Today I'm giving zero fucks about... sharing my mental health story
Dear Zero Fuckers,
As many of you will know, this week has been Mental Health Awareness Week.
However you feel about these kinds of weeks - a tokenistic nod towards something we don't do enough about the rest of the year or an important way to mark key events and raise awareness - MHAW does put mental health on the agenda for a week, at least. That, to me, cannot be a bad thing, even if we do face a daily lack of well-thought-out policy and practice when it comes to serving the mental health needs of our population.
So, for Mental Health Awareness Week, I decided to do what I felt I had in my power to make a difference. To share my experiences of mental ill-health, in the hope that it gives others the confidence to do so (especially by telling others that I, too, am nervous to share and lack confidence in my mental health often still). Also to expose what I can, albeit in a light touch way, of the parts of the system that left me feeling confused, alone and powerless; and those people (my previous therapist) who have made me feel that, actually, I have every right to feel proud of the recovery I have made. That I am not broken or damaged for what I've been through. There is not a single person who has had a more beneficial impact on me, in that regard, than the therapist that stuck by my side for nigh on ten years.
About a month ago - and one month into my new role as Product Manager at OVO Energy - I was appointed Co-lead of their mental health network. That means I'm responsible for setting the company's mental health strategy, selecting services and resources we provide to support our employees' mental health, and normalising and de-stigmatising mental health and mental ill-health, and discussions therein, in our workplace. It feels like an absolute privilege, and one I get to spend 10-20% of my working hours on.
It is important to me to lead by example. I see my role as essentially ensuring that OVO has the most supportive, most progressive, mental health culture possible. To create an environment where saying you've been depressed, or are going to therapy that afternoon, is as normal as saying that you're going for the Pret chicken and avocado sandwich for lunch today (is there any more iconic a sandwich?). I see it as my responsibility to set and guide the direction of that culture. So, I shared my story.
I've decided to share the talk I gave with all of you, my Zero Fuckers, too. I can't change the environments in which you live and work. I hope they are supportive ones, though there is always room for improvement. What I can do is share my mental health story with you, knowing that it will make some of you feel better about the shit you've been through. Maybe it'll make you feel less alone. Maybe it'll give you the confidence to share with someone you've not shared with before. Maybe it'll do nothing but make you realise, if you hadn't already, how god damn verbose I truly am.
But what I do want to say is that I was really nervous when it came to saying the words you're about to read. There were 32 people at the talk, most of them thumbnails on a screen; I've spoken to much bigger crowds (try Wembley Stadium for size). Afterwards, I felt like I'd tipped myself upside down, shaken out my innards and then left them on the table to be dissected. I felt pretty damn spent. I tell you this because I want you to know that, even though I've spoken about mental health for years now, and, while it gets easier, it is never easy. So, if you find talking about your mental health story scary, please know that that makes you normal.
People tell me I'm brave for doing this stuff. I most often disagree but today did feel brave. Not only did I share parts of my story to a level of detail I never have before, but I did it in my new place of work. It was scary. But, as I walked round the block to decompress afterwards, I nodded gently to myself: “I know why I do this,” I thought. That brought me more comfort than I ever could have hoped for.
Luckily sharing in a newsletter isn't half as scary. Enjoy.
My Mental Health Story for OVO Energy’s Mental Health Awareness Week
If I told you that I don’t regret any of the times I’ve been depressed, would you find that hard to believe? Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t — I don’t know. If I told you I am thankful for all those times, maybe that might be slightly harder to believe. Though, those of you who’ve been through your own mental health struggles might understand why.
It all started for me one Sunday evening. I was 24 years old, living with my parents, working a corporate job as a management consultant at Accenture. I was living “the dream” at that age. I wasn’t taking my work too seriously, I was single and having lots of fun (if you know what I mean), and I was happy.
But, under the surface, there was some “stuff” going on. I was starting to properly explore my sexuality for the first time, and coming to terms with the fact that I was somewhere on the LGBT+ scale. I was lying about the dates I was going on, and the places I was, on any given night. I wasn’t eating properly and was over-exercising. I’m 6 foot and weigh 11.5 stone; in 2012, I was 8 stone.
