Out of the Depths.
The True ‘face’ of mental illness.
I’m sure I’m not alone, but I confess I really despise those shared posts on Facebook boldly stating:
‘My door is always open and my kettle is always on. Who will share? #mentalhealthmatters’
‘Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. Let’s share this and show support for #mentalhealthawareness’
‘If I called you at midnight with tears in my eyes, would you answer?’
Ok, I know these posts are designed to promote support for mental health, and to clear the stigma, and I know those sharing and commenting are full of good intentions, but when it really comes to it, I mean really comes to it, when mental illness equals more than just tears and sadness, would you really be there?
Let me explain. I have been in the pit of despair and depression, myself. I have been both a sufferer, and a supporter of others. Mental illness resides within pretty much every member of my family. In some cases it’s probably genetic, and in others, it’s as a result of early childhood trauma. In my case, and my brother’s, it was as a result of domestic violence and abuse as very young children. We both struggle, and every now and again, the ‘monster’ emerges, and let me tell you, we can be pretty difficult to handle, or even support.
It’s not my place to discuss my sibling’s life as a mental-illness sufferer, although I can say that he has been getting professional help, and I am thrilled to reveal that he is doing well. But, as for me, well, let’s just say after suffering probably with PTSD, and then its pals ‘anxiety’, ‘anorexia’, ‘agoraphobia’, ‘panic disorder’ and ‘depression’, good old Post Natal Depression decided to join the party and absolutely floor me after the birth of my daughter. The very generous PND decided it would be fun to rob me of sleep, keep my poor heart at a constant panic beat, convince me that I would lose my child and my husband, and that I was worthless because I wasn’t coping with being a ‘mother.’
So, my point is, I was a living nightmare to deal with. I was angry, frightened, I pushed my loved-ones, hoping for reassurance. I cried constantly. I was fragile, and no amount of comforting words, tea, cuddles or reassurance would have brought me out of it. There is no way anyone could have been expected to cope with me. A lovely friend invited me round for a cup of tea, and she just stared at me aghast with pity and helplessness as depression poured out in the form of big fat tears and complete despair. My husband was solid, though. He stayed strong for me, bless him, despite my behaviour, and he was the only one remotely able to support me. Other family members and loved ones just didn’t understand what was happening, or even what to say or do for me. My husband’s outward appearance, however, was telling of the strain I had put him under: he aged, he got very thin, and he was exhausted.
I needed medical help, and it took me to reach the bottom of ‘the pit’ to accept that. I had already refused anti-depressants because depression had also gifted me with a ‘fear of side-effects’. I swear, the illness is like a devil on your shoulder, frightening you into staying unwell, just so it can stay and rule. I was desperately depending on sleeping pills, and also wanting to not need them. Eventually, after thinking I should go out, during a sleepless night, and just lie in front of the cars, just so someone would see how desperately I felt, I realised I had nothing at all to lose. A wonderful female doctor saved my life, I believe. She was firm but gentle with me, and never refused a tearful call from me. I took the medication, and one day I did feel better; I felt lighter; I had more energy; and my poor heart was no longer beating in fear. I managed to get off the sleeping pills, and I began to enjoy life again.
I still have mental health problems, but I can cope better now, and I know that when a bout of anxiety occurs that it will pass. I just have to grit my teeth and ride it out. I also know what it feels like to suffer, and I have been able to help some others. I know what to say, and what not to say, and because I came out the other end, I know how to reassure other sufferers.
I know that people’s intentions are good, and that they truly think they could support someone with mental illness, and I admire their belief. But the truth is, mental illness is ugly. It’s hateful. It’s more than a highly shared statement on social media. And the truth is, too, that we need more resources to support people. Since Covid struck, my local health centre has become like a fortress. None can enter, and trying to get through on the phone can take a whole day of trying. We need better services to really help people in need.
Anyway, I wrote a poem about my experiences:
***************************************
Trailing, not Covering.
Leaving the black sheet trailing,
It no longer covers me.
Stifling my breath, blinding my vision,
Causing my poor, broken heart to beat wildly.
~
I breathe now, freely.
I embrace the light; no longer
Trapped, in the heavy, sticky,
Exhausting fear.
No longer cast out to sea, adrift,
Losing myself to deep despair. Insanity,
Terror. Grief. For myself and who I was.
~
I was innocent, now seeing too much.
Seeing only the losses. Seeing only
What I had to endure, and never beat.
Seeing what changed me.
~
Night-time would stand like a razor-toothed nightmare
creature in the doorway.
Its looming, inevitable presence would cause my fluttering, exhausted heart to beat frantically.
I was terrified of the long hours awake.
My pulse like an angry hornet in my ears.
~
The creature in the doorway is silent and unseen for now,
but never completely gone.
By Deborah Robinson