Experiences: It's Good To Talk

It’s good to talk

Like many people with mental health problems, I suffered most of it in silence. I wasn’t mute – I talked often enough about music, the weather and random surface stuff – I just kept it to myself. It was as if I led a double life. On the one hand I was normal, on the other I was a mess. I was afraid of the messy side of myself, of what was going on inside my head and of what would go on inside everyone else’s heads if they knew what was going on inside of mine. See, I told you it was messy. Partly I was afraid of being seen as a ‘weirdo’, but I was also sure that the people I was close to wouldn’t be able to cope with the ‘real me’. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to have to face their disgust and fear (I disgusted myself, so I couldn’t imagine anyone else accepting me as I was). In the mirror I saw a freak, and that freak was me. No, I couldn’t let anyone in on that. Instead I buried it deep inside, and built a new me to take it’s place. This is the one that got me through my teenage years, the one people got to know and love(?).

The loathing was still there inside of me. I didn’t speak it’s name out loud or acknowledge it’s presence in any way, but it was still there. Silently, it exerted an influence on my thoughts, feelings and behaviour. It coloured my world view, and my relationships with other people. I remember one night of clarity, when I could list all the things that had changed in me – all the things I had lost. I cried my eyes out in mourning for the ‘real me’, aged 16 or so I felt it so intensely. You’d think that maybe I’d change my ways, address the issues and move on. I wasn’t ready though, the enormity of it all was too much and so (yet again) I stuffed it down and put on my public face in time for breakfast.

I had friends, a few wonderful close friends whom I loved dearly, but without opening myself up to them I was fooling them as well as myself. So, instead of talking about my problems I worked on becoming ‘Super Rachel’ the perfect friend, daughter, sister, student …. blah blah blah. Being definitely human and having many wonderful flaws (that I’ve now come to know and love, mostly) I failed miserably. Cue more self hate, abuse and general nastiness.

By now I imagine you’ve clocked on to the idea it’s devastatingly circular. The more I tried to be someone I wasn’t, the more I failed, the more I hated myself, the more I tried to be someone I wasn’t ….. Look in the dictionary under catch 22 and you’d find me. I lost my faith in who I was. Hell, I lost who I was altogether. In case you missed the point – it most definitely wasn’t a good time.

Now I’ve managed to thoroughly depress you (sorry!) I can undo some of the gloom with the fact that, somewhere between then and now, I found my voice – my real voice. It started with me completely falling apart (not that I’m recommending that path to anyone, I’m sure there are other ways). At university I began to reveal bits of myself to my closest friends. I didn’t have much choice, as to stay alive I had to get some support. I was wonderfully lucky in the friends that I had made, and am eternally grateful to them for being there for me. It wasn’t an easy ride, obviously, but at least I’d got on the train.

The more I told people about the things that had happened to me, the things I was thinking and the things I was feeling – the more I felt able to confide. It wasn’t a linear process, it was closer to a squiggly line or the doodles of a five year old (with lots of steps forwards, backwards, sideways and upside down). One of the most important thing was that, no matter what I said, my friends didn’t recoil in horror and disgust. In truth I wasn’t horrible or disgusting, but at the time I was sure that I was. That someone else could look me in the face and still love me afterwards was a revelation. Again, it took me a long time to accept it fully but it was a start.

So, here I am x number of years later baring my soul for the benefit of myself, my website and anyone that can relate in someway to what I’m saying. I am still working on trusting myself and other people, but I give all of us a lot more credit than I did then. My close family now know a lot of what has happened, as do many of my friends and support workers. I’ve began to give talks about my experiences of mental distress to ‘professionals’ and other service users, and I’m generally more in touch with myself than I ever have been. Things aren’t perfect – I still have a tendency to put on a front (damn English stiff upper lip), though I’m working on that one. My self esteem and confidence are being steadily reconstructed and I can actually give myself credit for the good things I do, whilst having a grudging acceptance for the bits of me that aren’t so great.

I no longer need to be perfect. I’m magnificently flawed, and proud of it.

Remember: It’s good to talk.