Just because it’s called a mental health problem, it doesn't mean that I’m ‘mental’.
I hate the word mental. There are so many negative connotations that surround it; to call a person mental is to call them mad, or out of control, or ludicrous. Yet, unfortunately, I have a condition that is defined as a mental health problem; I have depression.
If you'd asked me about my mental health a year ago, I would have told you I was fine when really, I was struggling. I had a mental illness and I was hiding it. I didn't want to tell anyone because I didn't want people to think I was weird, dangerous or "crazy". The stigma has resulted in me feeling excluded and unable to fit in. It has made me feel isolated and like there is something wrong with me.
I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) earlier this year. I realise now that I've been ignoring the symptoms for a long time. I was partly in denial and partly worried about telling people because of their reaction. I refused to tell work what was going on until I ended up in hospital. I was aware of the stigma around mental health at my workplace and kept everything a secret.
From a very young age, I knew there was something different about me. It seemed to me that everyone around me was separate and I was encased in my own bubble, my own world and it frustrated me to tears that I couldn’t work out how to make that bubble pop. Soon, my bubble solidified. It became glass. It was suffocating and at times, my glass bubble would fill with water, drowning out the minute amounts of happiness, reason, and calm that I had left.
