However, with mental health the keyword is ‘mental’; it follows you. Despite living the Audrey Hepburn fantasy, with amazing friends and a career I loved, I was in turmoil. I would lock myself in my apartment, punching my stomach repeatedly until I felt calm with no logical reason as to why. I would get intrusive thoughts that were so strongly against my moral compass they’d cause me to dry- heave. I saw my assaulter out of the corner of my eyes everywhere I went, I had to check my body for changes daily in case something had changed, and I had to tap my head several times before I slept to keep the nightmares at bay.
I told my friends, at first. But after the hundredth phone call, they began to grow tired of it. My best friend said to me, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you. I give you the same advice each time and you don’t take it.”
I did try. I promise I did. For the sake of my friendships I decided to shut up. I wrote in diaries instead, filling pages with my worries and delusions in an attempt to make sense of them. By the time I found myself standing on the Pont Neuf figuring out the best way to jump, I realised I needed help.
At university later that year, I started
counselling for the first time. I spoke about my mum, about the assault, and yet I didn’t share my intrusive thoughts. Although my counsellor was kind, I was convinced they were going to share my information and get me kicked out of university. I couldn’t tell him the truth; that I was a monster, a racist, a heretic, a kidnapper, a liar, a thief, a murderer…
My mental breakdown lasted a month. My university didn’t help, but my friends did. They sent me care packages, rang me daily, tagged me in memes to make me laugh. My family pulled me out of university for two weeks so that I was immersed in love and laughter, until finally I could crack a smile.
When I accessed counselling through the charity ThinkAction, my counsellor quickly assessed me for OCD. With the cut-off for extreme OCD being 40 and my score at 102, I finally had a definitive answer as to why I was thinking the way I was. I began the laborious process of cognitive behavioural therapy, with a counsellor who understood me to my very soul. I loved her as I did my family. Alongside taking my 20mg of fluoxetine, my counselling saw me begin to shed my skin and become someone new. My counsellor told me it was like watching Thumbelina come out of her flower. I’ll
never forget my counsellor. She helped me forgive my mother. She helped me forgive myself.
My experience showed me that mental health difficulties cannot be prevented. My mum’s illness and the trauma it gave me was unavoidable, and I couldn’t change the fact I was assaulted. In some circumstances, mental health difficulties cannot be cured either. My OCD is chronic; although it is manageable for me now, it is still very much there. It will be my poltergeist for the rest of my life, and it’s taken me a long time to accept that.
Access to counselling services both privately and professionally is vital. Whilst I am thankful for my medication, I firmly believe that it was having the platform to share my experiences and unpack all the things that have happened to me that began my healing process. Businesses and education centres have a duty of care, and a responsibility to make sure that the people who work for them are heard. People deserve the right to share their story, and the right to be supported in kind. No one should live in fear, or silence, or shame. Talking is like the Japanese art of kintsugi; putting gold in the cracks to fix that which is broken. It’s up to us to help mend each other.
01534 888237 |
info@lv.care |
www.lv.care 20/20 - Mental Health Page 25
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