10th October 2015: The Final Farewell

We leave it to Grey Matters founder Ifeyinwa Frederick to say the final ta-ra.

I’m not very good at goodbyes and this one is no different, so I’ll keep it brief.

Firstly, I would like to say a massive thank you to all our contributors over the last year. Thank you also to our readers and to anyone who has ever shared one of our posts: there may have been someone out there who needed it.  And thank you of course to Sara Nisha Adams and Sarah Rachel Philips, without whom Grey Matters would not be what it is.

It is by no coincidence that we launched last year on World Mental Health Day and in the 12 months that have followed we have done our bit to keep the mental health conversation going.

“Reading other people’s stories of mental illness makes me feel less alone”. That is the power of storytelling. It is this comfort and solace found in sharing stories that was the impetus for both Grey Matters in its original form as a play and, as you see it today, as the blog. It’s also why, although we will no longer be publishing new work, the site will stay live and all previous posts will be accessible so that these voices can still be heard, these stories still be shared, and so that those that need it can still find encouragement and comfort in our writers’ words.

Having seen for myself the positive impact we have had, it is with a heavy heart that I bring the project to a close. But I do so, in the name of self-care – an equally important cause. To all our readers, whether striving for academic success, engaging in political activism, or caring for a loved one: do not underestimate the importance of self-care. Take time for yourself. It is something I have long been preaching but hypocritically, not practising. And whilst I’m by no means a master of it yet, I urge you all to try along with me.

Thank you once again to all our readers and remember: it’s ok not to be ok.

Ifeyinwa

xxx

10th October 2015: Shaz

Some Sisters Aren’t After Thicker Thighs

I developed an eating disorder at 13 as a coping mechanism for isolation that I felt at school, a way of controlling some small aspect of my life. I became obsessed with being thin and began playing with my portions. I would meticulously log everything I ate; every food had a score, my days would always culminate with me tallying up the score for the day and trying to do ‘better’ the following day. Eating started to agitate me, I began hating every morsel I put in my mouth. My relationship with food became dominated by anger and anxiety. When I got to university I started counselling sessions and my recovery has been slow but steady; I don’t feel as though I will ever be ‘cured’ but I am now eating in a healthy manner.

On the surface, my story sounds like a textbook case of a girl with an eating problem, however as a young black woman with an eating problem my experience has been tinged with extra layers of shame. Shame for being a statistical anomaly. Shame for not being understood by those who look the most like me. Shame for never being able to live up to ideals of black femininity rooted in strength.

Mainstream culture places greater emphasis on thinness, whereas curvier body types are often held as the ideal within black culture. From hip hop songs with lyrics expressing a desire for a ‘big booty’ to slow rnb songs that praise a woman’s ‘thick thighs’, black culture is saturated with positive images of larger women. This incited an inner conflict within me, as I was presented with two opposing types of ideal beauty. I appreciated the curves of my peers while resenting myself for not being thin enough. I often felt that my burning desire to be thin went against my ‘blackness’. How would I appeal to men of my race if I didn’t aspire to their ideals of beauty?

This conflict increased when I started dating. The first boy I ever spoke to about my eating disorder thought I was joking and immediately began laughing. It took him several minutes to realise I was serious, but I could tell he couldn’t quite fathom why I would want to be thin or why I would starve myself to achieve it. The idea to him was laughable as there was no doubt in his mind that curvy women were beautiful. We never spoke of it again.

The reality of socialising with someone with an eating disorder is that I’m not always up for a cheeky Nandos, even if I’m hungry. I don’t want to go to the family barbecue or the church potluck. I’m flattered that you’ve cooked for me, and I am happy to cook for you, but you might be eating alone either way. When I eat I often fret about it; out loud or in my head. This has often put me in a difficult position because food is an important part of any culture, afro caribbean culture is no exception. The kitchen is where we assert our identity, food is a social ritual which all partake in. My mental illness and my culture are therefore at odds because I don’t love food. I’ve stopped regarding food as ‘the enemy’ but I don’t enjoy it as much those around me. And it is this difference which really sets me apart from my loved ones. I feel unable to wholeheartedly enjoy an important part of black culture.

It’s clear to me that none of my black friends really understand my problem. A friend once boldly asserted that ‘black people don’t get eating disorders’. A wellmeaning friend once patronisingly highlighted that watermelon has no calories after I had already eaten my fair share. Most of my black friends don’t even know. I’ve always felt more comfortable talking to my white friends about my issues as many of them have felt like me at some point in their lives. Paradoxically it is the friends who I have the most in common with, who look like me and have the same cultural background/values who struggle to comprehend this aspect of me.

