HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

Trigger warning: Mental health, depression, suicide, self-harm

*This post is very personal and vulnerable. Quite honestly, I am scared; I am surprised that I'm writing this to begin with, and that I'm maybe going to click publish.

**To my beautiful friends who I haven't opened up to about lots of this, I love you and I hope you understand why I found it so difficult to talk about. These are the words I wanted to say to you when I couldn't find my voice.

This is ultimately a love letter to you.

Recently, I laughed whilst talking about my depression, the worst period of my life, where I spent every second wishing the ground would swallow me whole and fell asleep each night praying that I wouldn't wake up.

It is not funny. My friend who I called sobbing in the middle of the night from a park bench in the pouring rain does not find it funny. My flatmates who texted and called me repeatedly did not find it funny. My mum and dad who held me whilst crying in my childhood bedroom did not find it funny. My friend who cried when I finally admitted to her how truly unwell I was did not find it funny. No one finds it funny when I tell them I stopped checking for cars when I crossed the road. I didn't find it funny when I was crying, screaming, lashing out, numb and fighting for my life.

Mental health is not a joke but I am unable to talk about my depression without making light of it. I think I am incapable of talking about it without joking in some way, whether it's an offhand comment or a meaningful conversation. I never tell people that I wanted to kill myself, that I wanted to die, only that "I didn't want to exist or that I had bad thoughts". It is so hard for me to be honest and vulnerable about my mental health, but I think that I have to. I'm not sure why I feel this need to talk about it, why I feel like I have a duty to do so. Part of me feels like it's an arrogant thing to do, that I am being attention-seeking. But I do think it's important that we talk about it, that we share our experiences so that we all feel a little less alone. Coming to terms with my depression was a massive struggle, and is probably the biggest reason why I want to talk about it. I hope that if we talk about it more, no one has to feel quite so alone.

Accepting my depression took a long time. For a while, I thought it was normal to fall asleep hoping that I would never wake up again. I would not accept that I was ill. I would tell myself that I could not be depressed because my life is good, I have not gone through a traumatic event; I should be happy. I would punish myself because how dare I feel low when I was privileged and had it easy. I was so acutely aware of this that when I truly struggled for the first time in my life, I belittled myself for it.

There were people who were 'really' depressed and I convinced myself that I wasn't one of them. How could I be depressed if my room was tidy, if I could brush my teeth and submit my assignments on time, if I only hurt myself occasionally or if I had times when I felt happy? It was simply impossible. The second I uttered the word depression, I became so embarrassed that I would dare identify with this word that I didn't deserve to claim.

But guess what, I was depressed.

It was dreadful. Every day I woke up in an all-consuming fog; my head was stuck in these clouds that I couldn't find a way back down from. I would sob loudly on my commute down Cuba Street, unbothered by the passers-by. I'd lie curled up in a ball on the floor of my room for hours. Some days I couldn't eat or leave my bed. I would repeat over and over in my head that I wanted to die. I would cry and cry and cry until I was numb. And when I felt happy, I invalidated any of those experiences, telling myself I was dramatic and an attention-seeker.

It took months for me to finally accept that there was a problem, but I still didn't want to get help because I felt that I didn't deserve it; I was taking care away from others who needed it more. I figured I could work through it on my own, that it would just go away if I tried hard enough. Getting help felt like failure. Instead, I relied on other people, my friends and then eventually many months later my mum. I put a lot of pressure on them because I didn't know how to help myself and to put it bluntly, I expected them to fix me, to keep me alive. It was only until my friend all but dialled the number and called for me that I finally sought help.

The first way I reached out was by tentatively booking an appointment to see a counsellor via my university's mental health services. Now that I'd decided to get help, I would be instantly fixed, or so I thought. I had four appointments with two different counsellors, and quite honestly, that did shit all.

I am grateful for this access to free care (after an eight-week wait) because again, I have to emphasise and acknowledge that I am privileged. I understand that the health system is under immense strain and there is constant pressure to provide services to thousands of struggling students. There is not enough staff or funding to ensure adequate care and I completely accept that. However, over the course of these appointments, the advice I was given was to go for a walk, meditate, journal and use a feelings wheel to identify my emotions. I could've googled that.

Trying to reconcile what this meant was difficult. Despite the challenges with the healthcare system, as a person who was struggling, this experience was incredibly invalidating and reinforced to me that I did not deserve help. I'd tried, and it had failed.

