I’ve been
debating whether or not to write this for quite some time now. In my line of
work any sign of weakness is seen as a risk, so most actors steer clear of
speaking their minds online for fear of losing work. Now, I’ve clearly never
been one to shy away from voicing controversial opinions or engaging in public
debate, but I also very rarely speak online about what’s really going on in my
life – the things that are genuinely troubling me. I suppose it’s only
sensible, really. That’s what friends are for, right? Airing your dirty laundry
on Facebook or Twitter always seems like it should be accompanied by a flashing
neon sign that screams “PAY ATTENTION TO ME!” to every poor sod on your friends
list.
Turn that sign off, you dramamonger –
it’s hurting our eyes. Oh look, a video of a kitten having a bath! Awwwww…
However, a few things have happened recently that have made me feel like I need to speak up, not for attention or to rock the boat but because there’s an underlying issue here that’s causing people genuine pain. It’s an issue that can only be eliminated by being addressed, and if I don’t speak out then I’m effectively contributing to the problem.
Today is World Mental Health Day. There’s a huge Godzilla-sized stigma attached to the issue of mental health and there’s also a huge amount of misunderstanding on the subject, as beautifully and facepalmingly illustrated by ASDA’s recent ‘Mental Patient’ Halloween costume. Despite having a degree in experimental psychology, I don’t feel qualified to speak on the issue as a whole, but I can speak about my own personal experiences. Too few people do this, I reckon, and it leaves sufferers feeling all isolated and guilty, as if they somehow willingly caused their illness. Enough of this nonsense.
Most of you will at least be vaguely aware that I haven’t been having the best time of things over the past couple of years, but only those closest to me will know what’s really been going on. So… here it is… *deep breath*
Last Easter my mum was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and from that point on everything just seemed to fall apart, not because of the diagnosis itself but because the resulting stresses brought to light problems that had been bubbling under the surface of my brainbox for years, possibly even decades. My work suffered, my personal life suffered and, as I struggled to cope, I slowly became a person that I didn’t recognise – I was shy, wrought with insecurities and eventually stopped feeling any emotions at all (aside from those constant dickhead companions Fear, Sadness and Anger). All of this, of course, was hidden under the mask of someone who appeared to the outside world to be confident and sorted and, apparently, rather threatening in her levels of self esteem. All lies. Filthy, filthy lies.
When you’re going through badness then the temptation to put on that ‘la-la-la, everything’s fine!’ mask is strong, and it can be a powerful, positive accessory at times. However, when it leads to you standing in the London Underground, seeing an approaching tube train as an entirely rational way of getting the hell out of this reality, perhaps it’s time to drop the mask and seek help. So I did.
I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression and offered pills. I refused them, saying I’d take them as a last resort but I’d much rather fix the underlying problem. Believe me, I had to REALLY push to not just be medicated and sent on my not-so-merry way but eventually I was referred to a therapist, at which point I then had to REALLY push for individual therapy, rather than just being lumped into a group for a short course. I know enough about my own psychology to realise that if I’m put in a room full of people I will instantly slip that actor’s mask back on.
Then began a mind-melting three months of waiting for a therapist to become available. This was the worst part. By the time I got to my first session I was a total mess and ‘Clinical Depression’ was quickly upped to ‘Severe Clinical Depression’. Then the work began. I won’t lie, it was a slog. It still is. I had to actually talk about my feelings and yes, occasionally I cried, and I had tonnes of homework to do… but I’m happy to say (yes, HAPPY! What is this strange new world?!) that the results began to show themselves more quickly than I could possibly have imagined. I’m finally me again and I can’t tell you how incredible that feels. I’m not depressed any more, far from it, but there’s still a long road ahead and it’s one I’m actually rather excited about exploring.
I won’t bore you any further about my stuff here, but I’ll post a link to a piece I wrote about depression for my personal blog, just in case it might help anyone who’s going through something similar. That blog’s a recent thing that I started penning as a way to purge my thoughts during therapy, so please forgive me if it’s a little long-winded and morbid!
However, a few things have happened recently that have made me feel like I need to speak up, not for attention or to rock the boat but because there’s an underlying issue here that’s causing people genuine pain. It’s an issue that can only be eliminated by being addressed, and if I don’t speak out then I’m effectively contributing to the problem.
