Mental Illness as a flower

Who would I be without my mental illness? This is a question I ask myself over and over again.

They say that people are like flowers, with individual petals symbolizing different aspects of their lives. When someone has a mental illness, that illness is but one of those petals.  The other qualities of the person, whether it be the fact that they’re a parent, or that they love animals, or have a great sense of humour, make up that beautiful flower that is the whole self.  That sounds nice, doesn’t it?

Except with me, that’s not the case. If I were to continue with this analogy, my mental illness is not a petal. It’s the root system. It is entwined with everything I do. It is in control.

For many years I kept my mental illness a secret. I blogged anonymously, I went to therapy discreetly and I checked myself into the hospital alone. I locked myself in my room and would eventually emerge from the confines of my mind and maintain a facade of happiness to the people around me. This persona was easily sustained because I was “high functioning.”

Slowly I started letting people in, but in an act of survival. If I had someone, anyone, to grasp onto then I would not kill myself. Shortly after I went through a bad breakup where I was dumped because of my mental illness. It was unarguably one of the worst times of my life. I had finally exposed my true self, for the first time, to someone I trusted. I was met with rejection.

Here’s where I faced my “TSN turning point.”  Would I crawl back into my private hell alone? No. Don’t get me wrong, the hell still existed and the flames were burning high – but I no longer could brave it on my own. I gradually opened up to my friends and family. It wasn’t easy and I commend every person who is able to take this step.

As time went on, I became a little obsessed in the realm of mental health. It was the focus of my research projects in university. I volunteered to tell my personal story to a variety of audiences in hopes of raising awareness. I worked directly for a mental health organization. My politics even became influenced by it. Before I knew it, my life again was being overwhelmingly encompassed by my mental illness but in a completely different way.

I am hopeful that I have helped a few people along the way.

So am I passionate or possessed?

The advocate in me is proud that I was able to take what feels like my worst quality and turn it into something positive. I am hopeful that I have helped a few people along the way.

Other parts of me feel drained, overwhelmed, and quite frankly tired of being seen as a one trick pony.

In addition to being consumed by this activist identity, I still must deal with my illness on a daily basis. Inside and out I am screaming about it. It feels like there’s a big neon sign flashing above me, broadcasting to the world my emotional state.

I understand that I have chosen this path. I am hopeful that the pros outweigh the cons. I just cannot help but wonder what shell of a being would be left if mental illness was taken out of the equation.

Would I still have purpose? Would people still look up to me? If recovery is possible to the extent where the first thing I think about every morning isn’t my mood, what will I think about? Who would I be without my mental illness?

Part of me believes that having a mental illness is the only thing that makes me special. It’s the only quality that could possibly be deemed as interesting. While I cognitively understand the illogicality of that statement, emotionally it just makes sense.

I know there is more to my flower than just mental illness but right now it feels like it makes up the whole damn plant.