Today is a certain company’s marketing day with the tagline of “let’s talk”. It’s regarding mental health and before I get going, let me just say that I do think that it’s a great initiative geared towards reducing and (fingers crossed) getting rid of the stigma associated with mental health issues. It is also about trying to make those who live with, and struggle with, mental illnesses not feel so alone. It’s about trying to bring awareness to mental health and the range of mental illnesses that afflict so many. All great reasons for the initiative, and ones that I can certainly get behind. So why am I sitting here this evening feeling so frustrated with it all? Simply put, because mental illness isn’t as “pretty” as it’s been marketed to look like and that is part of the reason why there still IS such a huge stigma attached to having and living with mental illness.
So, let’s talk. Or rather, I’ll write and you can read – or not. Let me open the pages of my son’s journals tonight to you and I’ll share one point of view of the reality of mental illness.
My son struggled with his mental health. He did for years before the day he finally told me was scared of his own mind and that he wanted to die – and that he wanted help to stop himself from doing that. Reading over his journals that he kept during the last year or so of his life, it’s clear that he was dealing with mental health issues that were hidden for a long time. He admits it so it’s not rocket science to notice it. It’s laid out, simply and plainly, that he needed help – help that he did want and he did, eventually, ask for. Maybe it was too late by then though. Like a person who ignores ever-worsening physical symptoms of an illness they suspect they have that they are afraid to have confirmed, maybe he waited too long for help to be effective. Or maybe, even if we had gotten him help two years earlier, at the first signs that he noticed – but that he never shared – it still would have ended the same way; with a steady progression through illness to his death by suicide. Who knows. To be honest, tonight, I don’t really care to even look deeply at that shadow in the closet. Moving on…
His journals speak volumes, literally, of mental health and its twists and turns and the torment that it caused inside of him.
Sometimes it’s sadness that is in his words; he doesn’t want to die and he knows he’ll miss people that he loves. He knows how much we’ll miss him too. His words tell about his feelings of love for his family and how badly he doesn’t want to hurt them…us…. his brothers, his dad, his grandparents and myself. He wants to live and be happy but he doesn’t know how to and he can feel himself slipping away from the grip that he has on what hope he has left. He can feel his mind slipping out of his control or understanding. He speaks with such clarity at times in his writings.
Sometimes though, his words make almost no sense. They are rambling, disjointed tirades that careen from subject to subject. Some full of hatred so intense that his pen has literally ripped the pages where he has tried to convey what he wants to say. Vile, angry words and threats litter the journals seemingly without connection or sense to any reality or reason. The dichotomy of his entries are hard to read through.
His words are mostly full of fear though. Fear is what underlines it all. The fear that he has of his thoughts and his mind and his actions. He voices very real and vivid fears that he has about what he will become, what his life will be like. He talks about how he is afraid that he will hurt other people, people that he cares about even. It’s not pretty, it’s not poetic, it’s blunt and scary. He voices the terror that he has that he will kill, that he doesn’t know what he is capable of because he doesn’t know what his mind is doing and how it is changing. He is scared. Scared enough that he writes the phrase “suicide is better than homicide” more than once when talking about how he just doesn’t know what to do.
He talks about being hopeless.
His voice tells about his regret that he won’t be around to see his little brother grow up, but that he knows it’s for the best, no matter how hard it will be. He rages in his journals about how unfair it is – that he doesn’t know why he is the way that he is – and how much he hates himself. How he just doesn’t know how to get better – different. He is sorry, over and over again for who and what he says he is. Apologies are rampant throughout. He is sorry, but not enough to not kill himself. For that, he apologizes for as well.
His journals are scattered with drawings that he has done. They are violent, bloody, morbid depictions. Often without explanation or words to give meaning. I can’t make sense of them and I wonder if even he could have when he drew them. The lone image of a crudely drawn, yet pretty, daisy in one journal is a stark contrast to the death and horror of the others. Another example of the contradictions that exist throughout.
So there is his voice, in a roundabout way. Uncomfortable and scary and awkward. Words that hit too close to home I think for many of us. Words, and the images that they conjure up, that don’t feel good to hear or read.
While we all “talk” today to end the stigma, it’s time to really look and see that what is being fed to us by the the sleek, smoothed out version of mental health issues that greets us in most of the advertising spots today is just one slant of it all. It’s not only sad-looking women gazing out of softly curtained windows while their concerned looking family looks at them from afar (cue soft music in the background here). Mental illnesses look many ways – not all of them ways that we want to see – a lot of them make us want to look away actually. But we have to see, and talk about, all the manifestations if we are going to work to find ways to help them. So there’s my little addition to the “let’s talk” day.