The 'M' Word

After a very stressful few months and then unceremoniously belly flopping into the new year, I find myself out of energy and about as useful as a car with no engine. When I feel like this, I tend to get very anxious and fed up and inwardly start berating myself for being so useless. "Winter blues, here I am, come and get me you miserable bitch!"

Before I start spiralling into the dark depths of my own misery I thought it was about time to shine the spot light on mental health. Just the term "mental health" makes me cringe and despite awareness being raised after the tragic death of the beloved Robin Williams, it is a term that is still taboo and many who suffer with mental health issues still hide in the shadows. For self preservation I want to edit myself to the point that this blog would only be eight words long, "I suffer from mental health issues. The end" but as I said when I started blogging, It is time to step out of my comfort zone.

It is hard to accept that you struggle with something that is socially unacceptable and harder still to admit it and seek help. I understood at a young age that I battled with depression and anxiety. On three occasions, between the ages of 12 and 19 years old, I tried to commit suicide. Thankfully, I was naive enough not to understand the effects of certain medications and other than feeling very sick and ashamed, I was still alive and glad that my attempts to take my own life had not been successful. At the time I did not see my actions as being selfish. When you feel expendable you think that no one will bat an eyelid at your death. After my last attempt (and in a more balanced frame of mind) I thought, "What if someone I knew did the same thing?" I knew that I would feel very sad and angry. With that realisation I made the decision never to make the same mistake again but it wasn't until I was 23 years old that I admitted that I needed help.

When I was 8 years old, I was taken to see a counsellor after my Dad left. I don't remember it very clearly but I do remember that I did not want to talk to him. In fact I felt this over whelming urge to bite him and run screaming from the room. I didn't though. I just sat there, saying nothing. It was a futile endeavour that I had no interest in repeating, so when I was referred by my doctor to see a counsellor after having a melt down 15 years later, I was more than a little reluctant.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, wondering how many times I was going to be asked "And how does that make you feel?" and whether I actually would bite the counsellor and run screaming this time. Although, I wasn't so sure I would get away with such behaviour as an adult. Luckily I was called through before I could get cold feet. As I walked into the office I looked up to see a mature lady wearing a casual blouse and a pair of comfy trousers, loose hair and a warm smile. No stiff suit, no clip boards, no quizzical stare and in that moment I felt relief.

This counsellor did not judge me nor did I feel like she was sizing me up for a strappy little number, she steered the conversation with a few probing questions but mostly, she let me talk. By the end of the first session I felt raw. Like someone had ripped open my festering wounds scrubbed them until they bled and then neatly dressed them again. It felt strangely good. I hadn't expected it to feel good, in fact I was expecting it to feel like I had been flattened by a ten tonne tank. I almost felt like skipping as I walked home until I remembered I wasn't coordinated enough to attempt such a thing so, instead I mulled over my discoveries hoping that I would learn something that would change my life.

I had seven more sessions with my counsellor and in each one I learnt a little bit more about myself, which in turn helped me have a better understanding of the people around me. In our last session my counsellor told me I was very articulate and incredibly astute. I turned my head to see if someone had slipped into the room behind me. There was no one. For a person who frequently tripped over her own words and with the ability to walk past her own sister in the street without seeing her, I would not have labelled myself as either of these two things. It was nice to hear though but it was many more years before I gave these words any credibility.

After my counselling sessions, I continued with other forms of therapy, some more helpful than others. I even attended group sessions for anxiety sufferers. It was awful! A group of people with varying levels of anxiousness expected to stand up in front of strangers and explain why they suffered from anxiety. It seemed like an oxymoron and very little progress was made in these meetings but I received useful information on coping techniques so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

I would like to say that I was completely cured of all my depression and anxiety due to all the therapy I received but, sadly this was not the case. Although my festering wounds became scar tissue, scar tissue is fragile, it requires maintenance. Little knocks and bumps had become easier to manage but despite my revelations, I still found myself spiralling with any major blow.

It's hard to reach out to anyone when you feel so lost inside your own head. When someone asks, "How are you?" any other response other than "I'm fine thanks, and you?" you are fairly certain will be greeted with eye rolling and blank stares followed by awkward conversation while the other party is looking for a quick exit. It does make it easy to politely deflect such a question if asked by a stranger or someone you consider more curious than caring but when it is someone who genuinely does care, you find you are still doing the dance of polite etiquette. Why though? To look strong? Self preservation? There are probably hundreds of reasons for why that so many with mental health issues struggle with every day. I for one worry that I will sound stupid, that no one will understand and that I will ultimately be expendable if people don't like the answer to their loaded question.

Recently I found myself resenting  the "How are you?" question even though I am guilty of asking the exact same thing. I keep thinking, "If you really care about how someone is feeling why not ask a REAL question?" Not to say that you should go in all guns blazing and ask someone about their childhood but something a little less probing such as, "How did you get on at the doctors the other week or I heard so 'n' so has been having a tough time at school lately, how are you coping?" Nothing that would be classified as prying but enough to give that person the opportunity to open up a dialogue about how they truly are if they feel comfortable to do so. Surely if we could all do this then those of us with mental health issues may not feel so alone in the dark? If you know someone is struggling will you reach out to them or will you wait until they ask for help? Tricky questions with even trickier answers.

I don't want to be ashamed of being a little bit mental anymore. I want to accept it, to wear my battle scars and give people the opportunity to accept me for who I am if they wish to do so and I don't want to worry about the people that cannot accept me. I hope those of you still hidden in the shadows will find your own voice and I hope that it doesn't take another celebrity suicide or any suicide for that matter, for people to realise that mental health is a real issue and should be treated as such.

So, "How are you today?"