Why am I obsessed with mental health?

I used to wonder if people think I’m obsessed with mental health.

It stands to reason; I myself have wondered, at times, why I can’t stop thinking about it, reading about it, writing about it, talking about it. I’ve even started signing up for professional conferences on psychiatric drug withdrawal. Just a whole bunch of professionals who are essentially paid to be there, then little old me with nothing more than my obsession in tow (and an ever dwindling bank balance as I spend my money on psychology textbooks).

It even got to the point where I briefly wondered if my therapist thought I was too obsessed. Like, I should have just “got over” depression by now. Which is odd, given that most therapists should be delighted that their client is investing so much time and energy in their mental health and its exploration. I’m certain she doesn’t feel that way, by the way.

I should also clarify, I’m not just obsessed with my own mental health. I’m obsessed with ‘mental health’ as it applies to everyone. But also as an academic and, even, political topic. Why do we have these polarising views on mental health dominating public discourse? Why do we have cases where psychiatrists and psychologists disagree so vehemently with each other’s beliefs and prescribed action? Why isn’t there a definitive answer on the chemical imbalance theory (*cough* when its clearly bullshit *cough*)? Why do we keep ignoring the fact that mental distress is clearly routed in often external, environmental factors (abuse, poverty, trauma etc.) and instead we keep casting people as “ill”?

And, why, in amongst all of this, is it often left to the ones who have weathered the storm to deal with the fallout? The access to services. The working out how to sort their own shit out. The guilt and shame that others — the “non-ill” ones — like to apportion to them, the “mentally ill,” and we take on as our own. I used to, too, but no more.

Apologies, my ire is taking me off on a tangent. In short, yes, you could say I’m obsessed with mental health and, more recently, psychology and anti-psychiatry movements.

I could argue that my interest in the subject stems from the fact that there are these multifarious, conflicting schools of thought, which make it a rich and intellectually stimulating field to explore. There’s nothing I love more than to read a book that lays out that conflict and then takes the reader through a well-fought battle with it (for psychology and the biopsychosocial model to come out triumphant, of course).

However, I believe the reason is far more personal. The reason why I am so obsessed with mental health is because living through depression, as I have done, has been a traumatising experience. Furthermore, the reasons why I have latched onto these very active arguments around the root of mental health issues and how we should treat them, is because I have found the way that my mental distress was addressed to also be somewhat traumatic. In fact, I believe this second motive might be an even greater driver.

I should say, I do hesitate in labelling this ‘trauma’. There are those that suffer clear and undeniable traumas in their lives, which I needn’t spell out here. So for me to suggest that being lucky enough to be treated for my mental health falls into that category feels unjust.

But when I think back to my first breakdown, the confusion, the panic, the fear, the embarrassment and humiliation (particularly as one male psychiatrist felt it necessary to explore my sex life as part of his line of enquiry during our initial session at the Priory — yeah, I’ll name and shame), the lack of input and agency I had in my course of treatment (you will take these pills, including the extremely potent Lorazepam), I can be certain that there are traumatic feelings in there. Whether this can be classed as ‘trauma’, I am hesitant, and not in a position, to say. But I have been left with feelings of deep sadness for that girl who was pushed from pillar to post, while simultaneously being left to languish on the sofa, as well as intense feelings that can be triggered by reminders of that time.

None of it has made sense. Not only that, no one took the time to help me make sense of it. I really want to stress that.

Recently my therapist said something which threw this fact into sharp relief. She said that, as part of her work as a clinical psychologist, she wanted to help people realise that “it all made sense”. The way they are, the thoughts they have, the behaviours they exhibit and the consequent struggles they face, make sense given what has happened to them. I thought about my experiences, as I was rushed into hospital during a panic attack (I erroneously called the ambulance but, let me tell you, they’re not lying when they say a panic attack feels like you’re dying), to have a nurse chuck me some anti-depressants and get told to take them, then whisked off to the Priory, to then just be…. left, really. None of it ever made sense and nor did anyone take the time to try and explain it to me. Not properly, at least. Not until I met the therapist I mentioned earlier (and this year is our tenth anniversary).

So can you blame me if, in the absence of any explanation, that I’ve looked to my own reading and research to find answers? Julia (the therapist) started me on this path, and gave me the foundations of knowledge that would start to fill those gaps I needed to feel peace of mind and, crucially, confidence. Her belief in me, and the time she has taken to make it all make sense, has been absolutely essential to my growth. I then took it upon myself, with her support and more conversation between us, to continue down this path of exploration. And, believe me, Julia is no stranger to a text from me ranting about people’s continued belief in the “chemical imbalance” theory.

Do I need to read or learn as much as I do? No. That really does just cross into the realm of it being an intellectual pursuit, but always driven by the sense of outrage and injustice I feel at people’s health and wellbeing being played with, for the sake of power and profit (government and big Pharma being two major players). I wouldn’t feel so incensed, though, if I hadn’t been through it myself, as selfish as that might sound. But sometimes we need that experience to help us to feel more than we’ve ever felt for our fellow human. And I feel a lot.

So, yes, I will proudly say I am obsessed with mental health, but not without good reason. The early experiences I had, trying to make sense of what was happening to me, were nothing short of traumatic. Not just the intense depression itself (and some subsequent instances, though less so), but the way I was treated by the healthcare system, sadly. I wasn’t viewed as a credible and active participant in either my mental “illness” (using this word to highlight that this is how I was cast; as an “ill” person), nor my recovery.

In the absence of explanation, we make up our own stories, and fear can easily take over that process.

The way I see my early treatment is: there was my “mental illness” and then there was me. Somehow, for some reason, somewhere along the line, it was decided that there was no need to include me in my own treatment. I was shut out. So now I choose to undo that and learn, and understand, and learn some more, in a bid to feel like I am taking part in my own well-being, in the way that I truly deserve to.