It’s August 2014, and as I write, for the first time in my life my mental illnesses are countable as being in remission.
I’ve more or less abandoned this blog of late. It’s a shame, and I shouldn’t have, but the girl who wrote the other [we’re all mad here] entries feels like a different person. I don’t recognise her voice. I remember writing them, but six months out of the trenches and I feel like I’ve left her behind.
The past is a foreign country.
I’ve mentioned a few times, to the friends who’ve only known me as being well, that for the last five years or so I’ve felt like half a person. Clearing out my old folders last night – preparing to move cities for uni – I was struck by a powerful sadness at all the things I’ve missed; all the things I half-remember. I was so absent from my life. The first half of my twenties more or less disappeared into the fog, and the people I’ve loved and lost only got parts of me. I was so unaware of how ill I was. I was so unaware that it was even possible to live differently.
I’m not kidding myself that I am free and easy in the land of the mentally healthy. Not until recently have I dared to describe this as remission, and as for the other r-word – recovered – you won’t find me saying it any time soon. That would be invoking the Wrath of the Whatever from High Atop the Thing. It will come back. I know it will. I just feel like now, I know it can be different. I can let it wash over me, but I know that it need not necessarily consume me. For the first time I understand that the power struggle does not have to end with my concession.
It’s been awful. But I’m here. I’m alive. I’m enjoying people. I’m nervous, excited, but not petrified about starting another degree, and I’m attached enough to my life and my friends that moving is bittersweet. I need to stop starting stories with the phrase ‘so that was after my mental breakdown – well, one of them…’ – but on the other hand, it’s my history and I’ll keep talking because openness is the only way to show that it’s not shameful. Painful and at times, embarassing, but not shameful. Just one part of who I am.
Thanks-Offering for Recovery, by Robert Lowell
The airy, going house grows small
tonight, and soft enough to be crumpled up
like a handkerchief in my hand.
Here with you by this hotbed of coals,
I am the homme sensuel, free
to turn my back on the lamp, and work.
Something has been taken off,
a wooden winter shadow –
goodbye nothing. I give thanks, thanks –
thanks too for this small
Brazilian ex voto, this primitive head
sent me across the Atlantic by my friend…
a corkweight thing,
to be offered Deo gratias in church
on recovering from head-injury or migraine –
now mercifully delivered in my hands,
though shelved awhile unnoticing and unnoticed.
Free of the unshakeable terror that made me write…
I pick it up, a head holy and unholy,
tonsured or damaged,
with gross black charcoaled brows and stern eyes
frowning as if they had seen the splendor
times past counting… unspoiled,
solemn as a child is serious –
light balsa wood, the color of my skin.
It is all childcraft, especially
its shallow, chiseled ears,
crudely healed scars lumped out
to listen to itself, perhaps, not knowing
it was made to be given up.
Goodbye nothing, Blockhead,
I would take you to church,
if any church would take you…
This winter, I thought
I was created to be given away.