Today is World Mental Health Day. There’s a huge Godzilla-sized stigma attached to the issue of mental health and there’s also a huge amount of misunderstanding on the subject, as beautifully and facepalmingly illustrated by ASDA’s recent ‘Mental Patient’ Halloween costume. Despite having a degree in experimental psychology, I don’t feel qualified to speak on the issue as a whole, but I can speak about my own personal experiences. Too few people do this, I reckon, and it leaves sufferers feeling all isolated and guilty, as if they somehow willingly caused their illness. Enough of this nonsense.
Most of you will at least be vaguely aware that I haven’t been having the best time of things over the past couple of years, but only those closest to me will know what’s really been going on. So… here it is… *deep breath*
Last Easter my mum was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and from that point on everything just seemed to fall apart, not because of the diagnosis itself but because the resulting stresses brought to light problems that had been bubbling under the surface of my brainbox for years, possibly even decades. My work suffered, my personal life suffered and, as I struggled to cope, I slowly became a person that I didn’t recognise – I was shy, wrought with insecurities and eventually stopped feeling any emotions at all (aside from those constant dickhead companions Fear, Sadness and Anger). All of this, of course, was hidden under the mask of someone who appeared to the outside world to be confident and sorted and, apparently, rather threatening in her levels of self esteem. All lies. Filthy, filthy lies.
When you’re going through badness then the temptation to put on that ‘la-la-la, everything’s fine!’ mask is strong, and it can be a powerful, positive accessory at times. However, when it leads to you standing in the London Underground, seeing an approaching tube train as an entirely rational way of getting the hell out of this reality, perhaps it’s time to drop the mask and seek help. So I did.
I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression and offered pills. I refused them, saying I’d take them as a last resort but I’d much rather fix the underlying problem. Believe me, I had to REALLY push to not just be medicated and sent on my not-so-merry way but eventually I was referred to a therapist, at which point I then had to REALLY push for individual therapy, rather than just being lumped into a group for a short course. I know enough about my own psychology to realise that if I’m put in a room full of people I will instantly slip that actor’s mask back on.
Then began a mind-melting three months of waiting for a therapist to become available. This was the worst part. By the time I got to my first session I was a total mess and ‘Clinical Depression’ was quickly upped to ‘Severe Clinical Depression’. Then the work began. I won’t lie, it was a slog. It still is. I had to actually talk about my feelings and yes, occasionally I cried, and I had tonnes of homework to do… but I’m happy to say (yes, HAPPY! What is this strange new world?!) that the results began to show themselves more quickly than I could possibly have imagined. I’m finally me again and I can’t tell you how incredible that feels. I’m not depressed any more, far from it, but there’s still a long road ahead and it’s one I’m actually rather excited about exploring.
I won’t bore you any further about my stuff here, but I’ll post a link to a piece I wrote about depression for my personal blog, just in case it might help anyone who’s going through something similar. That blog’s a recent thing that I started penning as a way to purge my thoughts during therapy, so please forgive me if it’s a little long-winded and morbid!
Aaaaanyway,
there it is. I’ve said it. Feels… good? Ish. Satisfying, at least. One less
mask to wear.
In conclusion, try not to judge other people based on your own psychology, be compassionate, don't make assumptions until you've really talked to the person in question, and no matter how dire the situation is, it can be overcome. I know how scary it can be to admit that you need help with this sort of thing but please trust me when I say that it’s not half as scary as it seems. And none of this ‘well, I’m not as bad as so-and-so so I don’t really need to see a doctor’ bollocks. Mental health is all about perspective. If you’re going through a tough time then talk to someone – to a friend, a doctor… fight for your right to really live, not just exist. And for your own sake, don’t blame yourself, or feel guilty for feeling the way you feel. This is just a shit thing that happened – like getting the flu or breaking your leg – and it IS entirely rectifiable.
In conclusion, try not to judge other people based on your own psychology, be compassionate, don't make assumptions until you've really talked to the person in question, and no matter how dire the situation is, it can be overcome. I know how scary it can be to admit that you need help with this sort of thing but please trust me when I say that it’s not half as scary as it seems. And none of this ‘well, I’m not as bad as so-and-so so I don’t really need to see a doctor’ bollocks. Mental health is all about perspective. If you’re going through a tough time then talk to someone – to a friend, a doctor… fight for your right to really live, not just exist. And for your own sake, don’t blame yourself, or feel guilty for feeling the way you feel. This is just a shit thing that happened – like getting the flu or breaking your leg – and it IS entirely rectifiable.
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