If I’d been removed from my mother’s care, how would I have turned out?

The exact wording varies, but it’s generally something like this: “If you could go back in time and be removed from your mother’s care permanently at the start, do you think that would have been better?”

Yeah, it’s a biggie. That question is essentially the ultimate one of nature vs nurture. Would my life be better now if I hadn’t endured the abuse and neglect that I did as a child? If I didn’t have to spend my adulthood dealing with the effects of this trauma, how different would things be? What would it be like to not be like this? To be … “cured”?

I have answered that question differently over the years. I still answer it differently. Because I genuinely don’t know. I’ve always thought that what I went through made me into the person I am today. I’m a talented writer and a great performer, and I’m funny. It could be argued that resilience built those things. But … I also resent the concept of “resilience” being a virtue. I resent that I went through something so terrible that it forced me to be resilient in the first place. And who’s to say my talent and humour aren’t just in my genes?

My mum and dad were both very funny people – my mum was extremely creative, and my dad was an exceptional writer. My grandmother was an academic and published author. Maybe I’m a storyteller because of nature, rather than nurture, and was always going to be this way. So if I had to choose … then yeah, I’d choose “get me the hell out of there”, wouldn’t I? Go back to the start and put me in a stable and loving home.

But … what if that stuff isn’t in my genes? Then I spend a childhood in a stable and loving home, but I grow up to be a woman who names her kids Braighleigh and Caightleighn, posts TikToks about her MLM aromather­apy business and has a framed “Live Laugh Love” poster as the central artwork in her living room. No sense of humour and no writing career. But also … no bad childhood means no mental health issues! Right?

Does it, though? If I had grown up in a stable and loving home, I would certainly have had less trauma to deal with, but could I guarantee I’d have no mental-health issues? There’s a history of mental illness on both sides of my family, ranging from schizophrenia to depression. So while my childhood may be the cause of the trauma in my life now, I could have had an incred­ible childhood and still struggled mentally because my genes were always going to be that way.

When it comes to mental health, maybe my number was always going to be drafted at conception, bad childhood or not.

So, am I sticking with Braighleigh and Caightleighn or … ?

It’s not just talent, humour and mental health to consider, though. I have qualities as a human being that I’ve come to appreciate, that almost certainly developed thanks to the work I’ve had to put into treatment. If I’d had a stable or loving childhood, or been “cured” of my trauma sooner, I wouldn’t have spent the years I have learning how to be a better person.

Like picking up on the emotions of others. I do it to a hyper­ extent, constantly doing something I call “temperature­ checking the room”. It’s officially called hypervigilance and is a height­ened sense that children in dangerous environments are forced to develop to stay safe. Are they mad? Do I need to be wary? Have I done something wrong? How can I fix this? What can I do to calm them down? All understandable thoughts for a little kid to have when they’re just trying to stay alert and mitigate danger.

When it comes to mental health, maybe my number was always going to be drafted at conception, bad childhood or not.

But as an adult, I initially hated my hypervigilance. I found it exhausting to be constantly assessing my surroundings and the people in them. And while treatment hasn’t got rid of it completely, it has helped me turn it into a quality I’m now proud to have.

I understand now that while my hypervigilant brain may pick up on something going on with a person, I have no way of knowing what it is. So now I try to take that hypervigilance and filter it through empathy and insight, giving me the chance to check in with people about how they’re feeling if I do pick up on something.

My childhood gave me the ability to observe people out of necessity, and my treatment gave me the ability to turn that into something positive. (Hypervigilance also means I notice the kind of tiny, nonsense details that make me a ridiculously brilliant gift-­giver. The list goes on, people!)

Do I wish my childhood had been different? I just … I don’t know. That’s why my answer to that question changes all the time. There is no simple answer. It’s nature and nurture. It’s frustration at the past and pride at surviving it. It’s wishing I knew what it felt like to have an awesome dad like Richard Glover, and knowing so much of what is great about me wouldn’t exist without the dad I did have.

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What would my life look like if I didn’t have a broken brain? I don’t know if it would be better or worse. The boring answer is probably a bit of both. What I do know for sure, though, is that I wouldn’t be the exact person I am right now, with all the brilliance and all the flaws, if everything hadn’t gone exactly the way it has so far.

And the person I am right now? I really, really like her.

Edited extract from Broken Brains (Penguin Random House) by Jamila Rizvi and Rosie Waterland, out now.

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