Our lovely blog pal Rol has been running an excellent, thought-provoking series over at the ever brilliant My Top Ten, about mental health. I hope you won't mind, but I'm also reposting something on the subject, which I wrote several years ago.
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Today, October 10th, is Mental Health Awareness Day. It makes a change from the recent International Talk Like A Pirate Day (September 19th), which sounds quite dignified really compared to Step In A Puddle And Splash Your Friend Day (January 14th). You might be interested to know that there is also a Noodle Day, a Mad Hatter Day, a Cherry Cheesecake Day and a Do Something Nice Day, amongst others. I don't really like the idea of having set days for anything; I'd rather we just talked like pirates, stepped in puddles and splashed friends, ate noodles and cherry cheesecake in mad hats and did something nice any time and any day we felt like it - but I can't knock any attempt to encourage openness on mental health issues, and it seems like today's the day.
Back in the early '70s, when my mum stopped getting up in the mornings, surfacing only occasionally during the afternoon or early evening to replenish her glass of water, I was told that she was ‘ill’. Yet there was no sneezing or coughing or chicken pox spots so it was a different kind of illness to the ones I knew about. I can’t remember what else was said about it and, being only eight, I was more preoccupied with my own small world, which was no bad thing. But when mum came downstairs on a dark, wintry evening and headed straight out the front door with just her dressing-gown over her nightie and slippers on her feet, it was obvious something was seriously wrong.
Visiting her in such surroundings was disturbing but, unfortunately, it became something that I had to do on several different occasions in different hospitals over subsequent years. It's a weird thing for a child; an unnerving place, but at the same time I was aware that my mum was 'supposed' to be there with those people. They were all grown-ups after all, people whom I thought were meant to be looked up to and relied upon. That was probably the bit I found hardest with my mum; my first memorable experience of an insecure feeling: the realisation that I couldn't depend on her, that she wasn't really 'there'. Anyway... in the Psychiatric Ward with its cheerily patterned curtains and orange chairs, there was always a man who thought he was Jesus and stories of strange behaviours abounded: the lady who’d made a habit of running down the busy high street without any clothes on, and the blank-faced man who thought he was still fighting in WWII. And always someone who thought they'd had a radio implanted in their brain to listen to their thoughts.
Mum was diagnosed as having clinical depression (as opposed to manic), which sounds very gloomy, and gives the impression of someone who mopes around every day and never smiles, but which is not what she was like at all. There was just something going on which, combined with certain aspects of her personality and some traumatic life events, made her susceptible to some very deep lows. When she wasn't suffering from these, she was incredibly kind, chatty, strong, reassuring, gregarious, warm, broadminded and creative, always doing things for other people (often befriending and taking in various waifs and strays with their own mental health problems, and doing voluntary work for charities like Mind). But when she went downhill she just lost interest in everything and withdrew from the world. During her later years, with the help of good, understanding doctors and the right mix of drugs, she was able to pretty much manage it by simply shutting herself away until it passed. It was really only on the very worst occasions that it affected her behaviour in more severe and worrying ways and made her say and do things which were, quite frankly, a little mad.
Stating the obvious but it's a depressing and difficult subject, yet it touches so many people, either those who experience it first hand (and I don't believe any of us are immune) or those who know them. I can feel myself tensing slightly as I write because it brings back that sort of unsafe feeling of discovering that the grown-up parent I thought I could lean on wasn't always that, and deep-down that fear of the unravelling of 'normality'. Nowadays, though, I wonder more about how life must have felt for my mum at those times, how much worse it was for her than for me. I feel sure that her mental health crises at least taught me a lot, and hopefully provided me with a better understanding and empathy. And if that's also the intention behind having a Mental Health Awareness Day then I truly hope it succeeds.
Thinking of those whom I know are struggling with their mental health at the moment and here's hoping for far better days ahead.
A deeply moving post, C. We all come to a point when we realise our parents are not perfect, all-knowing, all-powerful beings, it's just part of growing up... but that was a particularly young age for you to have that curtain lifted, and in such a drastic way. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThank you Rol for your posts and brilliant insights, which helped inspire me to revisit this yesterday. People go through so much worse, I know, but children can be so resilient. I still get that wobbly feeling when I'm around chaotic people/situations but on the whole I think this stuff makes you stronger.
DeleteAs with Rol's posts on mental health I find it difficult to know how to comment because I'm worried that whatever I say will seem woefully inadequate or patronising. But they are read and thought about. Thanks both of you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThanks Ernie, and for a lovely comment. Please don't worry about anything you might say, I think we all understand how that is and have been there too.
