Living with A Mental Illness-A First Person Perspective

Photo by Jakub Kriz on Unsplash

This is a different kind of post from the posts that I usually write. To be honest it’s a bit heavy and dark, and it may not appeal to many readers. It’s something that I have written because I think it may be of benefit to me. If you have a read and listen to what I have to say, I appreciate you taking the time.

I’ve really been struggling lately. My mental illness is not something that I try to make a big deal about. There are more people on Steemit that know about this than people in my real life. I’ve chosen to write this post for two reasons. The first is that journaling is a form of therapy, and I thought that if I was going to write something, I may as well put it out for public consumption. Hopefully someone will read it and they might be able to take something useful from the words that follow. Secondly, I think that even though mental illness is a bit of a buzzword these days, particularly in western society, understanding what mental illness really means is still severely lacking. So hopefully my words might help in that regard too.

In short, mental illness is a bitch. One of the reasons for this is that it is not something that is easy to understand if you haven’t experienced it first hand. Even if you have experienced it, everybody’s illness is different in the way that it presents for them personally. For those readers that didn’t see my previous post where I discussed the subject briefly, my particular illness is post-traumatic stress disorder, gained during my time serving the military. It’s an anxiety-based disorder and comes hand-in-hand with depression in most cases. It has classic symptoms such as hypervigilance, hyperarousal, nightmares, flashbacks, discomfort in social settings and crowded places, and a variety of other ways that it can present in an individual’s life. For me though the most overwhelming way in which this illness presents in my day-to-day life is self-doubt. Having spoken to other people who suffer from similar conditions, I know that I’m not alone with this difficulty.

Having a mental illness causes you to quite literally questioning your own sanity. Whilst I don’t believe that I am insane, the fact that I know that I react differently to emotional triggers than other people, causes me to doubt almost every action I take, almost every day. It influences almost of your relationships. An example would be an argument with my wife, where I will question whether I'm arguing because I have a valid point, or just because I’m agitated and she’s the nearest person I can take that out on.

Another is in my relationship with my children. I constantly question my parenting decisions, as I wonder whether I’m providing a stable and positive role model. When I raise my voice is it to legitimately discipline them, or just because I've over reacted to them pushing my buttons like all kids do.

It also affects other less intimate relationships such as friends, more distant family and work colleagues. When I get an email from a client or a colleague that makes me frustrated or angry, my first thought is, is it okay that I’m angry about this or am I just overreacting.

Even mundane activities such as attending a child’s birthday party become mental obstacles. No parent, if they’re being honest, enjoys taking the children to their friends’ birthday parties. There are some days when I quite literally am not able to cope with the thought of spending 3 hours with 15 screaming five-year-old’s. There are other days when I don’t want to go simply because I am feeling lazy. So, when I make that decision about whether to attend or not, am I acting in my own best interest because I legitimately can’t deal that day, or just being lazy and a burden to my wife, who then has to attend on her own. This occurs Every. Single. Day. It’s incredibly exhausting.

You even question whether you are mentally ill at all. This happens on many levels. Most significantly, a diagnosis of PTSD gives a label my behaviour. When I behave inappropriately is that because I am sick, or is it simply because I am arsehole. Do I even deserve to have the label that I have. I have the luxury of having a clearly defined event, and a clearly defined diagnosis that supports me in my label. People, when they hear about my illness are generally extremely supportive and understanding. I know many people that have experienced shitty things that don’t have the convenience of a label that they can hang on it to excuse the difficulties they experience in day-to-day life.

I have a friend who’s been raped once, and sexually assaulted twice. We have discussed our experiences extensively because we share a common wavelength in relation to some of these issues. Despite the horrendous experiences that she has endured, she still automatically defers to my experience as having been ‘much worse ‘than hers. When I question as to why, she has difficulty explaining it, but it boils down to the fact that I went to war, so I've been wounded by conflict. She's been wounded by daily life. But its different. Its socially acceptable for me to affected in the way I am. her less so.

I have another friend whose father is a Somali refugee. He was a child soldier during the Civil War in that country. Not only has this led to him having severe and ongoing problems for the rest of his life, it has also significantly affected his daughter, and her view of both herself, and the world that she has grown up in.

I look at people like these and wonder why I have this convenient label that I can use to hide behind, while they just deal with day-to-day life as best they can.

All this leads to guilt. Another gift of PTSD.

The rational part of my brain knows that I really do suffer from a genuine medical condition. Somebody tried to kill me. Quite a few people actually, over quite an extended period of time. They shot at me, they fired rockets at me, they set roadside bombs to blow up my vehicle as I drove past. One snapshot that recurs to me frequently is standing in an Afghan village with my interpreter Ben by my side. Ben is engaged in a heated discussion with a local man who we strongly suspected be a member of the Taliban (It was never hard to tell). After several minutes of animated conversation, of which I could understand not a word, the local man stormed off in huff. Ben later told me that the man was offering him several thousand US dollars to wait for an appropriate time, and then take the pistol that I had holstered at my hip, and shoot me in the head. In the environment that I was in at that time this was just another day.

Subsequently it’s something that I think about often.

I also have reams of paperwork from psychologists, psychiatrists and other medical specialists confirming my diagnosis. I present with classic symptoms. I'm agitated and moody. I have difficulty sleping I experience feelings of social isolation. Whenever I enter a café or restaurant I always sit with my back to the wall. I sleep with a cricket bat under my bed and I drive with tyre iron in my car in case I need to defen.d myself. Against what I’m not sure, but they are there nonetheless. I also have nightmares in which I have my head cut off with a hacksaw blade. So, I know it’s real. I know it’s true. I know it’s not just a label. But that doesn’t stop the doubt.

So mental illness is a bitch.

If you’ve read this far, I thank you for listening to my story. If there is one thing I would hope you take from this, its that you don’t need to be a soldier to be effected by this kind of condition. Chances are that many of you who read this suffer in your owns ways, and if you don’t suffer personally, then you will know a number of people who do.

I'll finish with the lyrics of a song I’ve been listening to lately. It sums up my journey with mental illness more eloquently than I could ever hope to do myself. Its much better when set to music, but I still find the words powerful.

Like the drive home from a 30-hour flight
Part of me wants to be dead
Part of me's so happy to be alive
When you start crying in the middle of a fight
I never wanna see you sad
But that does not mean that you are right
And I wake and I pace around the bed
Doesn't mean I can't be near you
But being alive makes me stressed
You fall asleep as I'm patting your head
In mine, I am repeating, "I'm glad we are not dead
I'm glad we are not dead"

The Smith Street Band