I personally believe eating disorders (anorexia, bulimia and binge eating) are prevalent among black women, but I also think the ‘strong, independent black woman’ stereotypes prevent us from seeking the help we need; we’re supposed to be tough as nails. We are, however, still human, and sometimes being strong is about being honest about our issues.

The point of this piece is not to claim victim status or highlight how ‘normal’ black women are by being subject to the same mental illnesses as white women. I merely want to spotlight an issue which doesn’t get any much attention in our communities. Let’s start a discussion on eating disorders because we are not immune to them.

10th October 2015: Vyara (2)

 

Dear friend, I don’t like you

Why do you have to come around and stay?

It’s a surprise, you are not invited

And yet you come to stay anyway.

 

I have new friends now, a new life

Can’t you see I’ve been getting on so great?

I didn’t think so soon I’d see you

It’s a nightmare but I am awake

 

Why do you force me to play with you?

I have better things to do

I’m excited in this moment

But your shadow makes me blue.

 

I don’t have the patience to stay with you

You spend all your time in bed

I was doing so well before I saw you

But you want to cry and sink in death instead

 

I was so excited that I tasted living

I have plans of things I want to do

Could you kindly pick yourself up and get moving

I told you that we are through.

 

Dear depression, I know you’re real

Teaching me things along the way

I know all I have to do is to love you

To release us from this decay

 

But you do make me tired

A splitting headache, you are quick sand

Coming along unexpected

And pulling me down, away from land.

 

If you are my guest please stay shorter

I don’t like when you visit me

And if you promise not stay longer

I will look after you as best can be.

 

You know I have great hopes

Of all the things I can do.

If you choose to stay here longer

I guess I have no choice than to still love you.

 

I know you mean no harm

You are a natural effect

I hope I can understand you

And make peace with you instead.

 

But how can we live together,

I feel impatient, sad, upset

I stick feel like I don’t know you

You are so easy to reject.

 

A deep sigh, I guess I need to

Get used to that you’re here to stay.

Put your feet up, I’ll make a cuppa

And save my to-do list for another day.

 

Let’s connect, what’s up with you?

Why are you visiting today?

What can I do for you?

Can I make you happy in any way?

10th October 2015: Vyara (1)

There was a phase on Facebook requesting people to write 7 Interesting Facts about themselves that others may not know. A seemingly lighthearted trend took an unexpected turn in the face of frustration, inadequacy and comparing myself with others. Here are my 7 Interesting Facts and then some. (Spoiler alert: rules are made for breaking).

1. My name, Vyara, means Faith. It comes from the Christian trilogy of Faith, Hope and Love.

2. I am trained in classical music; Piano was my main instrument for 8 years. I was in a Specialist Music School and did my Music GCSE in Year 9. I was also in the choir and played the flute.

3. I took Buddhist vows in January 2013 (refuge in the Three Jewels). I have been on a Buddhist pilgrimage to India and Nepal, worked in a Buddhist monastery under monastic leadership for a month in Beijing, China, and “ran away” with a Buddhist delegation to Europe a few days after graduating.

4. I have travelled to approximately eight countries by myself, including China, India and Panama.

5. The longest straight journeys I have ever taken were 27 hours on a train (Zhengzhou to Shenzhen in China) and 3 days by a coach (Bulgaria to London before it was shortened to 1.5 days). The longest broken journey I have taken was 8 days by train in India.

6. I have met the son of Dr Martin Luther King Jr and shook his hand.

7. I received a standing ovation for my poem titled “I Am Woman” recited at a Humanistic Psychology conference in the US.

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8. I have done all these despite having in the past been diagnosed with PTSD and depression, and numerous visits to hospitals for panic attacks, anxiety and more.

*

Mental health matters but it is often invisible to the eye. It is sometimes a life and death struggle and yet it isn’t recognised and understood as much as physical health conditions – its symptoms exhibit themselves different.. It is not something you can just “snap out” of.

Today, I feel empowered. I am in a very different place to where I was and I want to thank everyone who has stood by me and has made me feel better day by day and given me meaning, purpose and hope so that one day, like today, I can sit and have this conversation.

Most people wouldn’t abandon a friend after they have had a car crash that resulted in them needing a wheel-chair for the rest of their life. But they are quick to abandon people who might be crippled with mental health.

Too many people are too ashamed and afraid to seek help because of this taboo. Maybe we don’t know as much about the conditions of mental health as we could and should, and often the symptoms aren’t always pleasant to encounter, but don’t we all sometimes need to be strong for those who might be feeling weaker than ourselves? To show people, even those who don’t want to fight for themselves, that we won’t give up and will keep believing in them and fighting for them and that they don’t have less value because they may be mentally ill.

