Anarchia

Recently I was up in Auckland for the Anarchism Is Organising conference. On the second day of the conference, I ran a workshop on “mental health, mental illness and anarchist community support”. The workshop wasn’t on the agenda prior to the conference, but after some thoughts and a discussion that touched on the subject the previous afternoon, I decided to run it. Not long after I made the offer, I suddenly became incredibly nervous when I realised I hadn’t ever run a discussion on the topic before, and had no idea how to structure it or what to do. After a bit of thinking, I decided that attempting to get anything concrete out of it probably wouldn’t actually work, and therefore attempting to do that would only serve to be demoralising. Instead, I decided that getting people to open up and share their stories would be the most positive first step that we could take.

By lunchtime Sunday, with the workshop just a few hours away, I’d decided on a format - one that began with me opening up and telling my story, from scratch. Trying to put the years of pain and hardship into words, the awful experiences with medication, the lowest lows, the scariest times. I also decided to talk about the incredible lack of support that I felt in the Wellington anarchist community. The discussion would be the first time I had ever talked about my experiences in a large group, and I wasn’t feeling confident or even particularly safe (especially considering I’d only met a large number of the participants the day before), but I’d made the decision to speak out and I wasn’t going to change that. I confided my worry to a friend shortly before the discussion started that I would tell my story, and noone else would feel safe or comfortable enough to tell theirs. While I can totally understand why this might be the case, I was pretty concerned as to how that would affect me - leaving myself so open and exposed.

Then it started. I talked, remembering things that I had long forgotten (whether accidentally or on purpose). Feelings came back to me as real as when I’d first felt them. At times, I had to stop, while at other times swinging the chair in front of me or letting loose a few tears seemed to calm me down a little. When, while talking, I looked up at the rest of the group, I made sure to try to focus on a couple of people who I trusted the most, and the looks in their eyes helped me to continue. Still, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to talk about in public.

When I finished, there was a brief silence, and then I looked around and there were others wanting to speak. At that point, I felt like a weight had been lifted. For the next two hours, around ten others shared their stories of mental illness, of medication and psychiatry, of community support (or the lack of it), of friends (or the lack of them). It was honestly one of the most beautiful things I’ve been a part of. That so many people felt able to talk so openly and honestly about their deepest held secrets amongst a group of people they didn’t know was incredible. The discussion could easily have gone on longer, but after we’d gone one hour overtime we really had to stop to allow other workshops to take place.

After we’d finished, I gave a big hug to a friend of mine, and we went outside for a ciggarette. A few others joined us and we talked about how we felt after the workshop (emotionally drained but inspired covers it well, I think). A couple of people talked about the possibility of setting up a mental health support group in Wellington, which would be awesome if it gets off the ground.

I also talked afterwards to a couple of people who have never experienced mental illness, who came to listen and learn. What they said only made me more confident that what happened was the most positive first step we all could have taken. While it may never be possible to understand exactly what we go through, speaking that honestly and extensively is probably as close as it gets.

At the moment, it seems like online is my only connection to the world outside my front door. I’ve only left the house once in the last week (maybe longer? I lost track…) and that was only to the petrol station across the road to get out some cash (to order in comfort food…mmm, vegan pizza). Even then I had to drag one of my flatmates with me because I didn’t feel up to going outside on my own.

I’ve skipped at least two meetings, the most recent of which was yesterday, because I don’t feel up to seeing other humans right now. I’ve even been avoiding the two people I live with (both of whom read this blog, hi!) for the most part…

Tomorrow night I’ve got a meeting that I really want to go to, for a new collective I’ve just joined. I especially want to go because I haven’t actually been able to attend a meeting of that collective yet, in the few weeks since I told them I wanted to join. Hopefully I’ll feel up to going - I think I’ll probably try to force myself even if I don’t - but the thought of being around a group of people brings up feelings I don’t know how to label - fear, anxiety, nervousness….

These feelings have happened before, they seem to come during especially bad patches of my depression (although not always).  Not really sure what to do about them. Part of me has an inkling that forcing myself to have as much human contact as possible would be healthy right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy…

The Sydney Icarus Project, a radical mental health group thats recently started, have put out a great little zine, titled Anarchia - no relation to me/this blog though.

It can be downloaded by clicking here - well worth a read.

Grumpy. Down. Shattered. Emotionally exhausted. Blergh. Not great. Mentally fucked. Crappy.

These are all words I’ve used to describe my state of mental health to my friends, all woefully inadequate. The total lack of language I have to adequately convey the (at times) complete debilitation I feel no doubt is a contributing factor to the lack of support I frequently get from friends (see Depression and support). If I can’t describe what I’m going through, how can I ever hope to get what I need in terms of support?

During recent reflection, I have realised that a number of times this year, I was feeling something I’ve always denied to myself. Only in the last week have I finally been able to label where I was (and perhaps still am) - suicidal (at times verging on, at times more than that). Perhaps, if I had used that word, my friends may have had a better understanding of my mental state. Unfortunately, I can’t help but feel that much of the response would have been to deny my experience, to tell me I was “over-dramatising” the situation.

