What’s in a (mental health) story?

I’ve never found myself asking or talking about stories more than now — now that I’m starting to dip my toe into working in the mental health space.

I’m not unfamiliar with the need to tell “my story”. As a gay woman, I’ve realised that the sharing of “coming out stories” on dates (sometimes, or even often, the first date — nothing quite like getting right to the crux of things!) is something we do. The question inevitably gets asked — so, what’s your coming out story? And the answer never gets tedious — I never get bored of telling it and I never get bored of hearing others tell theirs. I’ve been “out” for a good number of years now but how I came to get here and the obstacles I overcame for that to happen feel as fresh and as relevant as when I was going through that journey in my early twenties.

It’s the same for mental health and our stories. If we’ve had mental health challenges — and so many of us have — our stories (of what happened, how we got here, why things have been the way they’ve been) feel like an essential part of our fabric. A huge chapter in the book that is our book of life. At least mine do.

Why is that? From being gay and telling a coming out story to having had depression five times in six years and having a mental health story — why does it feel like we have a story that needs sharing? Why does it feel right to call them stories at all?

I think our stories are a gateway to understanding. Particularly, and especially, where there has been adversity. So often these stories are silenced for one reason or another: I was fearful of what coming out would do to friendships and was nervous of having a label; I was ashamed of having been depressed (it’s always felt like my fault; at least that’s why my fucked-up-by-depression-mind always tells me at the time, and it’s hard to free myself from that narrative once I’m better) and scared of being judged or misunderstood.

When I ask someone “so, what’s your story?” in a mental health context, I think, I hope, that I’m saying: “let me understand you”. Let me understand why this matters. Let me understand “why you”. It goes without saying that so many of us have been driven to this space, driven to try and make any change we can, however small, because an experience that was the toughest we’ve ever been through brought us there. But, as is so often the way with things that are taboo, sometimes the outcome — the organisations, the campaigns, the charities, the support groups , the strong individuals — are the only things we see. The personal story, and our opportunity to truly understand, stays silenced.

Silence is dangerous. Where people are dealing with their mental health challenges in a system that doesn’t — and can’t possibly — cater to all their needs; where people are getting discriminated against, stigmatised, beaten up, fired from jobs, laughed at, ignored, excluded and much more, for their mental health challenges, silence is implicit in the continuation of that.

Silence also means our true selves are hidden; I for one am not “me” without my mental health story. But in the past, at the moment where I went to share my truth with someone, when I was on the brink of letting it spill out, I would often pull back. It became a secret and secrets remain untold because we fear the alternative; for me, I felt too ashamed to let my truth be heard and feared letting my shame be seen. However, as you might imagine, it was only once I decided I would no longer keep it a secret that the shame left me — now it’s nowhere to be seen most of the time. Thankfully so; there should be no place for shame when it comes to mental ill-health.

I wrote an instagram post for my new mental health initiative, MNTL HLTH, on this — silence and stories and our sense of identity — which says it as well as I could here, so I’ll let the picture and those words do the talking:

“Facing mental health issues throughout our lives (sometimes over and over again) can feel like the pieces of us don’t quite match up. Like we’ve been pulled apart a little.

MNTL HLTH thinks that silence has its part to play in that. The stories we tell about ourselves are the way we, and others, make sense of our journey. How we got from where we were to where we are today. Our stories connect the dots and add clarity and personal nuance to a journey we are all making through life.

So what happens when we don’t tell our stories? And we aren’t able to make sense of them alone? When we let silence prevail? When we feel we have no other choice but to keep things to ourselves? Well, we can end up feeling like we’re made up of mismatched pieces. Like parts are missing, unexplored and uncommunicated. We’re missing the whole picture.

We all have a story to tell, even (and especially) if it’s one of confusion or struggle or anything else that isn’t easy and linear. That’s why MNTL HLTH is telling people’s stories. That’s why they’re forming the foundations of our action for change. Without them, we are not whole”.

For a long time, I hid my story. But now I want to be seen. I want to be understood. And I want to understand others. Because there’s another thing too; it’s only then that we can act in all of our best interests.

Tickets for the launch of MNTL HLTH are available now (link). We’re breaking the silence around mental health and committing to action that will drive change. I’d love to see you there.

You can find MNTL HLTH on twitter, @mntlhlthhq, and instagram.

If you’re struggling with depression or anything I’ve touched on in this post, please speak to someone — and my DMs are always open on twitter.

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