Police and Mental Health – A differant view

I looked around the room nervously.

There were people talking but I couldn’t really focus on what they were saying, and the whole place had an oppressive feel to it.

I ran my fingers over the lump of scar tissue on the back of my head as I do when I’m nervous.

it was my first time and I felt the adrenaline was kicking in, but so was the anxiety. And I was battling to keep that all to well known feeling of drowning that seems to come with my anxiety under control.

This was certainly NOT the place to lose it or have an ‘episode’.

I looked around again and saw a number of police officers standing passively, almost disinterested. But the atmosphere in the room was electric.

I tried to suppress the rising feeling of panic and focus on somebody that was talking to me.

“… Cell 2… Constant obs…”

Was that to me? I wasn’t sure.

It was made clear that it was directed at me when I felt a slight jab in the arm and a directional nod of the head from a police officer.

I followed an officer down out of the custody suite and down to the cell block.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. The stench is so invasive and it seems to seep into every pore of your body. It is the smell of sweat, piss, shit and vomit. But it is more than that. It ‘s almost like that fear, desperation and every negative emotion has added to the stench. The odour remains in your smell receptors a long time after you leave. It is such a thick smell, it almost has substance.

This was my first time in a custody block and the smell made me gag, much to the amusement of the police officer I was following.

“You’ll get used to it. I’m sure you will”

I didn’t want to get used to it, but I knew he was right.

We arrived at the open door of cell two. I looked inside, the cell and noticed how small it looked, taking in the mis-spelt graffiti and basic drawings of previous occupants. It was the most depressing place I have ever been in.

My hand went to the scar on the back of my head and I started biting the inside of my cheek. I tried to stop the shakes that were starting in the pit of my stomach. The thought of being kept in such a confined space, with that stench and the noise. My god, the noise.

The other cell occupants were making their presence known. Various shouts and comments, screams and sobbing.

I just wanted out, but I knew that there was no way out for me. Not today.

I looked at the police officer and tried to sound more confidant that I felt “How long do I have to be here for…?”

The response I got was NOT what I was expecting.

“Until someone says you can go…”

It was at that moment that I started to regret some of the decisions and choices I had made that had led me to this point. Had I made a mistake? I wasn’t meant to be here, I’d never survive…

I tried to ignore the voice in my head telling me to run and it took all my will power to calm my nerves.

“So… erm… what do I do?”

The police officer looked at me and laughed.

“First time? Ha! Just sit there and you’ll work it out”

I took the seat and sat, staring at the cell door. The officer walked away, telling me to call if I needed anything.

“what if I need to loo?”

“Just shout… someone will come. Eventually”

And that was that.

I sat and stared at the open cell door. I felt so desperate and low that I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. No way could I show ANY weakness. Not now. Not here.

I tried to focus on getting through the time, but as boredom began to set in, I began to reflect on my life, and how I ended up here. I had done well at school, I was married, I had a child and i wanted the best for my young family. I had worked in a few dead-end jobs, mostly warehouse work, and ended up as a lorry driver. A simple life.

I had suffered and dealt with my depressive episodes, but I always tried to bury it, and pretend it was never happening.

So what was I doing sat in a stinking hell hole?

Simple.

It came with the territory and the job.

This was my first time in a cell block as a ‘fresh from the wrapper‘ police officer. I had, of course been in a cell block before, but that was with a tutor constable who was there as a safety net. But this time, I was solo, and as the new officer in the response team, I got all the shitty jobs.

I was on constant obs duty, which basically involves sitting or standing opposite an open cell door and, like the name suggested, observing the cells occupant. Constantly. Usually, this was used if concern was raised about the welfare of the customer. The customer that I was observing was a young male who had been brought in for some minor offense and it was felt by the custody skipper that he needed watching as it was thought that he may try to harm himself, such was his demeanor on arrival.

And so here I was. First time alone as an independent officer, with no instructor or tutor to back me up. This was real life.

The police have a rather negative image when it comes to dealing with vulnerable people and  mental health in general. Phrases like ‘heavy handed’, ‘lack of understanding’, ‘uncaring’ and worse have been said of the way that police deal with vulnerable and mentally ill people. But the police see the best and the worst in people and they deal with all kinds of social detritus. I can personally say that I was seriously assaulted a number of times, and I’m not counting the times I was spat at, puked on, had things said about my wife, threats against my children… But, again, it came with the territory.

But what about a mentally ill police officer? How about that? How would they cope?

Quite well, really.

