I’ve been having writers
block. Not a new, original or even vaguely interesting revelation for a
writer/blogger/journalist/whatever the hell I am, but a truth all the same. I’ve been chasing whispers of
ideas for a while now. I’ve scribbled ideas on the back of my flatmate’s bank
statements and saved some in my notes with the greatest of intentions to draft,
publish, post. The problem with most of the ideas I’ve come up with, and the
reason I haven’t posted them on here is that they are achingly and
frighteningly honest. To write these ideas down would be to give them to the
world, and not be able to reclaim them if I decided that actually, I’d rather
not talk about x, y or z with over eight-hundred strangers on a social network.
As much as I love writing, (and you lovely readers), I’m still not sure how
much I want the online world to know about me and how much I want to keep
hidden.
*Note: I haven’t murdered anyone, I’m just not
sure I want future employers to know about things like the time I once
ACCIDENTALLY alluded to the idea that my granny had died to get out of a shift
when I was hungover. She isn’t dead, I touched wood, and I’ve punished myself
enough for this - please don’t troll me.*
Just this evening, thanks to
the wonderful Bianca Bass and her latest blog
post, I read a quote which pulled me out of this rut. The quote was as
follows:
“Draw the art you want to see. Start the business you want to
run. Write the books you want to read. Do the work you want to see done.”
- Austin
Kleon
As I read
it, the words floated down and settled somewhere within me, and I knew that I
had to give my two cents on something I’ve previously kept schtum on for fear
of judgement.
Carrie
Fisher, as we all know by now, sadly passed away this week. Whilst her acting
talent is the stuff of legend and her career accomplishments enviable, what I
am particularly thankful to Carrie for is her unwavering view that mental
health is something which should, and needs to be talked about openly.
“I
am mentally ill. I can say that. I am not ashamed of that. I survived that, I’m
still surviving it, but bring it on.” – Carrie Fisher
Carrie’s public proclamations
of being mentally ill stirred up some serious emotions in me. As those of you who
know me IRL, or are perhaps just very astute may know, I suffer from anxiety
and depression – bedfellows in the world of poor mental health. My battle with mental
illness is not something I talk about widely, and because I’ve got pretty
high-functioning anxiety and depression, you probably wouldn’t guess that I’m acquainted
with them unless I told you.
The crux of the reason I keep
reasonably quiet about these issues is that ‘depression,’ especially, still
feels like a dirty word - something to be discussed only in hushed tones and
never above a whisper. In 2016, I still feel that I should somehow be ashamed
of the fact that by some twist of fate I was given a mind that has a tendency
to try and self-destruct. That admission infuriates me and makes me sad, and
that way of thinking is just a bit boring, to be honest. I wouldn’t tell a
friend that suffered that they were to blame, so why do I tell it to myself? The
social media circles I run in are supportive and open about mental illness, but
sadly real life often tells a different story. On top of mental illness being
seen as something offensive which must be swept under the rug, I’ve often come
across people who think it’s self-invented. Doctors, family members, and sceptical
acquaintances alike have time and time again told me to “cheer up” or waved me
away when I’ve tried to start a conversation about issues concerning mental
health. These kind of attitudes don’t help anyone.
Cries of “but everyone gets
nervous!” are a bit redundant when you
are talking about a light flutter in your stomach before an interview, and I am talking about shaking so much that
my best friend has to hold my hand, and often my hair back, when I’m vomiting out
of pure, unadulterated anxiety because I have to catch a train. Exasperated sighs and the
advice to “just get on with it” doesn’t really do it for me when I’m stuck to
my bed, sadness crushing my chest from the moment I wake, really.
The amount of trips, nights
out and other really fun things I’ve
had to turn down because of anxiety is incomprehensible. I’ve booked flights to
a foreign country and had to forgo them because of panic. I’ve had concert
tickets to see one of my favourite bands that have gone to waste because the
beating in my heart and dizziness in my head was too much to deal with. I’ve
had all-night panic attacks when visiting friends that have meant hopping on a
bus home at 5am, mascara stained cheeks and all. I’ve fucked up possible
relationships with people I like because I can’t keep putting myself through
the sleepless nights before a date. I’ve missed flights from anxiety and booked
flights to escape sadness too many times to count. The reason I have been reserved in the past in conversations about mental illness is precisely due to the fear that people will judge and measure me using incidents such as the aforementioned. Somehow think me less cool, less lovely or less valid because of the daily hurdles I have to face.
If mental illness was a
choice, it’d be a bloody stupid one to make.
The most important fact in
all this, and the idea that Carrie made comprehensible, is that
you can be mentally ill, without being
your mental illness. As dull and depressing the missed opportunities I’ve
listed above are, I’ve had countless moments of triumph to match and counter
them. On a weekly or monthly basis I push myself to do something that terrifies
me to my core, and I come out stronger for it. Anyone that battles with their
thoughts on top of the shit-show of life, is in my opinion, strong beyond
belief. I’ve swung open the doors to companies which house my dream job despite
the fact that two minutes before saw me about to pass out on the tube from fear.
I’ve gone on blind dates despite the fact my mind was riddled with self-doubt
and nerves. I’ve gone to Asia, made new friends, kissed that person in spite of
it all.
I may have anxiety and
depression - I may be mentally ill - but I am not my mental illness. I’m so
much more, and so are you.
Thank you, Carrie, for
reminding me of that.
Sara x
