Being in your twenties and dealing with mental health is more common than you think these days. All you have to do is scroll through a few Tumblr posts or click on to a few articles from The Debrief and there is non-stop discussion about how to deal with depression, anxiety and other mental health issues that were formerly taboo.
The fact that what was once so fiercely shameful and private is now so prominent in day-to-day conversation is, I think, one of the most incredible things to come out of this generation. There are now countless charities and discussions about how to help those in emotional turmoil because their mind won’t stop telling them that nobody cares, and that is a wonderfully empowering thing.
I’m not claiming to have suffered with serious depression or anxiety or even compare myself to the severity that others experience, because I’m fortunate enough to have never been in a situation where I’ve truly felt like there was no way out. However, I have been in a situation where my head would simply not stop telling me that no matter what was happening, nobody gave a shit.
When I was 19 years old my parents split up, and although it was foreseeable, it didn’t make it any easier. We moved out of our family home that we had lived in for 16 years, and a divorce ensued. Shortly after, I moved into a new house at Uni with three friends I’d spent my entire first year with, but the honeymoon period was swiftly cut short when we had a monumental fall out and I ended up moving out, five months into our one year tenancy. At this point, I was alternating shelter at my then-boyfriend’s Uni house, one friend’s sofa and another friend’s bedroom when she went home on weekends. Not long after the divorce proceedings started, both parents then developed new relationships and my Uni grades were catastrophically falling.
I was at that point, and even today, very aware that although all of the above was difficult and all quite shitly timed, it would be categorized as a mere inconvenience in comparison to the problems of some of my other friends, who were going through traumas that were so incredibly worse than my own.
It was this mantra that made me tell myself on a daily basis that my problems were miniscule, and burdening my friends with such pitiful sob stories when they were fighting much stronger battles was utterly laughable. There were times where I tried to disclose my growing helplessness with select few individuals, but was often met with the terms “negativity spreads, you know”, or “at least you’ve got your health”. At that point though, I was truly beginning to feel like I didn’t.
It was at this point that I decided to take up counselling that was being offered to me by my University, and as relieving as it was to talk to somebody completely impartial, I knew in my head that I wouldn’t truly begin to feel better until I hit my lowest.
This followed shortly after.
I was back at my mum’s new house for Easter, and there was one night in particular where I’d argued with both my mum and my boyfriend – the only two people that I really spoke to about my situation. I was beginning to feel utterly helpless and even more frustrated because I felt like nobody understood. I spent the evening having an almighty battle with myself, rocking myself on the floor while crying floods of tears trying to fight the voice that just would not stop saying, “you could just end it all now you know, stop burdening others with your shit and just get it over with”.
That voice very nearly won that night - and a few nights thereafter - but I knew that this was it; this was my rock bottom. From that point on, I could win.
Looking back, I think I always was a bit of an oddball. Even as a child I reacted in the most awkward and embarrassing way possible to situations that most people would be able to simply shrug off – but people still loved me. I grew up with three best friends who lived next door; I had amazing friendship groups moving from first school to middle school, and middle school to high school; and from travelling at 18 and even through university and my working life thereafter, my life has been blessed with so many wonderful people whom I adore, who love me, and who – without even knowing it – pushed me through my darkest point.
I mean sure, I’m still a little bit weird; my mind is like a toilet, my language is foul and I’m one almighty needy fucker, but everybody has their own quirks, right?
The long and short of it is, no matter how widely mental health is recognised, it’s still happening; and it’s still happening because people think that their problems aren’t big enough to talk about. Well, if it’s doing anything other than making you enjoy the shit out of your life, then it’s big enough to talk about.
One major cliché we all come across in day-to-day life or on one of those wall stickers from Amazon that everybody has, is that “life is short” - and if 2016 taught me anything (by taking away my beloved Alan Rickman) it’s that this cliché is spot fucking on.
So talk about it. If you’ve lost your job, ended your relationship, struggling to find your feet or Aunt Flo is just taking the absolute piss with your hormones, then talk about it. The conversation might even end with a bag of minstrels – bonus.
Talk about it. Talk to your mum, dad, brother, sister, best friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, doctor or dog - even if you don’t want to do that, then talk to me. I understand, but they will too.
Writing this post wasn’t one of the easiest decisions I’ve ever made. This isn’t a topic I write about lightly and it wasn’t something I particularly wanted to be thrown across my Facebook feed for anybody to indulge in.
I may resent myself for telling you this story, I may re-read this in a few days and kick myself, and I may regret opening up that part of me again; but if there is one person who reads this relates to it and even uses it as ammunition to fight their own battle that little bit harder, then it was all totally worth it.
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