When my friend died by suicide 11 years ago today I was so angry at him, furious, incredulous that he could do this to people. I thought all of the things that I know are damaging to say or hear in relation to mental illness and suicide. How could he do this, he’s so selfish. He’s got everything, why couldn’t he just see that.
At the time I didn’t really even believe that depression existed. I thought that people just had to wait out a ‘bad mood’, they weren’t trying hard enough. When I felt awful I always bounced back quickly, they also just had to wait for the bounce back to being normal. I conveniently ignored my history of self harm and rapid cycling moods with this thought process.
I didn’t understand what had happened to him, how he got to that — until I was there in the bathroom myself — attempting to do what he had done. I don’t know that I’ve ever understood a person’s actions more than I did on that day. I got to feel the why of what he’d done. I got to share the pain of what he’d felt at the end. It’s a visceral memory, I can feel my whole chest and neck clench, my throat close up as I think about those moments.
I didn’t die though, my friends came and fished me out of the water and six years on the memory, the wound, still feels fresh. The stories that we have to share, all of the people that are discovering they’re unwell, managing an illness, or for those that aren’t afflicted for life, recovering, are what’s missing in the conversation.
The stories of those with a lived experience of mental illness are too few. Too often the picture we see is someone staring sadly out a window while another person looks on helpless. We don’t hear from those who are dealing with it, managing it, and often continuing to live a productive life. Where are the stories from people talking about how they feel, how it feels to be unwell, to get better, to have a relapse, to still think about dying sometimes?
While humanity may often look hopeless, I believe that there is a deep and underlying empathy that many of us hold. While we might not understand the experience of an individual, when we see and hear their turmoil and despair we feel something. We start to see those same feelings in those around us, we realise when people aren’t who they used to be, and we try to do something.
People are aware of mental illness, they just don’t understand it. What’s a number to someone? 1 in 5 Australians will experience a mental illness in any one year. Does that make you feel anything?
How about, my name is Ellison and six years ago I attempted to take my own life. I felt so incredibly helpless and that I would never feel anything other than empty. When my Dad got to the hospital and leaned over me and said, “I’m so sorry”, the pain of those words smacked me right in the chest. The story continues from there…
It is a story that I have attempted to share fully and without guile since that day. It has included the good days, the periods of hope, the crushing shame, the hopelessness and realisation of a lifetime illness. Mental illness isn’t two dimensional, and people that are unwell aren’t just sick or better, it is not a static experience.
I’m still constantly terrified of the potential negative consequences of sharing my story so freely. When I’m looking for a new job it’s a persistent thought, maybe I won’t be hired because I have bipolar. But I can’t be separated from it. I am who I a because of it. It’s my brain, it’s how I think and feel and how my body responds to the world.
I can’t be me without sharing that too. It is and always will be there and it’s a story that needs to be told.
