"Colour & Dark" by Paul Macklin

One of the fundamental problems with speaking out about your battle with mental health is that, after a while, you feel like you’ve said everything that you can say. All that remains after that are the things you actually need to say.

A Drop in the Ocean

From time to time I get this urge to vent my thoughts and feelings out into the wide, unsuspecting public realms of the internet. I try, for the most part, to avoid doing this in the form of a vague status update. Instead I usually take to my blog or the notes section of Facebook to blurt out all of the sadness that my heart has started to store up over time. And then people will come and they will stroke my ego or tell me that my life isn’t so bad.

Most of the time I will come away from these posts feeling slightly worse about myself. This is where my self-doubt thrives - it tells me that I just posted that blog for attention. Or that so-and-so who told me to “be positive” is right, and that I “haven’t got it so bad”. But it it’s often the kick up the arse I need to actually force myself away from self-deprecation and navel-gazing.

But the real reason I come away from these posts feeling bad is that I haven’t actually said what I think. I’ve meandered around the point. I’ve carefully dodged talking about my thoughts, and instead focussed the attention on the soft edges of my feelings. There’s no real release - because I still haven’t told anyone what I’m thinking or why I’m thinking it - and because of that, I still feel isolated and alone. And so I’m going to tell you what I’m thinking now.

How it All Began

I have recently started CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) and whilst it is too early to say if it will have the desired effect, it has already highlighted some potential catalysts for my current state of mind.

One of the initial traits that was identified in my first CBT session was my constant need to prove myself. I exhibit this through endless projects - perpetually working toward some kind of achievement or goal. When asked where I thought that trait had come from, I couldn’t immediately answer. I didn’t know. But as we delved back into my childhood (a psychologically cliche move that I rolled my eyes at so loudly she could probably hear me at the other end of the phone), I started to reveal qualities that led me down that path.

When I was young I was that annoying kid in class who just did well despite the fact that I never really tried. I remember several occasions on which the teacher would ask me a question thinking that I wasn’t paying attention because I was doodling or chatting, and I would respond immediately with the correct answer. I didn’t find school much of a challenge - and I frankly wasn’t that interested in what it had to teach me (looking back, I regret that mentally, too, but I feel like I should give my younger, child-self, a bit of a break). And so, I became complacent about my own education. As I got older and I started to study things I actually wanted to - my residual laziness caught up with me, and I didn’t achieve the grades I’d wanted to. I became an underachiever. Since then I’ve been determined to prove myself. And that’s just the scratching the surface of my problematic character.

Take it to Heart

I grew up on classic 80’s kid’s films like the Dark Crystal, The Never-ending Story, and the Return to Oz, and I believe that I took the messages within these stories to heart - stick up for people who can’t stick up for themselves, stand up to bullies, celebrate your differences. These sound like good things - but at the same time they’re often idealistic, and you can’t always hold other people to the same values you hold.

I never understood how someone could watch a superhero film, where the hero fought against tyranny to save the vulnerable, and then go off to make prejudiced comments about marginalised groups of people. I took those messages to heart - I wanted to be just like the heroes I saw on screen. And Spiderman wasn’t about to drop the N word.

It was the Dark Crystal that I think I carried with me most. I was brought up, predominantly, by my mum. I lived with my aunty for some time, and I spent a lot of time with my nan. I was surrounded by women who had faced a variety of adversity, and somehow still soldiered on. This was mimicked in the Dark Crystal with Kira. I specifically remember the passage of dialogue that went -

Jen: Wings! I don’t have wings! Kira: Of course not; you’re a boy.

As a seven-year old boy I was enamoured with girls - as far as I was concerned they were significantly cooler than boys. After all, they could fly.

This was compounded in the coming years as my mum encouraged my interest in reading - Alice in Wonderland, Wizard of Oz, His Dark Materials. Even Hermione in Harry Potter was a more interesting character than Harry Potter.

And so, for the best part of my adolescence I not only related to girls, but I wanted to be one.

I talk about this not because I believe gender dysphoria is a mental health issue but because of the effects that gender dysphoria can have on your ability to integrate socially as a child, and, as a result, the effect THAT can have on your mental health.

Until recently I wasn’t comfortable in talking about my own issues within gender as a child. For a start, it isn’t easy to explain. Secondly, people are rarely very understanding. It’s bad enough that you feel uncomfortable in your own body and with societal expectations conditioning you to act a certain way, but let that information out into the world and your facing a whole different sort of childhood trauma. And I don’t know whether it is right for me to self-diagnose myself with gender dysphoria when other people clearly have a much more difficult journey regarding gender, but it is something that I wanted to mention, to give further context to my origins. That having been said, it’s also worth mentioning that, allegedly, most children with gender identity problems do not become transsexual adults.

Growing up in the middle of Essex at (what felt to me as) something of a rough school complicated these issues further and led me to relate to and empathise with women further still - I could hide my own identity, somewhat, behind the veil of physically being a man. If I was treated abusively - it was less insidious than the abuse faced by women (I should point out that I recognise that women also face violence - however I believe that this is commonly a domestic issue, and occurs less frequently in a public forum, this is not to diminish in any way, shape, or form the experiences of their own suffering).

Photographs, Blood and a Candle

It all started when I was 14. For years up until then I had happily, ignorantly, been myself. I was a weird child, I’ll be the first to admit it. And I was proud to be weird. Kids would often call me names and treat me like an outsider - and it was okay. I always had at least one friend, and they accepted me for who I was.