After suffering from mental illness for 8 years, I’ve got very good at putting on masks when interacting. In all but my lowest periods (and sometimes even then), all but those who know me the best (and sometimes even them) see a very different array of emotions to those which I am actually feeling. I’ve gotten pretty good at appearing happy or at least content, at feigning enthusiasm or excitement. For me, these false emotions serve two main purposes:

• A coping mechanism - I figure that I’m stuck with my mental illness, and other than tinkering on the edges, there’s not actually a hell of a lot I can do about it at its roots. By putting on a mask, I am still able to participate to some extent in things, whether they be socialising, political activism or whatever.
• An avoidance of pity - There are few things that frustrate me more than being pitied, and, unfortunately, that is frequently the response I get from friends when I let my mask drop. If its not pity, I get patronised, which is just as bad. By projecting fake emotions, I’m able to interact with people without being pitied or patronised for my mental state.

Unfortunately, these masks also certainly serve a negative purpose, to hide my true state from my friends and therefore lessen the chance of receiving the support I need. Together with the lack of language I possess for when I do choose to voluntarily drop my masks, is it really surprising that the vast majority of the time, I feel like I’m going through this alone?

This post was written last night, without an Internet connection, hence it is only being posted now.

I’ve suffered from depression more or less non-stop for the last 8 years, since I was 14 (see Mental illness: My struggle). Early on, I used to use that tired old joke, “I don’t suffer from depression, I enjoy every minute of it!” but it didn’t take to long for me to realise that that only served to further minimise and marginalise the all-too-real suffering I was going through in the eyes of others (“He can joke about it, surely that means it can’t be too bad”).

My support networks during those 8 years have ranged from the fantastic to the barely existent, changing with the various social circles I have mixed with during that time. Yet, when I think back to times where my support network has been all I could have hoped for, I find it hard to remember what it actually was that they did. In my latest especially depressive patch (as distinct from my routine depressive state), currently running into its 5^th month, I certainly feel a lack of support, but I also have a total lack of an idea as to what I want or need.

Part of me longs for my friends to take the lead at this point – for them to gather together and do something, anything, to provide some support, even if it’s totally inadequate or not what I need. At the same time, I fear the patronising mentality that is so common towards sufferers of mental illness (even from fellow sufferers). I don’t want to have to deal with being patronised on top of everything else.

Because suffering from mental illness takes a radically different form for every person, even fellow sufferers are unable to provide any framework that is likely to be effective – I know sufferers who cope best when totally left alone, and I know sufferers who can’t bear to be alone for even a minute. Our differing experiences demand different strategies of support, which makes it that much harder to develop community strategies (see Building “mad” friendly communities) for supporting sufferers that can be readily applied whenever someone requires help.

I’m not really sure, at this point, of the purpose of this post. It’s about 20 minutes since I wrote that last paragraph, 20 minutes of sitting here trying to think of a positive, or at least constructive, outcome to begin to head towards. But I guess that I really don’t know where to go from here. I can only hope that this serves as a catalyst for people to take a good look around them and to question how they can best support their friends who are suffering right now. In the meantime, though, I’m sure I won’t be the only one crying alone tonight.

My previous post on my struggle with mental illness really seems to have struck a nerve with many readers. I recieved a number of emails (anarchiazine [at] gmail [dot] com) from others who struggle (or have struggled) with mental illness, telling me their stories - some from friends, others from people I have never met. Those emails, combined with a line from Maia in a comment - “Do you have any ideas about where we could start to make things better?” - and some discussions with friends has really strengthened by desire to begin imagining the next step.

Before I continue, I’d like to mention that I have issues with using the term “mad”, but I’m yet to discover a better term, so in the interim I will continue to use it.

There seems to be a dearth of information on the internet relating to anarchism (or even other radical politics) and mental illness, and what little there is predominantly focuses on medical analyses of mental illness - looking at alternative methods of treatment, critiquing the medical establishment’s view of mental illness and the like. While this is no doubt important, what seems to be missing is a political analysis of mental illness, a discussion of how we can create “mad” friendly communities and indeed what those communities would even look like.

There is the odd site such as Mad Pride (not updated since 2001) that seemed to have potential to foster that discussion, and I have heard 2nd or 3rd hand stories of collectives/groups working on mental illness issues in various radical communities around the world, but for the most part it seems to be something that I’d need to start from scratch, and thats a thought that really scares me.

I remember having discussions with a couple of other people in the Wellington anarchist community in 2005. We had the idea of having an anarchist mental illness support group in Wellington, where we would get together and share our stories, and support each other in our personal struggles. The group never took shape, for a number of reasons, but thinking back now, I wonder whether we could have created a space/atmosphere where we all felt safe and comfortable opening up to each other. I also recall with sadness the fear I felt at the time about how such a group would be recieved by the community as a whole - a fear which, while it may have been unfounded (who knows?), was certainly very real.