The common misconception is that the police are bully boys, or people who need the power of authority as they lack in other departments. I can honestly say that this was not true. For the most part…

Some officers still believe that they can make a change, and they truly believe that they’re there to serve the public. It’s a hard job, but can be very rewarding. There’s no job like it. So what on earth made me apply to be a police officer? I personally felt that I could help others, people who have suffered the abuse that I had. Sounds corny, but there were times that more than made up for the abuse by drunken yobs on a Saturday night, or agitators at a ‘peaceful protest’ who seem determined to get through my riot shield and stick my head on a platter (trust me, it really can seem that way).

I’m talking about the times when you feel you helped, made a difference. Times like one night on a bridge with the suicidal man. Times like when you’re focused on stopping the bleeding of someone until the paramedics can take over.

There were times when I faltered, of course there were. There were times when I wondered what the hell i was doing. But, it was a case of training kicking in and taking over, and that helped me focus and concentrate on the job in hand. Sometimes, it could even work to my advantage as I could block things out. Sometimes… I once got a commendation too, so I must have done something right.

So, you may be thinking that this post is just a ‘POLICE ARE GREAT’ or a ‘HEY LOOK AT ME!! SEE WHAT I DID!!’ post, but it isn’t. I understand that some people have very valid reasons for disliking the police, and I can appreciate that.

No, what I wanted to show is that people can do whatever they want in life DESPITE mental illness. Mental illness has many faces, just like the many sufferers. Behind every illness is a person. And sometimes that is what some people can’t understand. They see the illness. It’s like someone who is missing an arm, or a leg. People see that there’s a missing limb and not the person. They don’t see the determination, the strength of personality and mind.

And it is the same with mental health. Some see us sufferers as weak minded, or vulnerable, or even that we’re faking it and should just ‘pull ourselves together’ or ‘snap out of it’. This is why there is still a stigma attached to mental illness. Various organizations such as Black Dog Tribe, Time-To_Change and Mind are trying to bring that stigma down, but there’s a long way to go yet.

But, as you can see, those of us can achieve anything we set our minds to. There have been many famous, successful and intelligent people who have suffered with mental illness : Sir Winston Churchill, Ruby Wax, Jim Carey, Catherine Zeta-Jones, the list is long and distinguished.

The thing is, a lot of people hide their mental illness. I did for years. i hid behind the uniform, and just denied that I had depression. I suppressed it and squashed it down so much that it was inevitable that one day it would explode back out. And it did so in style in 2011.

I manage from day-to-day, week to week, and I have learned to manage without medication as I found the medication made me a zombie. Yes, I have bad times, and I have VERY bad times, but also I have very good times too. And I’m sure, dear reader, that you do too. I have said that my illness defines me, but there is more to me than just mental illness.

I’m a friend, a lover, a father a partner, a worker. Just an average guy really. An average guy with more than his fair share of mental health issues.

But hey, you can’t have it all.

A Father Writes…

I will try my best to be objective whilst writing this post, but I cannot promise anything.

How would you describe mental illness? To me, it is like explaining colour to a blind person, or sound to a deaf person. There isn’t anything you can base it on.

If you suffer from depression, then you will have an idea where I am coming from. If you have never suffered with depression or mental illness, then I will try my best to explain.

Depression can strike anyone at any time. It doesn’t care what sex, colour or age you are. It can be mild. It can be severe. It has many additional symptoms. And it is a self feeding illness too. Depression can make you feel anxious, which in turn makes your feelings of self worth plummet, and that in turn can make you feel lethargic and even exhausted. Mental illness can actually cause physical pain. The feeling that you want to rip your skin off one layer at a time, or pull your own hair out by the handful, and this is what is called self harming. And self harming can lead to further depression and so on… I have written about The Stigma Of Self Harming which you can read here

I have suffered with depression all my life. I have had major bouts of depression where I have stood on the edge and prepared to leap into darkness. I have self harmed to an extent that I have broken and dislocated bones. My esteem, pride and self worth have crashed through the floor. I have looked in the mirror and disliked what I have seen so much that I have literally smashed the offending image.

But I have always managed to claw my way back. Somehow, I always do.

Obviously, as you wouldn’t be reading this…

Take this week for instance…

The flashbacks that I have are exhausting and can also be dangerous for my partner and those around me. I can have a flashback whilst I am sleeping and this means that I am not in control and rarely know about it. I have been known to lash out and worse in my sleep. A flash back whilst I am awake is a strange feeling. It is like seeing a memory that has almost lost all its detail, like a photo that is washed out by the flash of a camera, but transposed over real life. It is like the name says – a flash, a split second, but it can be so intense that it can literally stop you in your tracks. Imagine someone taking your photo and the flash goes off unexpectedly. That feeling, at that very moment in time, is what a flash back is like for me. It’s like you cant focus on any detail apart from the residual flash of the camera.