A few months later, my mental health had continued to decline and my mum wanted me to go to the doctor to discuss my options and consider taking anti-depressants. I booked an appointment and was emergency triaged for later that day. The doctor I saw told me that my depression was all in my head (no shit??). When I talked about my inability to get out of bed I was told to "stay there and feel your feelings". He lectured me about my inability to cope with the struggles in life, and that young people are prescribed anti-depressants too often. Supposedly, we are running from our feelings and avoiding our problems. Anti-depressants would not help me. I left crying, with an avenue for help that I was now convinced was a cop-out (only for me of course, because I had already convinced myself that I could fix myself). Nothing had felt so invalidating.

Naturally, I did not get better, I got much worse. I was left feeling like I had no options left and nothing would help. There was nothing to live for, and I was exhausted from feeling this way for months on end. At my lowest point, when I was seriously considering how I would end my life, I finally opened up properly to my family who got me the help I couldn't access myself.

It's hard for me to write about this because I still feel as if I am making it up. That I am dramatising what I went through. I reflect back on the trip my friend took to visit me in June last year and think "How could I have been depressed when I was so happy to see her", negating to acknowledge that I cried every single day. I went to Brisbane in July, I went to dinner with friends, I had picnics in the park, I went skiing and so many more things, and whilst I know that I felt depressed all throughout that time, I've decided that I didn't. So, whilst writing this, I still feel bad for admitting these things in case they're invalid, in case my depression is invalid.

Mental health care is so fucking inadequate. It cost thousands of dollars to receive psychological care. An emergency appointment to get a prescription for anti-depressants cost $140 and the doctor asked me to choose what one I wanted to go on because he couldn't remember which one was best. I was able to access help because I am privileged, because I could skip the months-long wait lists for free care. Because I could afford to go to the doctor. Because my mum is someone who I can trust and rely on. Getting help is inaccessible, and this is only the tip of the iceberg, there are thousands of stories of people who have struggled to receive sufficient care. Too many have passed away because our mental health system failed them.

I started sertraline, and it helped massively. The counselling I received through the university and EPA focused on general strategies that were deficient in addressing my depression. Whilst these are reputable and helpful services for many, my brain was simply not producing enough serotonin. That needed to be addressed before any technique or strategy could help. Weekly psychologist appointments, cognitive behavioural therapy and anti-depressants overlapped and I began to feel better over the course of a couple months.

Despite the good intentions of many people in my life, so many do not understand mental health and the difficulties that come along with it. Depression is an illness, it impacts a person the way physical ailments may. For me, the biggest physical symptom was weight loss. I am a thin person, and there is a privilege in this, but I was not eating and subsequently, I lost weight that I never really had to begin with. Many people in my life were concerned about my appearance (as they were justified to be), but it was really isolating having people pick over and constantly comment on my body. I was just trying to keep myself alive, and people's commentary on how I looked was not helpful in supporting me through my struggles.

Writing this post was prompted by a low few days where I felt lost, alone and sad. I didn't want to get up, I cried, and I felt incredibly unhappy. It made me think about how my reality for months on end was days like these, without any effective strategies to help me through. Reflecting back on that time has helped me realise how truly unwell I was.

Time has enabled me to reflect on the ways I treated people while I was at my lowest. I relied on others as reasons to live; I added so much stress to their lives without regard for their own well-being. I would lash out and say horrible, awful things. I am so ashamed of the ways I acted, especially towards one person in particular, and it's been difficult to acknowledge that my mental health hurt and negatively impacted many people in my life. Depression is not an excuse for the way that I acted and I am endlessly apologetic for my actions. I don't think we talk enough about how depression can create versions of ourselves that we don't recognise. I lost so much of my empathy, kindness and consideration for others over those months. Now, that I am in a better place, I have to reconcile with that.

I can cope with my bad days because I now have the capacity to do so. I have learnt how to ask for support, and I understand the things I can do to help me feel better. But in saying that, I continue to hide my bad days from almost everyone and I still feel that I don't deserve to feel sad. I am someone who doesn't often talk deeply about their emotions, despite the fact they're written all over my face. Because of that, I've learnt how to open up just enough, so that I don't have to talk about or acknowledge everything I truly feel or think. I am working on validating my feelings and letting people in. It's scary being perceived and opening yourself up to judgement about things that matter.

Everyone has their own struggles, and many of us hide them. We aren't taught how to cope. We aren't taught how to get help. We aren't taught the impact they have on those around us. We aren't taught how they can compel us to act. We aren't taught how to talk about them. We aren't taught about mental health and how to endure it.

And most importantly, we do not have adequate mental health services that are equitable and accessible for all, nor are we educated on how and where to get the help that we need.

Mental health is so fucking important and it is time we take it seriously. It is time we talk about our experiences in a raw and honest way. It is time to view mental health the way we view diseases, infections or broken bones; treatable illnesses and preventable deaths. It is time we give each other the space to be vulnerable.

Too many never make it another day.