The problem with the stigma around mental health and mental illness is really about the stories that we tell ourselves as a society.
Matthew Quick
The first time I heard the woman’s voice, I was in a crowded market. This was before lockdown. I was there to buy tropical fruits, which, lately, had become an obsession. As I spoke to the vendor, I heard a female voice – it appeared as though whoever it was, was talking to another person about me. It was very confusing because when I looked there was no one there, and most importantly no one was talking or looking in my direction.
“He’s about to buy all the mangoes! What a bitch!” The female voice said, louder than ever. I looked around again, but there was no one there. More confusion, but I rationalised it was my vain imagination. I went about feeling the fruits and avoiding the dirty look from the vendor who clearly didn’t like me feeling his fruits, “these are not breasts young man! Just pick one!” I was not a fan of UK markets mangoes, I preferred ones from Marks and Spencer – they were the closest to the taste of mangoes of my childhood – however, they cost an arm and a leg. I bought 6 mangoes from the vendor. As he prepared to put them in a carrier bag, the voice piped up again.
“Buy the melons too!” The voice giggled as if taunting me. “And some grapes!” she added angrily like a drill sergeant. To this day I am not sure why, but my rational thoughts told me obeying was better than disobeying. I bought a variety of melons and grapes. I looked around to see if anyone else heard the voice – it was apparent no one did.
I paid for the fruits and hugging my bags, I walked hurriedly towards the car park. For whatever reasons, I was scared for my life because I was aware of my thoughts versus the female voice.
“Go to the fucking library!” I was so startled I dropped my bags, I was not used to such crassness.
“What do you want?” I pleaded as I looked around me wide-eyed and shaken. “Who is speaking?” I was in tears and snot. No one was around but the voice was as clear as day, “shut up, bitch!” The voice was angry, loud and abusive. I stood rooted to the ground, contemplating the next course of action. Suddenly, I was jolted into action when the voice, louder than before, demanded I go to the library. I picked up my bags, hugged them and made my way to the library. I could feel people’s stares on my puffy face, but I kept my head down as the library loomed. I also got an unsettling feeling that I was being followed. I was petrified and confused.
As I stood in the fiction aisle, wondering which books to borrow or why, I wondered if I was losing my mind. I’d seen people talking to themselves in the streets, I figured this was probably how it started; I too, at some point, might need to converse with the invisible woman. How insane was I to follow instructions from an invisible person? I shook my head at the absurdity of it all and made my way towards the exit. Suddenly the voice echoed, “get any Danielle Steel title!” This time I was pretty sure everyone heard it, but no one looked up from whatever they were doing. At this point, I could hear my own heart beating, I could feel my blood flowing through my veins, I could hear my ear drums pounding, my armpits soaked, and my bladder was threatening to explode. I grabbed the nearest DS book.
Without warning and to the biggest shock to my already fragile system, a male voice reverberated, “no! Get a fucking Stephen King title!” My bladder gave out. “Who said that?” I screamed and started to cry from fear and embarrassment. This time people looked at me, but I hung my head in shame.
I borrowed two books – ‘the apartment by DS’ and ‘night shift by SK’ – both fairly new titles and to avoid conflicts between the voices. The voices which I knew were not in my head but were in my presence. I knew there was something horribly wrong in my brain or in my mind. I cowered as I ran towards my car, fearing the voices might tell me to jump in front of moving vehicles. I knew I shouldn’t ‘obey’ them but something else told me that if I disobeyed, something awful would happen to me or someone else. I was in psychological agony. My head was spinning, and my thoughts were out of sync with anything I thought I knew.
To this day, I have no idea how I got home. I don’t remember stopping at any red lights, maybe they didn’t appear. I don’t remember paying for the parking. I don’t remember if I checked out the books or I simply walked out. I couldn’t be sure if I wore a seat belt or not. I doubted every thought that crossed my mind. However, I was very aware of my thoughts versus the voices. My thoughts were (and still are) in my own voice, but the voices were in voices of people I didn’t know or recognised.
I am sick. I am very sick – no runny nose or fever, no visible physical symptoms but a head full of darkness: no broken bones just a broken mind. I have been seeing mental health professionals who told me I suffer from schizophrenia. They gave me a bunch of pills that keep the voices at bay, and I am receiving therapy.
Three weeks ago, I called my father who lives in Uganda. I told him I’d been sick though I didn’t tell him from what illness; he also didn’t ask. His biggest concern was my unemployment status and the stagnant projects that need funding. How could I tell him I spent months in a mental health hospital and consequently lost my job?
My biggest dilemma now is how I would break the news of my mental illness to my family: because my family blames the devil for anything they don’t understand or want to understand. If they can’t blame the devil, they will say I must have done something to cause it, or I wronged someone, and I should ask for forgiveness. Or someone is jealous of me and have therefore cursed me and I must atone the gods.
How can I explain mental illness to them without losing them? How can I make it easy for them to accept and understand when I can’t accept or understand yet? Moreover, I am fighting this illness while in psychological agony about my family? For now, I am keeping my mental illness a secret from them.
When someone has a physical illness, they get all the sympathy and understanding; when someone has a mental illness especially in the many BAME communities, they are chastised and isolated. Why is that? It is time to lift the lid on mental illnesses. Help is readily available.
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Photo credit: Alex Green – pexel.com
Good read.