If I didn’t have the strength and desperation to feel better, and if I didn’t have access to information on the internet and the videos people upload and the encouragement and the support from friends, I really don’t know where I would have ended up.

Two years ago, I was convinced I was going to die because that was a side-effect of my PTSD. Today I can finally plan my future. Two years ago I didn’t believe I could have one.

Yes, I still have a way to go. But, to break the rules of Facebook’s ‘7 Interesting Facts’, sometimes the most interesting things about ourselves are the things we haven’t done. So here goes:

1. I didn’t take my own life when I felt my world was falling apart every day for two years following the loss of my grandmother in a tragic accident.

2. I didn’t screw up my life despite the fact that I lived in hostels in London for 3 years.

3. I didn’t take heroin despite it being offered to me every night when living in a hostel and I didn’t continue to take petty drugs into my 20s.

4. I was not discouraged from finally getting by degree by the fact that NONE of my friends in my immediate circle had ever been to University.

5. I didn’t let binge-drinking ruin my life.

6. I didn’t let the negative influences of toxic individuals bring me down.

7. I didn’t lose hope and I kept living.

I am most proud of these things. I hope one day I will be able to make a difference to the world. Until then, I am happy I am still here despite the difficulties in my way. And sometimes, that is the most impressive and interesting thing anyone could say.

10th October 2015: Stuart

Trigger warning: suicide

The fight continues

I didn’t always want to be a nurse. As a young man my dream was to act. I planned to tread the boards throughout the world to the delight of my adoring fans. Unfortunately for me the world had other ideas.

By my early twenties I found myself unemployed and homeless. I’d taken the advice of Thatcher’s government to ‘get on my bike’ in search of work. I didn’t have a bike so I hitchhiked instead, seeking my fortune in a country where people like me could never find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow no matter how far we travelled.

Those weren’t the happiest times in my life but they may well have been the most instrumental. During those days I met some extremely troubled people. I became pretty ‘troubled’ myself for a while. I learned to let go of social prejudice as the most unlikely of my associates showed immense kindness whilst those my society had always taught me to respect displayed a callousness and indifference that seemed almost beyond belief. I made some good friends and I learned a lot about human frailty.

No single incident made me decide to become a mental health nurse but there are a few ‘front-runners’. One or two of the people I met in hostels left a permanent impression upon me. Several of my old friends from those days are dead, long before their time because of a lifestyle that was more about psychological anaesthesia than anything else. And I saw a woman jump to her death from a multi-storey car park.

I was the first to reach her. She whimpered softly as I knelt beside her, shouting to the office workers in the building across the road to call an ambulance but it was no good. She died in Lincoln hospital a little while later. I felt helpless and I felt ashamed.

It seemed clear to me that my society had driven her to this drastic course of action. I didn’t know her story. I still don’t. Looking back I have no idea what led her to this tragic decision but at the time it all seemed so clear. Society was indifferent to suffering and I wanted to do something to change all that.

In those days I was misguided, I was overly-simplistic, I was unrealistically ideological and I had a ‘saviour fantasy’. I thought I could make everything alright for everyone I ever met just by being me. I was heading for burnout before my mental health career had even begun.

These days I have a more seasoned view of what I do. Twenty years of nursing will do that for you. I’m only one man and I’m not all-powerful. I can’t change everything but I can help.

The paternalism of my early career has gone now. I no longer see my role as the all-knowing saviour come to bless the ‘patient’ with my charitable assistance. Now I’m a fellow traveller trying to find individual answers to individual problems in a system that still likes to put people in boxes and pretend that’s enough. The pigeon-holing culture of psychiatric diagnosis still remains but things are getting better. I’d like to think that my generation of nurses have been instrumental in that. God knows – we’ve tried.

Today, 20 years on recovery is seen as a reality. Inter-agency working has become so ingrained that it’s often hard to know which worker has which training in the community teams I work in. Diagnosis is giving way to formulation and assumptions about faulty biology are giving way to more evidence-based ideas such as social inequality and cognitive style.

There’s still work to be done and the fight against stigma and dehumanising assumptions goes on. But I’m proud to say that I’ve been part of that struggle and will continue to be for a good few years yet.

20 years from now the newly qualified nurses of 2035 will look back at my generation of nurses, at the class of ’95 and throw their hands up in horror at the way we used to treat people. At least I hope they will.

If the nurses of the future don’t criticise the nurses of today then we won’t have done our work properly. Each generation should have reason to criticise the one that went before. I hope they’ll also understand though that had we not fought against the injustice of our own time they would still be perpetuating it in theirs.

The fight continues.

For more from Stuart, visit: stuartsorensen.wordpress.com