As the dust settles on an intense campaign, psychotherapist Karen Sugrue considers how she and other campaigners can manage leftover emotions and exhaustion
On May 25th, the country went to the polls to vote on Repeal of the 8th Amendment. On both sides of the campaign, everyday people worked tirelessly, giving up their free time to canvas, go to meetings, and put up posters. No matter the outcome, there was always going to be exhaustion afterwards from everyone who invested their time and energy. Karen Sugrue is a psychotherapist , and she reflects on her involvement in the ‘Repeal’ movement, and writes for A Lust for Life about her personal experience recovering from the intensity of the movement, self-care when campaigning, and how to manage leftover feelings and emotions in the wake of the campaign.
Thursday May 24th felt like a 24-hour indrawn breath; the weird, deadened feeling that hangs in the air just before a huge storm and that you can feel on your skin, lasted the whole day. Going to bed that night I was thinking of my grandmother, and the generations of Irish women now gone, and I was certain they were watching us, smiling nervously at each other. They knew, those Irish women, what was at stake. They had lived in an Ireland that tried to erase women from every story, every picture, every decision. An Ireland that insisted that they have no names, no rights and work only to support the real citizens, the men of Ireland. They had died in an Ireland that stole their babies, mutilated them, banished them, shamed them, punished them and killed them. Those women knew what was at stake and we knew that we had got to that day only because their work and their lives had brought us there. We were running the final leg of a relay race that had lasted a hundred years – they had simply passed the last baton to us. Perhaps it was our breaths that we held that whole day. Would we make them proud? Had we done enough?
And we had all done so much. Everything that was possible for each of us. We set up support groups online, wrote letters, and contacted local politicians. We made sure our students were registered, gave our staff time off to get home to vote. We ran events at work, and we put our businesses on line by publicly declaring support. We held secrets, and the terror of discovery. We smiled at neighbours, we averted our eyes from posters outside schools, we were forced to explain them to our children, and we cried because they brought back the heartbreak of a loss every time we left the house. We had difficult conversations with elderly parents, made incredibly brave decisions to tell our stories, laid ourselves and our grief open to public scrutiny. We stood up to priests and walked out of masses; We grew wings and carried sheets so that we might protect as many as possible from pictures designed to hurt; We used to our skills to shield people from poison online; We cried with friends when we recognised their shoes and their story on line, and we hadn’t known. In each of our small corners, we were obstreperous.
We smiled politely at anger, we breathed through the insults, we thanked people for calling us baby murderers, we remembered to close all the gates. We tried not to be shrill, or strident, or hysterical, or loud, or profane. We were grateful for every crumb of support. We made ourselves smaller, blander. We melted and folded ourselves into tiny moulds of acceptability so that people would find us palatable and reasonable. We smiled and smiled and smiled AND SMILED.
We listened to stories of grief bottled for years, decades. Grief passed down through generations of women hurt by Ireland. So much loss and so much shame. It poured out on us as from a suppurating wound, from people broken by the effort of containing it for so long. We made ourselves visible with our clothes and badges, so that win or lose, people who must make difficult choices would know that they are not alone anymore and that from now on, the only shame would belong to Ireland for her many cruelties. We cried all day, every day. But quietly, where no one would see. Outside, we wore our t-shirts, we held our heads high and our hearts on our sleeves, we swallowed our rage, and we fucking smiled.
And the unimaginable happened. A landslide. We’d done it. We’d made the long-gone generations of Irish women proud. We watched as the heroic activists around the country who’d spent their whole lives working for this, cried with relief. A resounding victory over the toxic forces of old Ireland. A vitally important win for evidence, proof, inclusion and kindness, in a world we hardly recognise any more that has begun to reject these things. In our heart of hearts, we hadn’t even dared to hope, not least prepare ourselves for this.
And it was worth every second – and we wouldn’t change a thing – but that doesn’t mean that we are not broken, or at least badly dented, by the effort it took to do all the things that we did.
We who travel the road with mental health struggles as our companions, are an empathetic bunch and in this time of national catharsis, and international upheaval and uncertainty, we are especially susceptible. Very often our recovery and continued wellbeing lies in vigilant self-care and the holding of rigid boundaries. However, a great many of us, myself included (despite all the good advice I gave to others during the campaign) were lured into the addictive cycle of emotive highs and lows that marked the campaign and self-care and boundaries fell by the wayside. Fuelled mostly by the rage we were supressing, and the adrenaline of the approaching deadline, we did not sleep. Exhausted by the effort it took to maintain the façade of reasonability in the face of hostile irrationality, we did not eat. Overwhelmed by the enormity of the endeavour, the sense of history, and the profound honour of working with the best people we’d ever met, down time didn’t exist. We lived on our nerves and in our heads, ignoring all the difficult feelings the campaign was triggering, and neglecting our bodies.
And that’s ok. We are warriors all who put our bodies and health on the line to fight and win a monumental battle, each of us playing our part in this incredible story. Now is the time to recover and heal, to reconnect with our real selves, and to breathe. This healing time will be different for everyone, depending on what life experiences you bring with you, but please allow yourself as much time and space as it takes. Take care of your body as you would a toddler – give it good food, fresh air, exercise, regular sleep, time with its friends, as well as quiet time. Make sure it has fun and laughs. Give it loads of treats as well because by god, its earned them. Take care of your mind too – write down how you feel, talk to friends, know you are not alone in how you are feeling, we are all in recovery. Counselling is an excellent support also to help us find our ground again in the tornado of feelings, experiences and emotions of the last few months. (These two organisations represent and advertise the services of highly trained and experienced psychotherapists around the country – IAHIP.ORG AND IACP.IE).
One thing that gave me enormous energy and courage during the campaign was spotting the badges worn by like minded people. We caught each other’s eyes, smiled, greeted and honked in solidarity at the shared sense of what we were all working towards and going through. I would love if those of us who struggle with our mental health had a way to declare ourselves to each other – some days, just a simple thumbs-up from a fellow traveller is all the boost we need to do that day. This is my thumbs up to all the weary repeal warriors out there – heroes all.
Help information
If you need help please talk to friends, family, a GP, therapist or one of the free confidential helpline services. For a full list of national mental health services see yourmentalhealth.ie.
- Samaritans on their free confidential 24/7 helpline on 116-123, by emailing jo@samaritans.ie
- Pieta House National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement) or text HELP to 51444 (standard message rates apply)
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
If living in Ireland you can find accredited therapists in your area here:
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