Mental Wealth

Year 10, Technology & Design, Mr McNicholl’s room. I’m sitting beside my friend Lisa as one of our classmates talks about the morning’s assembly. That morning we were spoken to about the effects of bullying, how we never know the full details of another student’s life, something which we should never take for granted. Here I was listening to a girl in my year tell me how this was instigated by her; she had been called names by another girl and that must be what inspired this talk. 

I sit, I smile, I say nothing. The week previous I had found myself sitting in the office of a senior teacher searching the world for the words to explain the deep, raw, self-inflicted scars which ran up and down my arms. Here I was now with a long sleeved blouse and jumper with classmates who were none the wiser. If she knew so little about me I could only imagine how many other girls at my school were having a tough time. Even our year head only knew about the cases which had been brought to her attention. 

When I reflect upon my past I am only ever filled with gratitude for my introduction to theatre. At that point in my life I was truly foraging my way through the bottom; a naturally bright girl uncharcateristically unable to strike any connection or passion with schoolwork with few friends in a traditional all girls convent school- with all the traditional catty girls that come with it. Lonely and misunderstood I failed to make sense of my own being, carrying a weight of sadness from a life of confusing events and hurt. The only pathway to self-soothing I knew of consisted of using knives, scissors and razor blades to cut and carve away at my own skin. 

Until I went to my first drama class. A fairly late bloomer compared to some actors who had well established child star status by the time I was merely dipping my toes in theatrical waters I was unsure of the move. I had always read at school assemblys and did one school show in primary school but a bigger part of me believed the girls who told me I wasn’t good enough because I never took speech and drama grades. Amazingly and unpredictably, it was the defining point in my life. For the first time I felt full; a fully formed human being where every atom mattered and had a purpose. 

Every experience which had previously made me someone embarrassingly oversensitive could now be channelled- that sensitivity now being what could assist in the creation of truthful theatre. After some time I settled an agreement in my head; there was no way at this point that I could let anything else win, there was something inside too big to compress. Even if it took me the best part of fifty years I had the potential to make a huge impact on Irish theatre, all I had to do was stick it out long enough. I had found my reason for living. It’s something that still fuels my determination today, I owe it to my former self to achieve brilliance.

But what if I hadn’t discovered theatre? I come from a city dubiously known by some since the mid-nineties as ‘suicide city’ with an alarmingly high rate of depression and suicide; a city of people who rely upon the diligence and speed of both Foyle Search & Rescue and alert taxi drivers. I’m not suggesting I would necessarily have gone down this route myself, suicide and self-harm are different, not everyone who is suicidal self harms and not every self harmer is suicidal. In fact, many modern psychologists argue that suicide is the last thing self harmers aim for, what they are seeking is peace and a way to feel better, not a way to end it all. I may not have taken my body away from this world, but I was certainly robbing them of my spirit. 

These days I am still sensitive, but as one of my former acting coaches at The Actor’s Temple in London pointed out to me, it’s essentially my job. If I can’t access emotions to the nth degree within seconds then I’m limiting how well I can do my job. I simply take it as part of who I am. I also still have marks on my arms. Some are there every day of the year, some show up when it’s too hot or too cold- the scar tissue turning a different colour from the rest of my skin in extreme weather. I’m not ashamed of those either. In some ways they’re a mark of hope, a reminder of the potential positivity around the corner. The person who left these permanent scars on my body didn’t see the theatre reviews, the awards, the published work, the drama school scholarship- just as the present me doesn’t yet see the accomplishments the 30 year old me will have achieved. There is always a new tomorrow. 

Of course, I had things a lot easier than most. I found a calling which was cathartic and encouraged self-expression. I was also a girl. At an all girl’s school it’s not uncommon to cry, every teacher has had a student do it in their class and every class has one teacher who’s made some of them do it. Not only do I dread to imagine my life without theatre, I dread to imagine my life as a boy. Boys aren’t allowed to cry, it goes against all the alpha male qualities we impress upon our society. It is, wrongly, deemed weak and not something to be admired let alone replicated. In Ireland, statistics of depression in young males is alarmingly high with suicide being the most common cause of death in young males in their early twenties. Indeed, Derry City holds statistics of suicide in young men which are 38% higher than any other region in the North West. 

