Today was a day of self reflection and understanding. I am now emotionally raw and yet I desperately want to get through the second day of an extremely fascinating and informative course.
It was tough growing up in a “broken” home, being separated from siblings and losing friendships and cousin-friends overnight. It tore me apart and I’m still dealing with the repercussions of it now, 27 years later. Anxiety and overeating came first, the loss of my grandfather hitting me hard causing a spiral into depression. I don’t remember ever feeling free from my emotional toil.
I first considered suicide during secondary when it felt like everyone was talking whilst I became more and more invisible. I was bouncing back and forth between my parents’ homes and I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
By the time I reached 15, I was numbly coasting along. Getting raped is one of the hardest and most life altering events a person can go through. For me, it probably saved my life. I decided something for myself for the first time in my life. I wanted to live. That isn’t to say that my mind suddenly quietened and all was right with the world, far from it. I began truanting from school on a regular basis and I would spend days on end sat in Crystal Palace Park reading Discworld books or drawing my emotions. I hated the winter months when I would have to stay in school or pretend to be ill. If only my mental wellbeing was as important as my physical wellbeing, someone might have made the connection. I became good at lying, good at hiding things, good at stealing small items of makeup from shops, good at being the reliable daughter who they could worry about later. I was angry with my parents, the adults who were supposed to be able to help me. We tried family therapy and 1-2-1 sessions. I couldn’t talk freely with my counsellor. I was paranoid about them spilling my secrets to my dad and frustrated by adults talking *at* me, never seeing the whole picture and how much pain I was in.
Meeting Mr Bear, falling in love at first sight, feeling safe in his presence for the first time in years, gave me no purpose and the space I needed to feel safe and secure once more. I knew I would have his children from the first moment and said so openly. Being near him calmed me and my recovery could begin.
It is never that simple though. My depression has ebbed and flowed throughout my life. It is my constant companion both an allie and an adversary, the light and the dark. It is as much a part of me as my laughter and joy, my pretence and the unadulterated love I have for my family.
I am not my depression but my depression is a huge part of what makes me me. Just like my shadow, it lives with me growing and shrinking as my life is lived. I wanted to beat it, to somehow push it away and stop it from returning but that’s impossible. You have to learn to minimise it and lighten the load so that it doesn’t continue to consume and crush and rage against you. I’m almost dependent upon it. Knowing that it is my constant companion is hard. I’m jealous of those whose depression is a footnote instead of a glossary It isn’t fair that my depression is still a raging storm whilst others are enjoying their rainbow. But I get it.
Mental Health is not created equal. I wish it were. We are all different heights, different shapes, different IQs, and different sense of humours. Why should we expect anything less of our mind? Don’t many of us now accept that the brain is a complex and mostly unknown quantity? If we know that, why do we try so desperately to pigeon hole depression and ask for a one size fits all approach? We have shoes not only in a range of sizes but also in different styles. The fact that we have so much choice in what keeps our feet comfortable, safe, and fashionable but that the many facets of our psyches are expected to conform like neat pins in a board or soldiers on parade never ceases to amaze me. We are not born equal. We know a little of why some of us have to struggle against or live with poor mental health but there is still so much more to do.
I hope that our sleuth of bears are able to access the best mental health care and that any struggles they may face can be head on. After all I have lived through, the idea that our cubs might have to go through similar sits heavy within my heart. Are they doomed to relive the cycle? Have I passed along my fragile mental health genes? Only time will tell. In the meantime I will be doing my damndest to keep my black dog on its leash and teaching my cubs how to be mindful and mentally healthy as well as physically so.