I am.
Go on - have a giggle, have a laugh. It's okay, most folk do - even me. The difference is that most people can have a giggle, have a laugh and then walk away from it. I can't. Once I've stopped giggling, it's still there. It's always there like an arm or a leg or hunger. It's not always at the forefront of my mind but, just like an arm or a leg or hunger, you can never quite get away from it.
Most people are afraid to talk about mental illness (and this is the hardest post I've ever written - it'll be a minor miracle if I can summon up the courage to click the 'Post' button) whether they suffer or not. Even me - I'm often terrified by it. I was lying in bed unable to sleep the other night and I heard a voice. This doesn't happen very often (thankfully) but when it does, it always puts the wind up me something fierce. I'm not talking here about that little voice that I presume we all have that just keeps chattering away in the background, the voice I'm listening to now as it forms these words I'm typing, the voice you're listening to now as you read what I've typed, the voice that goes something like "...look at those sparrows they seem happy I wonder if I need fags tonight when does Dr Who start again is there time for me to go to the chippy where the hell did I put my keys I hope that dog's not chewing on something important what day is it tomorrow I fancy sausages and chips for my tea I wish I had some crisps..." and never seems to stop. I'm guessing that everybody has that. This was a proper voice, a voice as clear and distinct and
real as the voices you recieve through your ears when you're talking to an actual physical person in the actual physical world. Hearing a voice like that may not seem so bad, even when you know you're alone in your bed. It wasn't a demon's voice or an angel's voice and it wasn't angry or sinister - it was matter of fact and female.
It said, simply, "I'll kill you." Just once. It didn't repeat.
I'll leave you to imagine for yourselves how absolutely terrifying something like that can be.
The unfortunate news concerning Brett Ewins, covered
elsewhere on the forum, and the bravery of some who posted there, has inspired me to start this thread because, you know, I'm drokking sick of being embarassed by my mental state. If you are embarassed reading about it, well, just walk away. Nobody will think any less of you. You're scared too, I get it, as if somehow the mentalness will seep out of these very words and infect you like some kind of Indigo Prime perception virus. Or maybe you're afraid that if you start talking to me (or any mental person) you'll find yourself being stalked in the darkness by a hooded, red-eyed figure with a machette one dark and lonely night. I can pretty much guarantee you that this ain't gonna' happen. The only flesh I ever slice into with a knife is my own.
If you see me on the street, don't be afraid or embarassed to ask me if I'm still mental or if I'm feeling mental today. Mostly I'll just lie about it anyway and say I'm fine, because fine is good. Fine I can cope with. If it's otherwise I'll probably just shrug and say "meh, you know." If it's worse than that you won't see me at all because I'll be locked at home trying to keep out of the world's way. Don't give me your sympathy or an embarassing hug (unless you're a hot woman) or your half-baked, condescending advice and platitudes. Treat it like I've got arthritis or something - sometimes it aches and sometimes it doesn't.
So I thought I'd do what the gay and black communities did. I'm reclaiming an ugly word and making it mine.
I'm mental.
Deal with it.