DeleteWell written and perfectly pitched, C. It's never an easy subject to broach; it only works (and therefore only rings true) if you'e on the inside; you have to know of what you speak.
ReplyDeleteSpeaking as someone whose bump in the road has been touched upon both directly and indirectly over at my place I still reel in admiration at those far better versed than me who absolutely nail both living with mental health issues and living with someone with mental health issues. Tough gigs, both; don't let anyone tell you any different.
And yes, I share your sentiment - a big hug to all those currently struggling out there. A hug, I know, won't be enough, but we're all behind you - every step of the way.
Oh, and it was National John Day just last month; September 25, since you ask.
JM
Ah thank you John, much appreciated. I think these kind of experiences, whether personal or through loved ones, are so much more common than we realise, so it's good to talk about them if/when we can, and carry on breaking down the inhibitions around them (I hesitate to use the word 'taboo'). The main thing is that we do come through them, and understand ourselves, and others, a little better in the long run too. Maybe it helps set some priorities in life too? I don't know. But yes, big hugs to those we're thinking of right now.
DeleteYou have your own National Day?! Well, there's something to celebrate!
Thanks for this C, a very moving post. Strangely, given its Mental Health Day (or appropriately) the grief has descended on me again today without warning and quite suddenly. I recognise it enough now, nearly 2 years in, to just go with it and let it happen.
ReplyDeleteThanks, SA. As ever, my thoughts go out to you for your grief, and perhaps it was subconsciously down to all the talk of mental health awareness yesterday that it hit you particularly hard. Knowing now that you just have to go with it sounds exactly right, and that you need to feel what you feel without fighting it. I think of grief almost like a solid object, it needs to move through you each time, in spite of the pain, and then once it has passed you have some space again, and that's what keeps you going.
DeleteI think I've spoken of it before, but my mum also lost a child, my brother, when he was six (he was severely disabled and lived his short life in hospital) and this was of course significant to her depressive episodes - but it was back in the days when nobody spoke about it and there was a terrible kind of shame attached to it. I'm so glad that the environment around these things is so much healthier now.
Thanks C. Agreed, the environment is better now, I'm sure your mum was in all kinds of pain about your brother and his life and death. You're right to about grief being like a solid object. Sometimes it just drops on me and seems to cover me. I have to 'walk' through it.
DeleteThanks for expressing your feelings the way you do, Adam - it helps those of us on the outside too. Thinking of you.
DeleteAs other have said, C, a moving post, and a fine piece of writing to boot.
ReplyDeleteI grew up next door to what would have been called an asylum when it was built in Victorian times; in my childhood, it was called the "mental hospital", which in retrospect is almost as bad. It was a huge place, with sprawling grounds over hundreds of acres. It had two churches, its own little farm, cricket pitch, mortuary, and even had its own little fire station, although that was closed by the 70s. Three of my family worked there, at different times and in different roles. Most patients were long-term residents, and most were free to roam not just the site but the neighbouring village where I lived too. I remember one, John - all he could say was "Got 10p?" and if you answered no, he'd try "Got a cigarette?" The hospital grounds were my playground, the giant pine trees on the bank of the approach road made a great base; the steeping sloping banks around the bandstand were a great test of your nerve and cycling skills. And there was also the padded cell - dare you run over and look through the window into it? (It was always empty).
Seems hard to believe, looking back, that sometimes, even as quite a young child, I would just go into the hospital buildings, walk the corridors, to find either of my parents after their work.
Care in the community brought an end to the hospital in the very early 90s, with all but the most serious patients put out into residential homes in neighbouring towns. The vast majority of patients didn't want this - the hospital was their home, and for many long-timers it was all they had known, sometimes for ten, twenty, thirty, forty years. Yet they were relocated into communities which, for the most part, didn't want or understand them. I'm not saying the cliché of a brooding Victorian asylum on an isolated hilltop was perfect, but I don't think what replaced it is either.
One or two building remain but the rest is a giant housing estate of rabbit-hutch houses now, with memories of the hospital lingering on in the minds of those staff that are still alive. Or those like me, who grew up playing there.
That's a very evocative piece of writing too, Martin. Too good for a comment box, in fact (no offence, C). It deserves a place on your own blog.
