I don’t want to talk about it

One of the most awkward things I find about the state of my mental illness is trying to describe it. Many people say they are ‘struggling with’ or ‘suffering from’ mental health issues, whilst others are ‘fighting’ or ‘battling’. I’ve probably used these terms myself, but it doesn’t feel quite right.

We’re all struggling with and suffering from one thing or another, so it seems a little rich to define myself by these words. Am I struggling and suffering? My depression is a part of who I am. And while I have been known to say things like ‘I won’t let my demons define me’, the truth is they do.

I’m definitely not fighting nor battling because that suggests I am putting up some kind of a struggle and I’m really not. I do my best, for sure, but if I was truly able to literally fight what is actually an illness without treatment, apart from industrial quantities of anti-depressants, then I would. However, I can no more fight or battle my mental illness than anyone can fight or battle their physical illness.

So, what do I say?  The answer, usually, is nothing. I would much rather listen to other people talk about their lives and their problems than potentially bore someone completely rigid with mine. I think of myself in terms of the nutter on the bus or the pub or a lycra clad 10k bore if I vented about my mental health stuff. And, as befits your average mental person, I always feel that I could be venting to someone whose problems dwarf mine. How do I find the line between wallowing in a pool of self-pity and following the advice that it is good for mental people to talk? I can’t find it and I think I know why.

When I was a young boy, things like depression and anxiety didn’t exist. My great uncle George had ‘bad nerves’ according to my grandmother. I had no idea what this meant but it didn’t sound great. Piecing together those long gone years, my best guess is that he suffered from a form of anxiety. I remember him as being very quiet, almost timid, who rarely spoke, leaving that to my fearsome auntie Win, who certainly could speak. Then, as I approached my teenage years, I was overwhelmed by night terrors and panic attacks, which gradually evolved into depression and anxiety. I have always been a terrible fidget, with many other symptoms of ADHD (I am on an NHS waiting list for an assessment, but suspect I will die before I finally get an appointment with an expert) which, I am afraid, family members – all except my mother, to be fair – constantly told me in no uncertain terms to stop fidgeting, or whatever irritating trait I was exhibiting at the time. By the time I was an actual adult, and from then onwards, I kept my mental health to myself and tried, as people like me were always told to do, to pull myself together. Until I was much older.

I’ve felt pretty shit again since again rejoining the millions who are unemployed but don’t appear on the unemployment figures. In general terms, my experience after nearly 47 years in the workplace is that employers don’t give a flying fuck about staff illness and rarely pay more than lip service to matters of mental health. Most, again in my experience, don’t even pay lip service to it. Staff going sick is bad enough without going sick when they are fed up, a bit down. Or mentally ill, as I like to call it. Have things changed?

I’ll vote with a resounding no on that one. Despite politicians promising equality of NHS services between physical and mental illness, nothing ever happens and once you’ve exhausted basic therapy or counselling, and maxed out on drugs, as I have done, you’re basically on your own. It’s like someone being diagnosed with a serious physical illness but then being told that there’s nothing for you beyond your GP. Even the young royals, like William and Kate Windsor do their bit for mental health projects with, it seems to this grizzled old hack, empathy and sincerity but sadly the fairy tale world in which they live bears no resemblance to, say, mine. There’s lots of talk from celebrities and sports stars which I suppose is better than no talk, but if you’re a frazzled rich person there’s always the option of buying help, something that is not an option for the lower orders, like me. No. What’s changed is chatter. Little else has.

I’m not struggling, suffering, fighting or battling. I’m just living with something that isn’t going to get better no matter what I do. And when you see me, it could be that I don’t want to talk about it. Talking about it hasn’t worked too well so far.