It got to the point that I couldn’t do anything. My food-starved brain couldn’t remember anything, my anxiety didn’t let me think properly, sometimes I couldn’t even string sentences together. I would sit at work trying to send an email, too scared to click “send”.
On a Sunday night in March 2012, at around midnight, I ran into my parents bedroom, woke them up and said “I’m dying. I’m going to die tonight.” My parents were panicked and rang an ambulance. In the ambulance I melodramatically uttered to my mum, as she held my hand, “this is my final breath”… and then proceeded to take many more. Still, that’s what a panic attack feels like; it feels like a heart attack, my hands clawed, stabbing pains shot through my chest, and it felt like all the CO2 in the world wouldn’t be enough.
Long story short, I spent most of the night in hospital. First screaming it down, then lying down on the floor, still claiming to be on death’s door, then demanding gas and air and a private space where I could die without disrupting other unsuspecting patients. No one needs that trauma.
I was told I had depression and sent home with anti-depressants and benzodiazepines (the strongest drugs I’ve ever taken; I don’t recommend them but I don’t regret that level of chill after popping that little blue pill!). I didn’t believe I was depressed. I was still convinced that I was dying and would be for a further three weeks.
My mental health journey from then on stretches over 10 years and is too long to fit into a talk. But those 10 years, aged 24 to 34, saw me go through six depressive episodes, two mental health diagnoses (depression and bipolar II — the bipolar one is not correct), a total of 42 months signed off work (that’s 3.5 years in total, 12 months at its longest), and was prescribed 7 psychiatric drugs (3 anti-depressants, an anti-anxiety drug, a mood stabiliser, a benzo and an anti-psychotic). All of them were horrible in their own way.
While depressed, I couldn’t work, couldn’t see my friends, couldn’t leave the house most days (unless forced to by my parents). I spent most days vacillating between extreme self-hatred and total apathy for my life, though both things amounted to hopelessness and disgust for myself and the life I felt I’d created.
It was traumatic; in the experiences of depression itself, but also in the way that I was treated by the mental health system. It felt like I was removed from the equation, my agency in my own wellbeing was denied, and I was pushed from pillar to post, from one anti-depressant to the next.
I’m going to skip to the present, 2022. I was last depressed in 2021 and I managed to get better on my own, without the use of psychiatric drugs, having not taken anti-depressants for over 5 years now (though I support anyone who finds them helpful and wants to take them. We all need to do what’s best for us). My mental health confidence — that is the self-belief that I can a) keep in the light and away from the dark but, just as importantly, b) weather the storm when it comes along, if indeed it does (and I think it might) — has grown slowly, and not even surely, to be honest. It’s peaked and troughed more times than I can say, and I’ve felt scared and vulnerable, but I can finally say that, on my best days, I feel confident. I don’t feel confident that it won’t come back, but I do know that — despite having been suicidal a number of times — it will never get the better of me.
It is only in accepting my depression that I have managed to let go of my fear.
But it hasn’t always been this way; I have felt ashamed, terrified, lost, confused, lonely, discriminated against, type-cast, broken and ill.
So what changed this?
Well, first off, I can’t do any talk about mental health without expressing my deep and eternal gratitude for my first therapist. We’ve been working together for almost ten years now, she’s been with me on the whole journey, and it is her belief in me that has single-handedly helped me develop my own self-belief, confidence and pride in my battle scars from fighting depression.
When I turned up in her office for that first session, she made me see the sense in all of this. That I wasn’t broken, or deficient (as the pills and psychiatrists had made me feel), but that there was a reason for what I’d been through and it all made sense, given my experiences. She was, and continues to be, the only one that made any of it make any sense. And, of course, she’s equipped me with the tools and techniques to keep away from depression, but to navigate the stormy turbulent waters of mental ill-health when they have come along.
But, another major factor in building that confidence has been sharing. Sharing my story, as I’m doing right now. You could say that my giving this talk is even a slightly selfish act, and you are all pawns in my ongoing journey of self betterment (you’re not, by the way). Shame exists when we keep things locked up, hidden away in the dark. When we hide parts of ourselves — parts that perhaps we fear or we know might be judged — we create an environment of silence, and in silence we create our own stories. Those stories aren’t usually our best friends. They can be our enemies, in fact. Society often makes us feel we should feel ashamed, and so I did. I told myself that I had done something wrong and if I’d been better, I wouldn’t have been through what I had been.
