My own particular kind of mental health struggles have changed and shifted through the years. Since early teenage life there has been a constant background noise. Well, maybe not quite constant. In the same way that people say “Scotland is a rainy country,” I might say “I am a person who struggles with mental illness.” Even Scottish people don’t expect it to rain every day, but they are never surprised when it comes.
These days, as I approach the end of the third year of my degree in an environment of increasing political turmoil, my mental illnesses have come to manifest as a deep and long lasting sense of dread. I even dread things that in the previous breath I was looking forward to. I dread the consequences of a failed assignment. I dread the summer, long structureless days looming. I dread the possibility of war. I dread having a sandwich for lunch, again, for the 700th day in a row. I dread what will happen when I graduate, the job hunt, the knowledge that the sacrifices I have made must be moulded into meaning.
Dread is cold. It’s not hot like embarrassment or churning like anxiety or painful like a headache. It’s like having your own private weather system that only understands mist and fog, a deep and permeating cold that can’t be solved with an extra layer.
And yet, somehow, every day I get out of bed, which is warm and detached and might even have a cat in it. I shower and eat breakfast and step out of the front door into the dread. I won’t lie and tell you there’s one easy trick (therapists hate them!) to it. It’s not a good feeling, to continually press forward against it all. There’s no pleasure to be had in the experience.
There’s not nothing, though. It might not feel good, but it certainly isn’t empty. It’s a solid thing, hard and real, something that can be held onto.
You can grab onto it.
It starts out small, this thing. It can be different for everyone, but it can be shared too. I know I’ve faced way worse than this. I have seen myself make it through much more challenging situations than being bored of sandwiches or a bad grade or political unease, so I can clutch onto that knowledge. I could do that, ergo I can do this.
For some people, that kernel is that their friends believe they can do it. You would hate to prove them liars. Maybe there’s a goal to strive towards, maybe there’s a pet in your house that needs you to persist. Maybe you bought your favourite yoghurt to have later. Maybe there’s a new TV show you want to watch.
There is so much power in acknowledging that you stepped out into the fog. It forms that tangible thing. The second time you do it is not diminished – it adds a layer to the thing, making it easier to reach for the next time.
Maybe one day the fog will burn up in the sun, tomorrow won’t seem so cold, there will be joy in the future. But until then, I have something to hold on to.
This article formed part of BRAW Magazine Issue 5: Mind, Mood, Mentality. You can read more of Issue 5 here.
Featured Image Credit: Canva/Alice Pollard
Student journalist & freelance writer. Check out Quick Play, where I review video games that are 10 hours or less.
