I found myself at The Edge again. It’s that place you find yourself after battling with something larger than life to the point of giving in, lying back, and thinking: Do your worst, fucker.
The Edge has almost become an actual place for me. A low, seedy little dive bar in my mind (like my personal shack to Sherlock Holmes’ mind palace) that no-one, were it an Actual Place, would ever like to admit they’ve been to, whereas I’m a regular; I’m the one in the corner, replaying the same pitiful song on a battered, old jukebox, between knocking back cheap whiskey, (the figurative kind, these days), and staggering off to pee. The sad reality of it all is during these times, I’ve made myself a prisoner in my own house, trying and failing to distract myself, occupy myself… something, anything, to shake the fluctuating tides of numbness and pain. Sleeping is too difficult, yet getting out of bed is equally as difficult. Talking is too difficult, and the mere sound of someone else’s voice on top of the cacophony in my head is enough to make me cry and squirm like a cowering animal. Sometimes, I used to cry endlessly. Sometimes, I used to zone out. Sometimes I used to lock myself away with books, despite knowing that when it’s really bad, it’s too difficult to even read; the words on the page are nothing more than shapes and squiggles, and I give up after re-reading the same paragraph seventeen times over. Other times, I’ve been able to use books and movies to escape—so I do—and I ask not to be disturbed. Or I used to freak out when I was disturbed by someone else.
At times like these, it’s so easy to feel like you have no one. In the middle of the night when you can’t stop crying, and can’t stop thinking and rehashing and obsessing, and you can’t sleep, and can’t relax—or by chance, you can sleep, but the nightmares come—everything else is so quiet that you want to scream just to make sure you didn’t go deaf, then, it feels like you’re alone.
At times like these, I’ve felt like I was losing it, (Yes, I said it, and yes, I care!) It truly feels like you’re losing the actual plot, and there’s no one left who can help you any more than they have done already. It doesn’t really get better, and it doesn’t go away. It merely hides for a while, and then jumps out and takes you hostage when you least expect it. Except now I know to expect it which is (almost) worse. Every good day I have is tinged with the threat of a bursting overhead cloud-of-crap. (Like Grumpy Bear—only more suicidal—and a lot messier.)
Sometimes, when I visit that dark place in my mind (and let me just add: the term ‘visit’ lends a sense of control where there isn’t any), I don’t always have the capacity to leave; I have to be figuratively dragged out kicking and screaming, and on very bad figurative benders (the non-alcoholic kind, the non-drug kind, the kind that takes you inward), I’m brought back slumped like a sack of potatoes over an unfortunate shoulder (usually my own (slouch: explained)).
“There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
Hunter S. Thompson
(Yes, I realise quoting Thompson has its own drawbacks and there it is anyway: truth.)
This is what it has been like on The Edge.
I’ve been there before. Several times. More than any one of my closest friends may know, more than the busy-bodies from a small community could previously begin to fathom; hell—more than I can even admit to myself some days. I used to hide from it; run from it. Running was my middle name. Always has been. (Not really; my middle name is Kaye with an ‘e’, and the only time you’d see me run is if I was on fire, which is the exact opposite of what someone who is on fire should actually do.)
Life at The Edge and living with someone who frequently visits The Edge is no picnic, and for a time in a previous relationship, I was given a mostly safe space to grieve and heal, but life goes on: things change, people change, and we go our own way.
More recently, having started a new relationship, new beginnings, there was less space to grieve or heal and only room to deviate, mostly because we (our trauma, at least) were so very alike. It created an actual manifestation of the circumstances within my mind, here and present in the so-called real world, and the blend of our own brands of trauma and coping began clashing.
Now, just for a minute, imagine if you will, a group of people who know too many personal details about you, and along with the inner critic, and every other bit of inner dialogue you have (that just so happened to have been verbalised during a particularly terrible time, along with deviating session after session, with real whiskey this time and more), these people began joining in…
How might that play out, you ask? Well, let me tell you: it’s been a years-long conflict between those who began bullying us—those who sought to place blame to gain favour with the object of their (long-since passed) affection, those who wanted peace as much as I eventually craved but who somehow forgot that antagonism creates more chaos, those who hold cultural prejudice against us without realising how our generational trauma stems from the enslaving and colonisation of our people at the hands of their own ancestors, those who use our weaknesses against us in such a way that their cruelty slips under the radar as we are pitted against one another—and those who genuinely believe that we are right to stand our ground and be who we are, trauma and all, as long as we are striving to be decent people and much of what we as society perceive as decent comes down to what is accepted by the majority.
