When people think about illness, what so often comes to mind are images of physical ailments and worn-down bodies. We imagine viruses, hospitals full of people with IV drips, wounds that we can see and touch. What is often neglected and not considered with the weight that it truly deserves, is illness of the mind. When I consider the people around me, my “constellation of intimates” as S. Bear Bergman so beautifully phrases it, the most profound pain I see them experience, so often originates from their minds. I recently found myself realising that I have a far greater tolerance for physical pain, than I do emotional. This awareness has led me to question why this might be, what impact has the societal stigma surrounding mental illness had on me and those I hold most dear?
Someone who has not been plagued with mental illness may find it difficult to understand just how debilitating it is, how terrifyingly inescapable it can be. They may be unaware that it frequently presents itself in physical forms. Mental illness hurts. And not just emotionally, (I use the word just here, almost ironically, as emotional suffering in my experience is some of the most severe pain a human can experience), but it also physically hurts. Your body fails you. It’s lethargic and sore, your chest hurts with the feeling of your heart working too hard to fuel a body that has gone into fight or flight mode, for no apparent reason.
For me, the physical manifestations of mental illness (anxiety and depression – something I hear is becoming alarmingly more common in young adults) can be different every time. Sometimes they require me to leap out of bed and clean my entire apartment, re organise my wardrobe, straighten out paperwork and trawl through my computer to make sure my documents are uniformly named and organised. Other times I’m left incapable of leaving my bed, too tired to want to eat, too lazy to shower or brush my teeth. It’s on these occasions that I isolate myself from those who can help me. I frequently don’t know how to explain to them what is happening to me; or am simply too tired to try. I find myself losing focus, whether it’s on the task I’m performing, or just on reality itself. I find myself capable of passing hours just laying on my couch, buried in a blanket with my dog (the greatest and least expensive form of therapy I have found to date), while getting lost in thought about everything that could, and according to my mind, inevitably will, go wrong in life.
In the midst of wading through all the shit that piles up in my mind, the self-deprecating and self-doubting thoughts, there is also (cue cheesy cliché), light at the end of the tunnel. There are good days, days where I wake feeling energised and optimistic. Capable of conquering the barrage of challenges that life throws in my direction. The wonderful thing that I discovered, is that the more that I share my thoughts and feelings with my “constellation of intimates”, the more good days I have. The people around me listen, and support, and share. While I’ll be the first to admit that medications and psychologists have been pretty damn helpful for me, the message that I’m somehow trying to wrench out of this seemingly self-absorbed post, is that I couldn’t do it alone. The care, support and shoulder of a loved one, is often the most valuable and healing tool. And damn it everyone, practice your empathy. Everyone around us has had a unique life, with its own individual ups and downs and as far as I can tell the best way forward is to support the people around you, free of judgement and stigma.
We can’t do it alone.
Bad Feminist 