Stories in the public eye about mental illness generally fit into three categories;
Category one) a person (usually a celebrity) coming out as having recovered after a lengthy battle with their illness (of course, still having the occasional bad day, but with an obvious, upbeat and optimistic view of their future, full of goals and dreams and wishes for themselves. They have solid support people, or plans in place, for any signs of relapse). They’re likely still mentally ill but are clearly glass-half-full. They’ll vociferously advocate through whatever channels they have available to them for others who are suffering to reach out for help – because [insert generic “help is available” and “recovery is possible” phrases here]. There are plenty of stories which come from the “I’ve come out on the other side” point of view, which to be honest, are not particularly helpful for some of us who are chronically depressed and/or suicidal, when we’re stuck in the “here and now sucks” hole.
Category two) stories of hope for recovery, where a person may have started setting bigger goals for themselves than getting out of bed in the morning, or showering. They may have plans for the future and a view that things will get better. People who look to a future where good things will happen. People who see that maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel after all and they actively seek treatment options with the hope of improvement in life circumstances etc.
Category three) the story where it’s too late. A life has ended. It’s a tragedy. Nobody saw it coming. What could we have done to prevent this? How could we have been so blind to their pain? Where were the warning signs? What if we had paid more attention, or said something, or not said something, or behaved differently? The devastation in those left behind. A life ended too soon. They had so much to live for. They were too young.
My story is perhaps best described as a combination of the three. This story is my own kind of “coming out” after years of being tired, utterly exhausted, of hiding behind a mask, pretending that I’m fine when really I’ve wanted to die.
Stories of depression are never going to be positive while they are happening. In the media and even from mental health organisations, we are encouraged to ask people if they are okay, but we do not share the stories of the here and now, where frankly, life sucks and doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better. We only share the stories which facilitate recovery or inspire some kind of hope for the future. Media and resources provide fantastic albeit clinical information regarding mental illness, but we seldom stumble across any reading which truly articulates the reality of depression; of the emotions and the thought processes of the depressed mind. In my opinion, it seems the media and organisations alike feel it is necessary to foster only those conversations of hope or where recovery is happening – to prevent worsening depression or to avoid triggering situations or outcomes in those already affected, perhaps.
In reality, ignoring the concept of just how unattractive depression is while it is happening is leading only to a further lack of community understanding of an illness which, though invisible, is as real as a broken limb. It is leading not to encourage the conversations about mental illness before it is too late, but to the community shying away from the reality of those “here and now sucks” conversations. Ignoring the story until it becomes positive (or until it ends) is simply leading to the further stigmatisation of mental illness, and in turn is leading to more personal shame from those suffering a mental illness. People who are ashamed of their current reality will not reach out for help – and this is leading to at least six Australians committing suicide each day.
Welcome to my own “here and now”.
I’m not here to convince people that things will get better, or that there is that hypothetical light at the end of the tunnel – because that is something I am not yet convinced of myself. I’m just being real.
So maybe I’m the warning signs that nobody sees. I’ve heard more than once that everyone thought I was okay; that I was doing the best I’ve ever been doing. That people “didn’t think I was depressed anymore” and were genuinely shocked to learn of my current circumstances.
I’ve hidden from most people, friends and family alike, that I was having any issues at all. Though, as has been suggested to me, perhaps people had their suspicions. When I stopped going to work. When I got quieter and just a little more withdrawn. When I always mentioned that I was tired or wasn’t sleeping, sometimes for days at a time. When I constantly complained of physical pain (to substantiate any kind of mood or behaviour which may have shined any kind of light on my mental anguish). Even I didn’t recognise it at the time, but in hindsight, these were all signs of my downward spiral.
This is the part where I’m physically in a psychiatric facility and mentally stuck between living and dying; torn between wanting something more for myself or wanting nothing at all. There’s currently very little to no hope for the future.
And that’s okay. That is depression. Depression is real and does not discriminate. Depression must be felt; it’s a wave that could drown you or a wave you could ride – there is no in between. Depression won’t just disappear.
I’m here to share my current reality – not to bullshit my way through how hopeful I am for my future or prospects of hope for my own recovery, because realistically – what even is recovery? When you’ve lived with depression for so long, hope for better days, or even for less shitty days, is not there. And if it is, it’s damn quiet compared with the rest of the yelling going on in your head.
My point here is: this is now. What you read here will be what is happening now. It will be selfish and is aimed more at relieving my own anxieties, not about satiating everyone else and making sure they’re okay. It is aimed to stop the hiding, which has become tedious and exhausting for me. It will be honest and raw and probably scary and sad and hard for those who are close to me to read. And I am sorry that it will hurt them, but I am not sorry for sharing.
This is my own kind of “coming out”.
laurengorman 