I think a lot of people demonise pain and glorify health without speaking enough about the in-betweens. It has kind of contributed to the creation of a society which leans one way or another depending on position and mental state without feeling able to express the hardships. This has contributed to cultivating who some of us are and how harshly some of us perceive ourselves even when we can make space for nuances in others. The opposite is also true: there are those who can do that for themselves and few others. I’ve found myself surrounded by a sharply-contrasting mix of the two that goes far beyond parentage, and the result has been that I spent a lot of my life externalising the glorified pieces and internalising everything deemed (by anyone’s standards) unworthy.
There comes a point within these contrasting dynamics where when pushed to the max, survival instinct takes charge. For me, this eventually presented as a radical personality change, but not before losing myself piece by piece in an effort to appease the whims and wishes of those who thought as little of me as I did. In essence, the changes in my personality was a cherry-picked smorgasbord built mostly by bullies. For some people, these unfortunate and involuntary changes remain. For me, it was a temporary ‘setting’ brought forth in submissive states, vulnerable states, ripe as the cherry for picking. The shifts in between, back and forth between the states of survival mode and baseline occur with external stressors, and the most impactful of stressors I’ve endured has been the negative responses from those around me within relationships (old and new), within the neighbourhood, within the community to which I struggle to belong, and in an effort to ‘sort out the mess’, the community I thought I left behind.
How I got through it was shifting my perspective on what it took to survive. Survival mode looks different on the other side of dependency. Recognising my independence gave way to anger. Anger gave way to more abuse only this time, I dealt it. Then I was dealt some more. Then I was dependent again, on love and approval and there I was: vulnerable, submissive, ripe for exploitation, and the bullies descended once more. Having experienced that anger, there was more guilt to contend with, more guilt for the bullies to use against me, this time with the support of people who had initially supported me. I fell to pieces. I relinquished control. They took it.
My pain has often registered in a way that is either all at once or nothing. ‘Nothing’ kept me safe for a while when I needed to be anything but vulnerable. Becoming and remaining calm, stoic, observant became a primary focus even as people insisted on having me show my real side as some measure against misperception—but I knew, given what I was holding, the weight and intensity of it, it was too much, untamed, unacknowledged, unprocessed for too long a time. It came all at once and I broke; it broke me. Again.
There are those who say pain makes you stronger and those who say that pain is strength. With both these statements, I can see the angle; here’s another: pain is literally a weakness in the body. It is ailment, a tear, an illness, a symptom from the same in a mental capacity, but ultimately something which renders the body less able, less healthy, less than a hundred percent than the body would be without it.
Positivity can do a lot. Positive mindset can motivate and reframe. Positivity can lift us out of despair. What it can also do is diminish the pain and subsequent struggle. It can leave a person feeling more inadequate on top of the inadequacy of the affliction itself.
Acknowledge the pain in all its misery, if that is something which helps. Positivity might follow naturally, organically.
Acceptance before change.
It’s far more difficult to accept these things, these limitations of the self due to pain or illness or struggle of any kind, when there are others who insist it’s either nothing — fake or at least subject to testing — or something to conquer with a can-do attitude alone which amounts to a double dose of dismissal often compared with another individual’s hardships and how they cope.
My pain caused regression. My pain caused fracturing or rather re-fracturing, and within the piecing together of myself, I lost the ability to speak the way I used to; old impediments (a lisp, general confusion, actual mutism under duress, etc.) became once more current. I lacked confidence on a debilitating level, made more difficult by a lack of privacy by those who kept suicide watch, I struggled with basic tasks due to lack of motivation and attention, made more difficult by input from those who worked from assumption and judgement and an infuriating amount of arrogance and superiority. My body felt foreign to me—discomfort was at an all-time high and there were moments where the sound of a siren would stagger me, made more difficult by the assumption and verbalised remarks of it being alcohol-induced. I began stimming—although I had no idea of this term until much later—moving my body, limbs especially, but also swaying (more) to counter the nervous energy, whether I wanted to or not, made more difficult by the embarrassment of others and their dismissal and their keenness to urge me to stop, which (conditioned as I was) I’d force myself to do so and break down in tears as a result, which sometimes would trigger flashbacks—childhood memories, mostly, which then presented obvious (for me) patterns within my current situation and relationships which then led to heightened fear and what must have seemed like an insane response to what was sometimes an otherwise ordinary day, but one which disintegrated into more abuse towards my behaviour borne (presumably) out of confusion.
Within these moments, I would have turned to writing, journalling. Sometimes, I still managed to, but mostly, then I’d developed a fear around technology because someone had already accessed my laptop and changed file names, moved documents, and publicised several of my private documents, and this was on top of my own confusion borne out of distraction that came with the intervention and external harassment. I could not make clear at the time what was needed, what I needed, and truly, what I needed (a current one, still) is privacy and autonomy but there are too many people deciding what is best for me and too many of those people are either too close, as in too conflicted in their interests; or too removed to really understand the nuances and intricacies of the situation or the condition(s). Through sheer will alone, I have fought my way back from where I became stuck. Will, and purpose—that purpose is my child.