In 2016, I started to share my story. It took me a long time to get there, in no small part due to the fact that depression lies and tells you you were never depressed at all, so I really struggled to own my “label” (whether labels are helpful is a whole other hour long talk, so let’s not go there, not today at least. But I will share the words of my previous therapist and say that “your pain is your pain” and that you are entitled to own it, regardless of any labels).
When I started to share, gently at first (not like my ramming it in people’s faces that I like to do now!), I was met with kindness, compassion, empathy and understanding. And, something began to lift. It took months, probably years, but the shame gradually dissipated. In its place came a feeling of fulfilment; people reached out to me to tell me how sharing my words had helped them. I have forged friendships out of those moments, bringing people into my life who have a shared understanding of what it is to struggle with their mental health.
And now I feel no shame whatsoever, only pride.
And that’s why I stand in front of you today, as the strong, resilient, confident and proud woman that I am. Sharing my mental health story freed me. It didn’t free me from depression. As I mentioned at the start, it’s graced me with its presence six (well, six and a half) times now and each time is horrible in its own way. But with each episode, I reflect, learn and grow. It is through facing up to my demons, falling into that depression hole and painfully pulling myself out again, that I feel more acceptance and less fear. I feel confident, even if it comes back. Depression feels totally insurmountable, but I know that I’m stronger than it.
The other thing that gives me strength? Sharing with all of you. I tell you all of this for all the reasons I’ve mentioned but also because I want you to know that I get it. I want you to understand the good that you do if you do share, for yourself and others. If you’re not at the point that you feel able to, that’s okay; you will dip your toes in if and when you are ready to. We don’t owe anyone anything from our mental health struggles.
At the start of this talk, I said that I’m thankful for all the times I’ve been depressed. Depression robs us of many things, not least our confidence, but it gave me my strength, my compassion, and the heart I have in my chest that I know to be so very kind, loving and understanding. But, above all, I am not me without my experiences of depression. And, you know what? I really, really like me, even when I come with a side of depression.
This has not been a talk about mental health in the workplace. I have a whole bunch of toe-curlingly awful stories about being fired during or after having depression (three times, including being fired from my own business). And yes, it is essential that we start to share in the workplace to normalise mental health issues. Not just depression; that is just the one I know and, thankfully, one that has become a lot more accepted by society, as far as mental health conditions go. It means my challenges have been accepted, for the most part. This talk would be very different if I’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia.
But, in some ways, it doesn’t matter that I haven’t spoken about work. Mental health affects so very many domains in our lives; the professional bleeds into the personal and vice versa. So, while as the co-lead of the Mind network at OVO, my job is to care for every single person’s mental health at work, it’s my job to care about everything beyond that too. And I really do.
If you’d like to share, or if you’d just like a chat — whether you’re struggling now or have struggled in the past — you know where I am.
And just a little bit of self-promo.
I got a mother-fucking book deal. An international one at that.
My illustrated self-help guide on overcoming low mood and depression (real title to be revealed in due course, but I will tell you that it’s got a fucking swear word in it and I couldn’t be happier about that) will be out in the UK, US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand at some point next year (or the year after, who knows).
I am writing it with the most wonderful co-author who has been so instrumental in my mental health journey. We’ve had an absolute hoot writing the draft together (I recommend co-authoring a book; it feels like having a cheerleader by your side at all times) and now we are taking a bit of a break to re-group and throw ourselves at it again when the time is right. We are so excited and just know that this book was meant to be.
If you’d like to see my sketches and words and follow me on the journey, follow @mysketchyhead on Instagram. Thank you so much.
That’s all for now.
Forever giving Zero Fucks, and imploring you to do the same,
Jacs.
This week I’m giving so few fucks, that I can’t even be bothered to think of something to write for this bit I know I have to do each newsletter. Give a fuck. (Some of you won’t have been around when I used to bother to do this, so you’ll be clueless, making this show of laziness even more pitiful).