Having watched this week’s documentary “Footballs’ Suicide Secret” presented by Clark Carlisle, some of the much needed light is starting to be shed on this topic. In admirable bravery, Carlisle both shares his personal story and investigates that of fellow footballers who have had to face their own mental health demons. Through his interview with Lesley Speed, the sister of the late Gary Speed, we are reminded that this is a secret which held to oneself for too long could prove fatal. The resounding call from all these young men is the guilt they felt for being depressed. Young, strong men shouldn’t feel this way, especially not those who are lucky enough to have a dream vocation with such an enviable pay packet.

Too often society forgets that depression can happen to anyone, male or female, regardless of their job, level of intelligence or wealth. The failure to recognise this leaves men and women in a position where they are fighting both an illness and the stigma attached. Depression is simply an imbalance which can affect anyone. As Clark Carlisle himself has said “I have a very strong body. I do all the work to make it strong yet it can still break down and my mind is exactly the same; I have an incredibly strong mind but that mind can get ill or break down. Depression, in my opinion, is a mental injury that needs diagnosing, treating and then you’re back on track again.”

When I look back to my time at Thornhill, in that senior teacher’s room, I’m appalled at the stigma which floated around my being there. My form teacher held me back after class and walked me up to the office like a stranger with a contagious disease before leaving me in a room with a teacher who may have been at the school longer but was held no great qualification in supporting vulnerable young people and barely knew my name. It seemed there were egg shells around me and I was a walking taboo; I was even told that day that I was only doing it because I saw it on TV. All of these things were wrong. I was suffering and unsure of how to help myself, I was vulnerable and needed support- not another attack from people who fail to understand the complexities of the human brain. 

In recent years when I have mentioned this issue I have faced the ignorance of a person who told me I should never speak about it, instead I should consider what people would think of me. I imagine what people will think of me is none of my business. I’ve come through a dark place and have found my own personal well of strength. I’ve wanted to speak about this before but couldn’t summon the courage, unable to bear the thought of people writing me off as mad I simply mentioned in interviews that I was bullied. While I do have memories of some girls in my year promising they’d ‘rip my head off my effing shoulders’ while huddled around me in a corridor corner, this isn’t the important part of my story. Taunts and jeers were an easy load compared to the cage I locked myself inside mentally.

It is my duty to those going through that place currently to help shake off this unnecessary taboo, to remind others that the future is not here yet and has the potential to change everything. The moment when you have least inspiration to continue is the most vital, it is then that you need to charge your energy into holding on for one more moment, after that there’ll be a new one. One small step at a time is all that anyone needs to take- that is progress in itself. What’s most essential is the ability to talk, be it on a phoneline, to a family member, a friend or a teacher- there is no need to be alone and suffer in silence. There is no need to assume you’re the only person who has experienced what you have. You’re not abnormal. 

I’m very lucky. I found a lifeline to hold on to and carry me through until I was back at shore and have been able to make a career out of that lifeline. I’m surrounded by good people, supportive siblings and good friends who I can turn to when I need to release. I’m in a strong relationship with someone who inspires me and supports my every step for whom I’m able to offer the same. Over a decade since Mr McNicholl’s room and the senior office, I’m a different person. It wasn’t an overnight change but I got there. One day at a time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQ7iZ-cxyA0



To watch Clark Carlisle's documentary 'Football's Suicide Secrets', please click the following link:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b036x8d2/Footballs_Suicide_Secret/

For further advice or if you or someone you know seeks help, please explore the following websites:
http://http://www.samaritans.org
http://http://www.aware-ni.org.uk/
http://www.mind.org.uk/