckenfield, I just thought "Good." I was glad he had suffered and I hoped his suffering would never end. I was glad he couldn't sleep and I hope he still can't. I want him to be tormented by thoughts of suicide until ultimately he gives into them and he takes his own life because, fuck, the world would be a better place without that scum in it.
"Good. You should fucking suffer, after the suffering you've inflicted on so many with your lies and deceit following your monumental fuck up."
[I cannot forget and I still cannot accept that after giving the order to open Gate C, thus ultimately causing the deaths of 96 people, when approached by Graham Kelly of the FA not an hour later, still in the control box overlooking the terrace where people were at that very moment losing their lives, when asked what happened Duckenfield's immediate response was "The fans forced the gate."]
You fucking lying piece of shit scum. Yeah, suffer. Fucking suffer until the day you die.
I really struggled with this. But you know what? It transpires it's okay. Because harbouring these thoughts about him doesn't make me a bad nurse or a bad person. It doesn't impact on the way I do my job, because I don't think like that about all my patients - or even any of them - it doesn't impact on my job. I can separate the two and I can keep my anger reserved solely for him and that's okay.
I think I had 5 of my allowed sessions with Carla. I haven't seen her since June 7th.
The turning point for me was a wedding we attended on May 21st. It was in Sheffield and we stayed over and the day after the wedding after checking out, as we were preparing to leave, I asked Nikki and Matt (bride and groom) if I could take one of the small posies of roses that the bridesmaids had carried the previous day. They said I could and I told them wy I wanted them and they were happy with that.
So we left the hotel, Kat and I, and I drove to Hillsborough. I haven't been back there for about 22 years. I used to go on the anniversary early on, but then I stopped and it's been many years since I've been back. I parked up at the entrance to the Leppings Lane terrace and just looked. It's all different now, the layout has changed, but even though it's so different, it's also very much the same and I can't accurately describe what I felt as I stood there looking at the turnstiles and the back of the stand. I was looking for the memorial. I knew there was a new one - new to me, anyway, I used to go to the small headstone just up from the ground - but I was unsure where it was. I had assumed it'd be at Leppings Lane, but it clearly wasn't. Frustrated, I told Kat to get back in the car and I'd just drive to the old one. We set off, turning left out of Leppings Lane and as we waited at the lights to turn right, I noticed this big motherfuckin' memorial to the left of me. We'd driven past it once, but I wasn't looking for it so I didn't see it and... yeah. Anyway. We parked up around the corner and we walked back to the memorial. Both it and the railings behind it were covered in football shirts, scarves and flags. They were from an incredible number of football teams, both UK based and overseas. There were flowers and photographs and cards and messages and very few of them were from Liverpool supporters.
There was one in particular that caught my eye. It was from an amateur football team from Brighton. (Brighton & Hove Albion had recently played Sheffield Wednesday in a play-off game at Hillsborough.) It read:
"To the relatives of those who lost
their lives and the injured of the
tragic events of 1989, we applaud
your resolve, perseverance and
desire to seek justice.
It is a travesty that you have had
to fight a climate of deceit, media
propaganda and lies that contravene
the ethics of any human being.
You did it!"
This message was undoubtedly my turning point.
The realisation that people understood. They understood what had gone on, what we'd been through, what we'd been up against. The acknowledgement that we were right to continue the fight. It was overwhelming. These people were entirely unconnected with Hillsborough, and yet they got it. They understood.
I can't even.
The next session with Carla after visiting Hillsborough that day was my last. I haven't needed to see her since. I've stopped crying. I haven't stopped fighting, but the fight now is for accountability. We have justice, now give us accountability.
Lies are not okay. The truth will out.
I have written to AFC Varndeanians and offered my thanks. After what they've done for me, it's the very least I could do.