I work in mental health. I also have a diagnosis of bipolar, and long-standing problems with depression, and anxiety. A frequent topic of conversation with both friends, and service users, is whether their own family, friends and colleagues 'get' mental health.
I was distressed, confused: often tearful. I remember that bit. Looking back over a decade later, I'm pretty sure I was annoying, too.
Barbara – not her real name – paid attention, unlike some of her colleagues. I can't remember if this particular conversation happened before, or after, she took time out to plait my hair. To encourage me to eat.
Shortly after I was released from psychiatric hospital for the third time, I rang my husband from a railway platform. I'd been out for the day, and I knew he'd be curious about how I was.
"I'm happy," I told him, adding: "But not too happy."
I remember that bit. Looking back over a decade later, I'm pretty sure I was annoying, too.