DeleteMy sister worked in the local mental hospital when I was a kid. I never got to visit, but it's a ruined Victorian edifice these days, reputedly haunted; the only people who set foot in there are those ghost-hunting / urban adventurer types. The grounds have been turned into student accommodation (but then, so has most of Huddersfield).
Now that I'm working in a mental health inpatient unit myself, I see lots of patients discharged into the community only to end up back in hospital. I'm not sure I blame those who work in the community for that, there's just not enough of them and their workload grows every year while their resources shrink. It's a sad state of affairs all round.
Isn't that the truth, Rol? Under-resourced and overloaded - sad state is exactly right?
DeleteAs for a blog post on my childhood playground... maybe. Some time. I have so many memories of that time and place though, I'm not sure how I'd marshal them into anything coherent. But maybe.
Thanks Martin, what a fascinating comment - it should be a blog post of its own! A marvellous and evocative description, I can picture it completely, and how interesting that you went in there as a child because of your family members working there; the detail of these kind of surroundings imprint themselves on the brain.
DeleteI know what you mean about these kind of institutions too. When properly run with caring staff, they would be safe and comfortable and positive for the residents, and for those for whom it had been home for many years it must have been so traumatic to be moved. Perhaps some things work better in theory than in practice and the idea of being integrated into the community is not always as beneficial to those vulnerable people as it might sound.
I visited my mum on a short stay once in a place that sounds not dissimilar, and driving up the long avenue through the grounds a man came running out to us and was very keen to wave us along the drive and direct us into a parking space, to all intents and purposes it was his job. Except that it wasn't! There was no such job... he was a patient.
I vividly remember a female patient knocking on our front door and asking if she could come in and use our toilet. My mum dealt with her, and brilliantly so - of course, having worked there equipped her well for this. It sounds bizarre, looking back, but it was just the sort of thing that happened when you lived next to the hospital. At its peak, around 2,000 patients lived there, though it was half that when I played there, and probably only around 600 at the end.
DeleteIt wasn't all rosy, of course. In the early 70s, complaints were made by some staff, drawing attention to abuse and neglect in the hospital. An inquiry criticised excessive and casual use of ECT, but there was no disciplinary action against any staff.
Fun fact: my one and only time riding in a helicopter happened one year late 70s at the annual hospital fete, where five minute rides in a chopper were one of the attractions. Implausible but true. It was its own little world, the hospital.
Agree with you both about the sad state of affairs. It's really hard on everyone now, and a great worry.
DeleteLove this latest instalment to your memories of that place, Martin. Such extraordinary experiences - definitely worth documenting as it's modern social history; so much has changed since.
What a poignant image of your Mum dressed in her nightgown , nightie and slippers traipsing out of the front door into the dark night. No wonder it has stayed with you and prompted you into raising awareness.
ReplyDeleteIt's a disturbing memory and image of my mum but an important subject I think. Thankfully I have many other much better images too!
DeleteI worked in what was once the largest psychiatric hospital in Europe for years.Martin brilliantly highlights the pros and cons.Plenty of green spaces but isolated from the "real" world.
ReplyDeleteMy brother-in-law has profound learning disabilities and years ago would probably have spent his live in such a place.He hated going there for"respite". Now he is out and about in town every day with his carer and enjoys his small respite unit.
Ironic and telling, isn't it, that he hated what was suppose to be respite.
DeleteI know you're close to the subject with your previous work, CC. So important to treat each person as an individual and to nurture the best out of them and for them - it sounds as if your brother-in-law's outings into town with his carer, his own unit and that higher level of real world experience are great for him. The thought of having to live in an institution when you really don't want to be there and are isolated from the stimulus of normal outside life, is awful.
DeleteA beautifully pitched and evocative post, C, which I didn’t see first time around so thanks for sharing again. I think there’s been a real shift in lifetime towards a better understanding of and deeper empathy for those who experience mental health challenges. But with that has come a greater realisation of just how prevalent it is, in myriad ways, amongst those we know and love.
ReplyDeleteIt can be overwhelming at times but reading about other people’s experiences and ways of sometimes just getting through life does make a difference.
I read this originally a while ago but I didn’t feel I could find the words. Similarly, Rol’s or Adam’ reflections and mental healing process don’t always get specific comments from me, but they move me every single time. Thanks all.
“a real shift in *my* lifetime”
ReplyDeleteThanks, Khayem, for your lovely and thoughtful comment - I agree very much with all you say. I know what you mean about not always feeling we can find the words - but you have done so here and they are perfect.
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