Perhaps here we have much we could potentially learn from survivors of and those working on issues of intimate violence. I’m not wishing to compare the struggles in any way - they are clearly very different - but in terms of creating safe spaces for open and passionate discussion, it seems like it may be a worthwhile place to start.

I think community-based support groups such as this are a good beginning - while everyone’s experiences are undoubtably different, I feel much more comfortable talking about my struggle with others who at least have some real understanding of where I’m coming from. Once these groups are more established, they could also make excellent staging grounds for working with the wider community on “mad” issues - both in terms of education and in terms of proactively creating a framework for a more “mad” friendly community. Because, as much as solidarity from others is important, ultimately, any changes must be driven by those who are currently marginalised, who’s voices are currently unheard.

NB: Before I start this post, I want to make it clear that this isn’t me making a well thought out political statement, and I’m probably not going to reach any positive conclusions. This is me not pleading for help, this is simply me letting out some of the hurt that I live with on a daily basis. I don’t want pity, I don’t want obligation-fuelled well meaning but nonetheless patronising comments. I get that enough already, and I’m fucking sick of it.

At age 14, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. At the time, being the naive and vaguely optimistic teenager I was, I thought that medication would “fix me”, that I’d take a few pills for a few months, and magically, it would all disappear, and I’d never have to think about it again. So when my doctor prescribed me an anti-depressant, I took it, and waited for it to build up in my system to the point where it was supposed to have an effect. It didn’t. So, I went back to my doctor, and still faithful to the medical establishment, I took her advice and increased my dosage. Again, no noticable effect. So again, I increased my dosage. After a while, this began to have an effect, but certainly not a desirable one - my sleep, already poor, became even worse, my appetite became totally insatiable (I put on around 15-20kg in just 2 or 3 months), and frequent uncontrollable mood swings were the order of the day. Clearly, I could not take this medication any longer, so my doctor switched me to another pill. A short time later, my dosage was again increased, to the point where I was taking twice the reccomend maximum adult dosage, at age 15. The side effects from this medication were similar to the previous one, only amplified massively. To cope with my severe lack of sleep (50+ hours without sleep wasn’t uncommon, and what little sleep I did get was in short bursts and unsatisfying) I was given sleeping pills, which at least gave me a few nights healthy rest.

All through this time I was also seeing a counsellor, an experience which I have tried my hardest to erase from my memory. It essentially boiled down to hours of being patronised, of being asked to talk and then not being listened to…I quickly began to dread my appointments and frequently refused to go.

As this dragged on and on, it got to the point where I decided I could take it no longer. While camping in January 2001, I threw all my medication into a river and swore to myself I would never take anti-depressants again, a promise I have kept to. And yet, almost 8 years since I was first diagnosed, my illness still effects me in every waking moment. Two or three times a year, during especially bad periods, I consider going back on medication, but the memories of the side effects are still too strong in my mind to allow myself to do that.

My illness definately marginalises me within society. I can think of a number of friendships I have lost due to it - both from friends, who, feeling unable (or unwilling) to offer any meaningful level of support that I have needed from time to time, have simply run away, and from people who’s response has been so patronising or otherwise offensive that I have lost any desire to be friends with them.

So often, people delegitimise mental illness. I have primarily experienced this in two ways. The first regards mental illness in a way that noone would ever regard physical illness - with virtual contempt for the sufferer. This way sees the sufferer as “too weak”, otherwise they would be able to “get over it”. The second, however, is more worrying for me personally, as I think it is limited to the anarchist/activist milieu, which is what I mostly hang out in - this is the belief that the sole cause of mental illness is the current capitalist, racist, patriarchal society we live in, and “after the revolution there won’t be mental illness”. To quote from an article I wrote a while ago:

Yes, it is entirely possible (and even likely) that the current society does make mental illness more common. But, just like how even in an anarchist society cancer would still exist, influenza would still exist, likewise mental illness would still exist. You might think you’re making a political statement when you say it, but what you’re really doing is invalidating the feelings and experiences of your friends and family that suffer every day

Now, while the idea is incredibly offensive to me, it is perhaps something I could deal with if people at least approached it on a politically consistent level. But they don’t. There are plenty of problems in society today that exist because of the capitalist, racist, patriarchal society we live in that wouldn’t exist if we destroyed capitalism, patriarchy and racism. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t actively work on them in the here and now. You don’t see people ignoring decolonisation work, or anti-rape work (both of which are incredibly important) because they wouldn’t exist if we smashed racism and patriarchy. So why ignore mental illness, even if you believe it wouldn’t exist in your utopia?

The lack of desire to seriously engage with the mental illnesses that so many people within my local anarchist community deal with has caused me to barely broach the subject with even my closest friends. But I’m sick of that. I’m sick of the silence. I’m sick of crying alone.