Stigma

Mental illness and stigma seems to be a big thing at the moment, both in the media and personally. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have said to me, ‘You wouldn’t feel ashamed if you had a broken leg, would you? Being depressed is no different.’

But it is. It is different.

Because here’s the thing. If I had presented at A&E with a broken leg, I wouldn’t, four weeks later, have found myself answering a phone call from social services.

That’s what happened yesterday, and it’s shaken me right up. It’s not the first time; I’ve had contact from them after every previous hospital admission. But the delay this time lulled me into a false sense of security, and meant that the call yesterday came as a proper shock. Especially when they started asking for my permission to contact my husband, GP, the children’s school…

If I had broken my leg, I wouldn’t be seen as a threat to my children. They wouldn’t be deemed to be at risk if I were unable to provide the optimal level of care while I was recovering. I wouldn’t have social workers phoning their school to see if their teachers had any concerns about their wellbeing.

That is why I feel stigmatised by my mental ill health.

I do not believe that at any point, my children have been abused, neglected or ill-treated as a result of me being ill. I have personally been at risk, yes, but I honestly don’t think they have been. They are, and have been throughout, well fed, well groomed and well dressed (usually in a princess costume, in Katie’s case). They get to school on time with the equipment they need, and are collected on time. They participate in after-school clubs, and although there have been days in the holidays where we’ve stayed at home and watched DVDs, I’ve also taken them to Legoland, Chessington, parks, beaches, the cinema…

More to the point, I am so keen to make sure they are *not* affected by my being unwell that I have done absolutely everything I can to protect them from it. I’ve never done anything to put myself in danger when I’ve been home alone with them. I keep my arms covered up with long sleeves, even when swimming, so they don’t see my scars. They haven’t seen me cry, not once.

And above all, they are loved. Whatever I feel about myself, whatever messed up biochemical stuff is going on in my head, they are loved so very much.

So it hurts. It really hurts to have strangers passing judgement on my ability to care for them. It hurts that we are now a ‘safeguarding issue.’ It hurts that my confidentiality has gone out of the window, and that the staff at school now know that I’ve lost the plot – something I would much, much rather have kept private. It hurts that I know very well that there are certain people who don’t trust me to spend time with their own children.

This is the truth of mental health stigma. Once you’re mentally unwell, you’re labelled as being a dangerous person, a disordered person, a person who is incapable of looking after themselves or others.

I’m facing the fact that even if I get completely, totally better, even if I recover 100 per cent and never have another episode of depression again – which is, sadly, statistically unlikely – these labels are never going to leave me. Someone, somewhere is always going to perceive me as a threat, no matter how hard I try to overcome that.

That’s stigma.