It’s called mental illness.
And it’s a bitch.
“Oh mental illness, love that, so good!” said no one, ever. I have yet to meet anyone who has told me that having a mental illness has improved their quality of life, their social interactions or their status in the world.
Hold the phone.
I will insert a caveat here because inevitably someone will pipe up and say “but I heard ... or I know... someone who said that their mental illness has given them a new perspective of the world and they are much more grateful/humble/appreciative/insert-other-positive-adjective-here now!”.
Sure, if you’re looking to pull a silver lining out of a shitty box of dejected decorations, yes, a revision of perspective is inevitable when your entire world is slowly dissolving into the mist like clouded, droplet covered windows on a rainy day. And if you haven’t hit the absolute bottom of the proverbial barrel, you might still be able to claim that you can see a ray of sunshine through the clouds or a lone distant rose on the hilltop over yonder.
The reality, however, that most people face in the battle against mental illness isn’t glorious or glamorous; it’s lonely, gray, sluggish and dehumanizing not only for the person suffering through it, but also for the support team, the husbands, the wives, the daughters and sons, the brothers and sisters etc.
I am the support... and hope is scarce.
Let me give you some perspective of what the scenario looks like.
My dad, sweetest man in my life, has been suffering through several mental illnesses for the past two years. Boy, has he crawled along the rockiest of rocky ledges and teetered on the brink of reality. You know who holds the other end of the life-saving-rope and digs their heals in to keep loved ones afloat? Whoever gives a damn; in this instance, my mother 100% and me 95%*.
We have done the song and dance with prescription meds, therapies, groups, fitness regimes, vacations, motivational videos, notes, projects... you name it and we have done it.
So now what?
The last resort is non-invasive magnetic stimulation therapy, the milder cousin of electric shock therapy. The bitter sweet part of resorting to something so terrifyingly unfamiliar yet apparently highly affective is that it is just new enough to the slow-to-accept conventional, medical system that it isn’t addressed under any medical coverage in BC. Electric shock therapy? You got it, no problem, fully resourced, but something that isn’t nearly as invasive? Good luck and have fun footing the $1,000 bill on your own folks. The Canadian medical system is eons behind leading research and development in areas of depression and anxiety and one can only hope and sign every petition and movement form possible to encourage faster adaptation and integration of these new medical technologies.
So why share this and why would you give a damn or a care? You wouldn’t... unless you too have been impacted by the woes of mental illness and to be honest, you probably have. It is the forbidden fruit of the 21st century; the intangible struggle that many face, but are forbidden to talk of for fear of ridicule, resentment or rejection.
So what now?
Talk about it; share your story, share your loved ones stories. Moreover, do something about it.
If you have the gift of gab, go talk to your local authorities and health providers and media. If you have the gift to write, write some new policy and push it through. For the love of sanity, do something!
End rant.
*95% because I’m young, selfish and overpowered by the desire to have a full and balanced life and I can’t seem to give up living entirely to spend every waking moment with my ailing father. Full disclosure.
