|
Mental illness is debilitating. It strips those affected of even making choices about their own actions and lives.
It is often said that we go through life with as few or as many burdens as we allow ourselves to take on. We can either be weighed down by the impact of the experiences, or we can be freed by them. If we are confronted by the incomprehensible, we can lie down and let it beat us or we can stand up to it and challenge the burden with a view to overcoming it. We have the choice.
This is the theory anyway.
But the theory of personal choice becomes less viable in some situations – notably where health is concerned. No one chooses to be ill, obviously. But there is a notion that even in illness, we can choose the effects of the problem by the way that we handle it. That we can be broken or we can think positively and take the challenges head on.
However, I suggest that this is not the case, when faced with a mental health issue. The option of choice is not there, simply because of the nature of the illness – which does not allow rational thinking, positive or otherwise.
I speak from personal experience, but from the knowledge I have of others experiences, I know that I am not unique in these feelings.
In my case, my world gradually became a place that I hardly recognised and I was a character in a play to which I did not have the script, and did not know my lines. It sounds like a cliché to say that I was sinking, but that is an exact description of the feeling. Sinking into a murky somewhere, where nothing was as I remembered or understood, and everything was strange and very frightening.
A depression, in fact.
I struggled against using the term depression, insisting that I was not depressed as I was not sad - despite being in tears for the majority of my waking hours, and also my sleeping ones. That I was extremely anxious was obvious. The physical symptoms of nausea, vomiting, shaking and faintness were all too clear. But the memory loss, sleeplessness with nightmares when I did sleep, restlessness – with no real energy to move - and inability to make decisions, I put down to anxiety. It was only when I filled in a questionnaire for a therapist and scored 90% that I acknowledged that I was actually depressed I also realised that the illness has many forms. I may have started with anxiety, but this developed into a circle of depression that the anxious feelings couldn’t be stopped, which in turn caused more anxiety - and so it went on.
I had imagined that if I was depressed it would actually be an asset to me, as far as my aim to write. If I was depressed then I would be able to write about depression, with a wealth of hands on information and vocabulary and a natural immediacy. After all, many writers, poets and artists have created their greatest work during times of depression and mental turmoil. But there weren’t any new words or descriptive language. There were hardly any words available to me at all, with me constantly searching the archives of my mind to construct or complete a simple everyday sentence. It infuriated me that my brain appeared to be losing itself in chunks, every time I tried to use it. The more I tried to think of appropriate words and phrases to have a conversation, the more my mind seemed empty. Me, with the degree in education, who had been praised for her teaching of creative writing and poetry. It was not that I was unable to think at all – I would have given the earth to stop thinking most of my thoughts. But I wasn’t able to stop thinking, and I wasn’t able to think appropriate thoughts.
The notion of choosing anything at all was not an option. I could not make a decision on whether to make a cup of tea or not, and even when I thought I had decided to, the process became a mammoth task of processing the steps needed to complete the task. I would stand in the kitchen with a vague idea of what I intended to do, then suddenly forget where I was, who I was and what I was attempting. The classic tale of going upstairs and then forgetting what you went for, was exaggerated to the extent that I would begin numerous things, in hope that one of them was what was necessary. Of course none of them were and none were completed.
I was, am, fortunate. I have family who knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. When to advise me and when to insist. In the worst moments, guilt that I was putting so much pressure on them made my anxiety worse, but their reassurances have helped me immensely, and I am getting better, I think! Medical services have involved me with various “solutions” to manage my illness – from cognitive behavioural therapy, to general talking things through with like minded people. From physical activity to reflexology and relaxation. All these things are useful and appropriate for different people at different times.
But sometimes, having to choose - no matter how large or small the decision – can not be done, and we need to take the time to get back to that state of mind, in our own time.
|