In the midst of it all, I became pregnant, for the second time within this relationship, and through grief and disbelief (made more difficult by those within communities who harassed me about that while holding their own idiocy high enough to impact me), by the second trimester, I was strong enough to withstand it all. My unborn child was something greater than the depression itself, eclipsing in her importance to me, of herself (not in a special snowflake kind of way, don’t fucking panic!), and somehow, it lent me the will to piece myself together, one fucking fragment at a time, so with the traumas that split me in the first place, came all the rest of it, until I was more or less whole again, more myself since the fracturing occurred with each of those traumas, regaining what was lost when those pieces snapped off and fell away, and I wrote about it. I made art about it. I talked about it. I let myself process it. I forgave myself the way I had forgiven those who hurt me and maybe I was relentless in that task, made more fucking difficult by those who did not value my task, or see its worth, but I wasn’t ruthless in the way they were in their thwarting (borne out of misunderstanding). For that, for my courage, I’m relieved, I’m grateful… and beneath the lofty idiocy of those who have misunderstood, is a foundation of support (I still can’t rely on because cPTSD) but for which I am equally grateful for, if also, admittedly irked by at times.
Thank you for the support.
I’ve wondered many times how many people in my prior position have been written off as retarded and left or put into positions that worsened their conditions. I have since wondered how many people have changed or altered their views on and methods within such matters, having witnessed either recovery or debilitation. In online spaces, there is understanding present that is not yet reflected in standard communities. This is undoubtedly a period of transition. It is apparent that those who hold positions of authority and professionalism within these arenas have something of an obligation to inform themselves from the individual upwards alongside the working theory downwards. To not do so is irresponsible; the less conscientious among them would require compulsory requirement to do so. I don’t believe such a thing exists. At least, not yet; at least not while the only working material for anything under the neurodivergent umbrella refers to research of white boys and no one else. Incentive for change exists but funding does not. As a mature (and I use this term with added impact) woman of colour, research-backed information is scarce, and understanding or validation is almost non-existent, except online within the actual neurodivergent communities. Those saved me—from myself, from the cruelty of others, from what would have been a lifetime of learned helplessness as I descended further into despair, as I took on beliefs of others as my own… those communities and information on platforms like Youtube offered support that I did not find anywhere else. I’m grateful these spaces exist and I’m grateful to the courageous people who share their own experiences because it HELPS more than some can possibly know.
Outside of these spaces, so few want to talk about things. So few are willing to talk about The Edge… and that’s where it all goes wrong. It really is. There should be a rule:
Everyone should talk about it.
Feeling as though we can’t talk about it is why so many of us turn inward, it’s why we internalise the shame and hardship of the thing itself and projected shame from others onto ourselves over and over.
Without meaningful acknowledgement while at The Edge, without support even if that support is from yourself (permission you should offer yourself compassion that IS deserved), it’s all too easy to fall off The Edge.
I began with acknowledgement.
I have depression. Dammit, I HAVE DEPRESSION. I also have been diagnosed with Borderline PD and cPTSD with autistic traits. I suspect ADHD is in alignment with my struggles and I have mild Obsessive Compulsive tendencies along with general and social anxiety. Psoriasis is the flaky little cherry on top of that lot. I don’t expect sympathy. Hell, I don’t even expect understanding. What I’d really like though, is acceptance and tolerance—not ridicule that makes my day harder, not goading that triggers my nervous system, not premeditated schemes to set me off, although, even then, I’m internally set off and show more self control than most of the people around me. Stigma is real and fear is real but that does not justify discrimination that harms a person who is already at a disadvantage. The fear that diagnoses such as these can create for others dictates behaviour that begets more fear than it reduces, reinforcing their justifications and theories to not trust someone and to engage in the kind of harassment I’ve endured. It might educate these people to know that (at least for me,) their prejudice and cruelty and fear makes them unstable and untrustworthy and more of a risk within society than my diagnosis and the struggle itself ever will.
Acceptance and tolerance does not mean of bad behaviour—not from any human—ironically, those who within my experience went out of their way (crossing my boundaries) to confront me for a multitude of reasons including what they believed to be ‘correction’ have in turn behaved more consistently badly over a longer period of time, all in the name of good citizenship and security. It’s madness! And yet, I’m the one with the diagnosis…
Acceptance and tolerance begins with a willingness to understand. I want this for every sufferer, for every family member and friend of every sufferer. The freedom of being able to talk about exactly how you feel without judgement, to think and live freely without scrutiny, to have the same rights as those with autonomy even as some of them abuse the privilege, tote their perceived superiority like a trophy and undermine those who like me, really try to be decent even under hardship and blatant abuse from them.
Maybe when we’re able to discuss these things with a more open approach and open reception, in the way we’re able to discuss the common cold, maybe the taboo will cease to exist. Mental health awareness has come a long way, sure, but that god-awful stigma is still there. The whispers, the derisory comments… the blatant disrespect and abuse… it can all derail a person’s efforts. Even disbelief—invalidation, dismissal—can be just as harmful.
