Discussing mental health

Recently I was up in Auckland for the Anarchism Is Organising conference. On the second day of the conference, I ran a workshop on “mental health, mental illness and anarchist community support”. The workshop wasn’t on the agenda prior to the conference, but after some thoughts and a discussion that touched on the subject the previous afternoon, I decided to run it. Not long after I made the offer, I suddenly became incredibly nervous when I realised I hadn’t ever run a discussion on the topic before, and had no idea how to structure it or what to do. After a bit of thinking, I decided that attempting to get anything concrete out of it probably wouldn’t actually work, and therefore attempting to do that would only serve to be demoralising. Instead, I decided that getting people to open up and share their stories would be the most positive first step that we could take.

By lunchtime Sunday, with the workshop just a few hours away, I’d decided on a format – one that began with me opening up and telling my story, from scratch. Trying to put the years of pain and hardship into words, the awful experiences with medication, the lowest lows, the scariest times. I also decided to talk about the incredible lack of support that I felt in the Wellington anarchist community. The discussion would be the first time I had ever talked about my experiences in a large group, and I wasn’t feeling confident or even particularly safe (especially considering I’d only met a large number of the participants the day before), but I’d made the decision to speak out and I wasn’t going to change that. I confided my worry to a friend shortly before the discussion started that I would tell my story, and noone else would feel safe or comfortable enough to tell theirs. While I can totally understand why this might be the case, I was pretty concerned as to how that would affect me – leaving myself so open and exposed.

Then it started. I talked, remembering things that I had long forgotten (whether accidentally or on purpose). Feelings came back to me as real as when I’d first felt them. At times, I had to stop, while at other times swinging the chair in front of me or letting loose a few tears seemed to calm me down a little. When, while talking, I looked up at the rest of the group, I made sure to try to focus on a couple of people who I trusted the most, and the looks in their eyes helped me to continue. Still, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to talk about in public.

When I finished, there was a brief silence, and then I looked around and there were others wanting to speak. At that point, I felt like a weight had been lifted. For the next two hours, around ten others shared their stories of mental illness, of medication and psychiatry, of community support (or the lack of it), of friends (or the lack of them). It was honestly one of the most beautiful things I’ve been a part of. That so many people felt able to talk so openly and honestly about their deepest held secrets amongst a group of people they didn’t know was incredible. The discussion could easily have gone on longer, but after we’d gone one hour overtime we really had to stop to allow other workshops to take place.

After we’d finished, I gave a big hug to a friend of mine, and we went outside for a ciggarette. A few others joined us and we talked about how we felt after the workshop (emotionally drained but inspired covers it well, I think). A couple of people talked about the possibility of setting up a mental health support group in Wellington, which would be awesome if it gets off the ground.

I also talked afterwards to a couple of people who have never experienced mental illness, who came to listen and learn. What they said only made me more confident that what happened was the most positive first step we all could have taken. While it may never be possible to understand exactly what we go through, speaking that honestly and extensively is probably as close as it gets.