Writing about one’s own depression is difficult. Depression is partly constituted by a sneering ‘inner’ voice which accuses you of self-indulgence – you aren’t depressed, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, pull yourself together – and this voice is liable to be triggered by going public about the condition. Of course, this voice isn’t an ‘inner’ voice at all – it is the internalised expression of actual social forces, some of which have a vested interest in denying any connection between depression and politics. [via]
The problem I have with #WorldMentalHealthDay as a hashtag is that I feel like it has become a part of the denial. The one designated day a year when public honesty on social media is sanctioned. No more performing wellness and presenting your best life. It’s the one day a year that vulnerability is okay. For me, it goes without saying every day is World Mental Health Day. Twitter is usually where I do my over-sharing but I can’t help but notice how those who use Facebook to maintain their constant support network usually let today slide by without comment.
I was applying for a teaching job recently with a charity that seeks to boost disadvantaged kids in mainstream education. To check I was qualified I had to give an account of my entire education history. It’s kinda weird to be graduating from a Master’s degree and then have to account for my GCSEs for which I had at least one of every grade available, followed by fairly average A Levels. At the time I was told it was because I listened to too much Radiohead and Sonic Youth… To then jump to top grades at graduate and postgraduate level looks weird on my CV but I generally don’t try to account for it.
I know now that my depression is hardwired. I’ve struggled with my mental health for as long as I can remember. It defines even my primary school education. It’s only now that I acknowledge that I’m in it for the long haul.
So, this time, I did something I hadn’t done before with a job application. I made my history of depression the defining aspect of my application. Rather than bury it, I decided to highlight it as a positive for the role. I’m empathetic. I’m resilient. I’m sensitive to the needs of myself and others. I know how it feels to have all the odds stacked against you and that a GCSE or A Level exam feels like the most pointless thing in the world.
I also know what it is to put more than you have to give into an essay assignment because your mark won’t just affect your prospects but your entire self-worth. I’ve done both sides so put me in a modern classroom and I can support it.
This year has intensified my desire to teach more than anything because the right atmosphere really helps but so much of our education system remains a part of the problem. School made my mental health worse. Social media can’t make up for that. I want to change things at the source. This morning I got a call back for interview to secure a place on a training programme to take place next summer.
The moral here for me is that, yes, I have my own reasons for my own experiences, and my previously lame and contradictory coping strategies have shaped me as much as events beyond my control, but what I know more than anything is that none of it really matters. To share those stories today in an act of sanctioned honesty doesn’t do anything. To simply say “We need to talk more” on social media doesn’t do anything either.
Every other day of the year, social media is one of the most detrimental things to our collective mental health. It isolates as much as it connects. What I know now more than anything is that everyone is broken, whether they talk about it on social media or not. Literally everyone. Because we all live under these same conditions and they chip away at all of us.