Maybe she’s making it up?
Maybe she’s just lazy…
There’s no such thing as depression…not in my day…
Pull yourself together!
I get depressed all the time—I still get on with it.
Or how about this: if she was really borderline, she’d flip!
And if I flipped? Lobotomy for you, loser!
These remarks, and eventual harassing tests within the community I’m living in, small as they may seem to an outsider, a bystander—a non-sufferer—can become very crippling. It makes you feel small and ashamed, even on an otherwise rare ‘good’ day, or a seemingly good one when you’re barely fucking holding it together and the cracked smile of greeting might crack the glue. These things can be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, and the black dog of depression you’re always carrying around is weighty enough. These things, as distortedly harmless as some of these people I’ve been unfortunate enough to encounter deem them can often create yet more despondency than the depression itself has made you feel because it’s additional—it’s a social reinforcement of everything that’s wrong.
Depression seems to be standard response to some other terrible thing that made you feel insignificant all the down to your brain wiring. It mostly makes you want to do one of two things: hide away from the world or put on that ‘brave face’, and pretend that it’s all okay and there are more ways than one to pretend.
The trouble is isolation is as damaging as pretending, and frankly, putting on the brave face is likely the thing that escalated the underlying issue in the first place. Whatever your issue—whether this was a traumatic event, a bereavement, an overwhelmingly stressful situation, all of the above, none of the above—an altogether different experience that became the catalyst for the downward spiral of depression and anxiety—putting a brave face on it and smiling through the pain, striving on, forward-march, hoping that if you covered it up with that mask long enough, it would fuck off on its own…. exactly that is what doesn’t help.
I know this because it’s exactly what I did. It’s what I went through; it’s what I’m going through, still because now even with acknowledgement and self-compassion (blah blah blah), I still have to get perky and stay perky for the sake of my child but the differences there between what I learned in childhood and what I hope for with my child is this: emotions are normal. Feelings are big and sometimes horrendous.
My experiences taught me otherwise. I grew to fear my feelings. I hid them, then eventually found ways to channel them, some of them good (like journalling), some of them bad (like binge-drinking). It’s been a contributing factor to my issues.
Yet, instead of being able to talk about these things in the same way others can discuss their woes with no fear of judgement, I bottled it up. I have yet to meet someone with similar struggles as those I have who hasn’t felt this societal censorship. Depression is a very real thing, a very real illness, and yet in some form or another, there is a wall of idiots prepared to tell you otherwise.
Imagine a person with a broken leg being told to ‘pull himself together’. Being told: ‘Don’t be a moron! You’re making that up! Your leg isn’t broken. Now—WALK.’
Nope. Never happened, and not likely to happen.
This mentality is at the centre of the harassment from the community. It robs us of so much but the injustice lies within the impossibility of expectation of typical regulation under the duress they create.
That’s a bit like a man with TWO broken legs, let’s say, being bullied to walk while bullies are throwing water on the floor in freezing temperatures.
If you feel discomfort at the notion of my comparison of mental illness with physical illness, try and wrap your understanding around the dismissal of actual struggle simply because it cannot be seen or it doesn’t look the way you expect it to.
The Edge is a nasty place to be. We don’t choose to go there but it’s almost a guarantee that there are people willing to dance at The Edge so they can lurk and push one another off.
I didn’t tip-toe on that edge; I stomped, to say ‘yes, I’m here… ON the edge, still not fully over.’ And I spent a long time clinging to that edge and so few knew why: you can’t back away from it if you’ve been hanging off it. After every climb, it took only a nudge to send me hurling. Then came the fear of falling even as I gained distance. The fear doesn’t leave. I carry it like a ghost, like grief, and doubt. But if I’m strong enough to look back, I can see how much distance I’ve put between the edge and me. From here, it’s just one step after another in the right direction. The Edge is not where I am anymore, and I’m grateful, but every day is a battle to move further away from it. If I’m proud of anything in myself, it’s my tenacity.
So, this is my stand:
I have mental illness. It does not define me. I will not be ashamed.
Sure, it won’t solve the problem, and it won’t change the world’s opinion, but it does change my outlook. Affirmations can be powerful. I’m doing this for me but also, maybe for the next person who reads this.
To anyone who faces a similar battle, be proud, we have just made it through another day, and we’re still here. Here’s to today. Here’s to hope for tomorrow—bright and breezy, full of partially fake smiles and occasional sarcasm, and if you’re lucky… a small handful of wonderful people at your side who love you exactly as you are. ‘Black dog’, trauma, and all.
Post contains excerpts from a previously published post in 2015
Illustration from ‘I Had a Black Dog’ by Matthew Johnstone
