Why I’m Opening up About my Mental Health
Writing about my mental health has stirred up a mix of reactions — from the compassionate “I had no idea” to the blunt “I’d rather you didn’t air dirty laundry in public”. These responses are par for the course when you lay it all bare. But I’m writing to shed light on taboo and often hidden mental health issues — some of which have plagued me.
I’ve shared about my struggles with alcohol, drugs, and my tangled relationship with sexuality. Attention was my drug of choice, and I craved it in all the wrong ways. I pursued promiscuity as a twisted path to intimacy and control. Calm felt like emptiness, so I sought out drama, co-creating chaos to relive old traumas, hoping — subconsciously — that chaos could heal. I wore a mask, numbing my pain and sidestepping my issues.
After my mum died, and with a close friend talking me down from the brink, I reached out to a counsellor who helped me start the long road toward self-awareness. Through his guidance, I saw that my behaviour, as wild and chaotic as it was, all traced back to my childhood. Suddenly — clearly — I was the common denominator in my ruined relationships and endless drama. I saw that my survival instinct had constructed a complex persona — part defence, part dysfunction. I’d built a suit of armour to shield myself from future harm, even when the danger was long gone.
Growing up, expressing feelings was discouraged, and shouting often ended uncomfortable discussions — my “suit” distracted and numbed me, replacing emotional pain with physical. From cuts and bruises to broken bones, self-harm, in all its forms, became my outlet.
Last week, someone asked if I worried my admissions might scare people. Perhaps. But then, the truth is, people were far warier when I was blind to my issues. I get that my newfound honesty may disarm some and disgust others. I’m not here for pity or absolution. I’m writing to encourage awareness — to spark concern that someone you know might be suffering in silence.
I’m not suffering, and I’m not quiet about it either. Aged 43, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Realising that happiness is a journey, not a destination, changed everything for me. Realising that happiness is impermanent changes the game, too. I’m still on the path, still learning, and still healing. I’m on the mend.
These writings aren’t cries for help — they’re calls to arms — an invitation to pay attention to the people around you who might be struggling. Ask them how they’re feeling. And when they brush you off, ask again.
If my words help even one person take a step towards change, it’s worth it.
I have this romantic notion that someone in need might read this or that it might be shared with someone who’s suffering. One ugly, overturned stone could create a ripple effect of self-realisation in others.
Is that worthy? Absolutely.
Is it possible? Fuck, yes.