And then, as time went on, the name calling got worse, and things started to get violent. I got into fights, and was threatened on several occasions, with baseball bats, knives, and perhaps weirdest of all - a candle.

In 2000, I’d had enough. I recall refusing to go to school. Mum took me to my nan’s flat, and for the rest of the day we looked at old photos. Photos of when we’d gone on holiday or photos of birthdays and other family gatherings. It might seem simple now - but back then, it really helped. And whilst it hadn’t changed the outside world, I was ready to go back to school the next day.

Things continued in the same vein for a few more years until, at 17, I ended up with a fractured skull and had to hide in my friend’s house after running away. The police lost the evidence, and it turned out the people who did it - well, one of their dad’s was a police officer.

To be fair though - that was the end of it. But after that, it was hard to go back outside. I heard stories of goths and “greebos” (a collective of people I associated with) who had been beaten within an inch of their life, simply because they wore black and liked rock music. I was terrified to leave my house. I was terrified that a brick would come through my window.

Scars on Screen

From then on things were easier. At least, out in the world they were.

Adult life is weird. In general I found people were less immediately aggressive, there’s still the odd man looking for a drunken brawl at a bar or at a festival from time to time, but for the most part, things become less in your face. Adult life is political. In comparison, being worried about being beaten up is more simple. This is the arena where you really need to have your shit together, and have your head on tight. This is not the place to bring your childhood traumas.

I have always had a strong sense of self - I’ve always known who I am, and what I’ve wanted. And from the age of seven, I’ve wanted to be an actor. As I grew up I knew I wanted to be a writer. And most recently, I knew I wanted to make music.

This wasn’t a change of career, or a fleeting phase of my life to become a certain thing. These were additions. I just wanted to create.

Going into adult life as someone who has always automatically achieved above average results is dangerous. Complacency is dangerous. Laziness is dangerous. Life is daunting, mad and confusing - you can’t afford to approach life with complacency. You can’t afford to approach a career in the arts with anything less than a brutal work ethic. And yet, seeds of doubt, of poor self-worth, and habitual complacency followed me into my adult life.

Left untreated, such things can only grow. Left unquestioned - these things will manifest into something worse. They will affect your day to day life - your relationships, and your work.

Visions of the Future

When I was six, Robin Williams appeared as a Scottish nanny in Mrs. Doubtfire. I watched as a man dressed up as a woman somewhat convincingly, and earned the respect of those he loved. I was enamoured with the hairy little man - and I followed him on his career from there on in.

When I was 13, my friends introduced me to Linkin Park, and I went on to form a musical love affair with rock and metal - focussing primarily on Chester Bennington and his, admittedly cliche, but ultimately real emotive lyrics and incredible vocal performance.

When I was 17, I was introduced to the playwright Sarah Kane, who’s combination of cognisant brutality and emotionally beautiful writing showed me that it was okay to defy the rules and to express darker ideas.

Sarah Kane was already dead. Suicide. Both Chester and Robin would take their own lives some years later. All three of my idols for all three of my chosen arts suffered the same mental health issues, and the same ultimate fate.

Obviously their deaths are not about me. But their deaths did affect me, and they made me wonder about my own future.

I tell people that I suffer from depression - and that I struggle with issues of self-worth. These are the things I’m constantly talking about. These are the things I feel safe to say.

But what I need to say is that I have suicidal thoughts.

How it All Ends

In case you were beginning to think that this is a big “woe is me” blog post where I try to make you feel sorry for me - this is where I make you realise I am an asshole. This is the truth.

Earlier on this year I was diagnosed with AIHA, the truth is I wished it was something much worse.

I consider myself too much of a coward to take my own life - I’m passive in everything, in life, and apparently, in my own death. I often think that I don’t want to die, but I also don’t want to live. And so I wish for something to happen to me. A disease, or an accident.

This is my truth. Whilst others are out there suffering from life debilitating diseases, or losing people to cancer, whilst there are people dying from hunger or awful car accidents I’m here wishing I was one of them and they’re undoubtedly wishing they had my life.

And this is a vicious circle. Because now I’m hating on myself for my thoughts. And you start to wonder if there is a way out - and often the answer is the same. The only way out is death.

The Colour

Not all days are the same. For me, I have months of proactive, effective behaviour. And then I’ll have weeks or months of negative, self-destructive behaviour. Right now - things are okay. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to write this. I wouldn’t be able to reflect. I would likely still be in bed trying to shut myself off from the world. I’d be thinking that everyone hated me, and that I should cut myself off from them, run away and start again.

But not all days are the same. My life is beautiful. It is colourful and crazy, and I have led an interesting life. I want to be better - I want to be happy and peaceful, and I don’t know the way to get there - but I know that it is part of a journey. I want to appreciate my life, and I want to be grateful for all the good things I do have. It won’t be easy. My mind is chemically unbalanced and wired to hurt itself. It’ll take a lot of work to reprogram my mind and reignite my life.

One of the fundamental problems with speaking out about your battle with mental health is that, after a while, you feel like you’ve said everything that you can say. All that remains after that are the things you actually need to say. And you should say them. It’s the first step.

#worldmentalhealthday2020 #depression #anxiety #letstalkaboutmentalhealth

If you, or anyone you know, are affected by mental health issues please seek advice from the mental health charity, MIND at: https://www.mind.org.uk/