World Mental Health Day 2017

A year ago today, I wrote a piece on depression, from my own struggles to the stigma and broader issues. A hell of a lot has happened since then; today, I will reflect on those 365 days, what has changed since I last publicly delved into my subconscious, and the wider state of mental health.

I’m glad a day like this exists. People with mental health issues tend to struggle to speak up when they need help. A quick Google search will tell you the vast number of people affected in one way or another, how many live and suffer, how many don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. It is the silent killer.

Someone has probably used the ‘everyday should be mental health day’ take, and while that’s correct, you need a firm foot on the ladder out of the abyss, and today must be that day. Last year’s article felt like a pressure valve being released, so I hope this year is the same.

I really, really wish this was a piece saying how the last year of my life has been a roaring success that’s seen me tackle my inner demons. But that’s just not the case. If anything, it’s been worse.

The good and the bad are intertwined throughout my life, woven like the DNA that shapes me. There have been highs, soaring highs, unforgettable highs. I’ve achieved so much. I’ve worked at a Premier League football club, I’ve covered the team I love at the world’s most iconic stadium, gaining journalistic accreditation in the process – little ol’ me with a press pass.

Perhaps most notably, I passed my shorthand exam at 100 words per minute. For me, that was a big test of strength. For the past two years, I’ve had to essentially learn another language, master another skill, whilst weathering a mental storm. I remember learning of my pass on the university bus, and for the first time in my life, I cried tears of joy. I had won a huge battle. It wasn’t the happiest moment of my 20-year existence, but it was one of the most significant.

I wish the rest of the year was as fruitful.

In the past 12 months, I’ve attempted suicide twice – all that’s keeping me here are the emergency services, and one night-long conversation with a close friend.

Those are only the extremes; simply having to go through day-to-day life is still the albatross dangling from my neck. Very rarely am I truly happy. But of course, that’s part and parcel of depression. I’m one of many, but every single ‘one’ counts.

My career has been advancing, but I feel like I’ve been holding myself back at university. I should have ended it with a first. I know that’s what I’m capable of, that’s my own standard, and I’m sure the standard expected of me. I fell beneath that. What was an achievable feat is now a massive ‘what if’.

For most of my time in first and second year, I ducked and dived out of lectures before the class had even begun. Simply getting up eventually proved to be one of my many losing battles, which I was fearful of when writing this a year ago. I took various extended periods off, some sanctioned, some not, and eventually my marks suffered.

I met some brilliant people in the summer, but most of those months were marred by myself thinking I should be locked up. I felt like there was an explosion in my mind and I thought I was genuinely out-of-my-mind insane. And the horrible truth is I still believe that more often than not. This is the first time I’m openly admitting it. I’m in my dissertation year yet I feel mentally unwell enough to be restrained.

If you’ve ever met me, in that moment I was probably in agony inside. Obviously it’s a lot easier to mask through text or online. It’s never going to be easy when you’ve got depression, but again, this is the first time I’ve recognised just how horrible my situation is. In a word, it’s terrifying. Simply terrifying. Waking up, going through the motions, going to sleep – it’s all so hard and I tremble thinking about it every day. It’s a never-ending cycle.

I made an analogy last year that my room was the deadliest and safest place in the world; that’s now extended to my bare existence.

If you think I’m being dramatic, then I’ve done my job of hiding how I feel well. Writing is my forte, speaking is that thing I do awkwardly and at a million miles an hour. Depression doesn’t discriminate.

I’ve tried to glamour up this piece, shine the lead turd that is depression, make those who have never experienced it to have a better understanding. It’s a big part of how I write – ‘what combination of words can I use to elicit a certain response?’

My writing skills are likely waning though, but I hope it’s at the very least opened up some sort of dialogue, because ultimately that’s what keeps people alive.

I’ve always believed that talking is a far greater treatment than any anti-depressant, and what with the NHS mental health service availabilities continuing to sink without a trace, you’ll never know just how much you can do to save a life. After my second suicide attempt, a supposed ‘specialist’ told me my main issue was that I needed a job. This is the ‘help’ on offer.

It’s a miracle that I haven’t fallen into the trap of drugs and alcohol, but when everything else has fallen apart, I fear for how long I can resist.

I hope today sees a wider discussion of the issue. I really do. For far too long have people had to shy away and pretend everything is fine for any number of fears. It’s hard to be heard over someone tweeting about them wanting to die and getting thousands of retweets for it. Stop joking about it.

I don’t think there’s any right or wrong way to end this, but I’m going to with a video that perfectly details what depression is like, far better than I could ever put into words.