I had a sleeping flash back over the weekend and there have been one or waking ones.

There are certain things that can trigger off a depressive episode for me, and, naturally, I know to avoid them. But life does not work that way. It has an annoying knack of surprising you. And not the good kind of surprise.

Today I woke up to a text message from my ex-wife regarding money. After having a lot of time off work due to an accident at work, I have obviously lost a lot of pay, and naturally, the maintenance payment has been reduced BUT I will pay the balance when I have the money.

But, as I said, life has a way surprising you.

It was discussed that “…it might be best if you don’t see the kids…” because there are “…concerns about their welfare…”

As I said earlier, I have suffered and lived with my mental illness all my life, so what has changed? I am still the man I used to be, but the only thing that has changed is my diagnosis. Since then, I have had very little contact with my children. In fact, it has been none existent.

Does the diagnosis scare people? Is it better to not know what mental illness you have? I am sure that a lot of people have read about bipolar disorder, depression and other mental illnesses on Google, or that bastion of faux information, Wikipedia. And that CAN be scary for the reader, never mind the sufferer. Reading about mental illness can be a frightening thing, and this is why there is a stigma attached to it. But not everyone has the same symptoms are act the same. Each case of mental illness is as unique as the sufferer. Hence why I used the analogy of describing colour to a blind person…

I am caught between a rock and a hard place. I want to see my children, but I do not want to cause them any upset. The thing that the ex is worried about is causing upset to my children as they are still young. And it is THAT that makes me think it would be better if I wasn’t in their lives at the moment.

It has been mentioned that it is possible that harm will come to them when they are in my care, and I can say here and now that I would protect my children with my last breath, as any parent would. But also, I do not want my children to see me when I am down. It is hard enough for adults to deal with it, and at the end of the day, it is the parents that are supposed to be there for their children, not the opposite way round.

I am big enough and ugly enough to look after myself and cope the best I can with my illness, and hopefully in time, I can rebuild my relationship with my children. That is, IF they want to.

I am not a brave man, and nor am I looking for sympathy. It hurts. It hurts me a lot that I cannot see my children. People will, and do, think that I have turned my back on my children.

This is not true.

I love and adore my children and think of them daily, but the image I have of them is of the age when I was made to leave. The image isn’t fading, but I have missed them and so much of their lives.

When I was diagnosed, I read up on it and I was truly frightened by what I read. Some of the things I read were me to a T, but others were nowhere near what I go through. So it is a confusing illness, and confusion can cause concern to those who do not know about it and it can be hard to explain and even harder to understand. It can be very frightening too, for all parties. This is why they do not know about my illness, and I believe that it is better that way. They’re children after all, and they need protecting.

Even if it IS from me.

One thing with the earlier analogy is that a person need not be blind to not see, or be deaf to not hear. Some people choose not to see or hear. And as long as that continues, the myths and half truths about mental illness will continue.

 

The Media and Stigma.

**TRIGGER WARNING : POST CONTAINS DESCRIPTION OF MALE RAPE AND MONSTERING**

 

It was reported that a young male, aged approximately 16 years old had a sordid affair with a man.

We sent our reporter and some other cronies to camp outside his house and to pester his neighbors and generally fill in the gaps by using our imagination.

What is worrying this reporter is the lack of moral fibre that this teenager is showing and is a statement about today’s promiscuous youth. According to my sources (some passer by on the street), this teenager who I can name as Steve, purposefully sought out the company of men due to previous ‘abuse’ issues that made him question his sexuality.

So, this young man has been sexually active from an early age? Disgusting.

Steve the teenager apparently met the older man at a club, and went back to his flat where, I imagine, he performed various sexual acts (FOR FREE!!!) and then carried on living amongst us normal, clean living folk, easily hiding his disgusting lifestyle.

It has also been reported that during these sordid sex acts, the young ‘man’ acted like the woman of the partnership and dressed as such. It appears obvious to this reporter that Steve now wants to live a normal life like the rest of us. But I fear that it is too late. He has crossed the line into perversion and debauchery.

He is now crying rape because like some victims, he wants to blame someone else for his wrong doings. We shall NOT fall for that NOR shall we believe that a young, physically fit young man would not fight back.

Also, on top of this, we have discovered by hacking into (as a necessity) into medical reports and accessing Steve’s medical records. It turns out that not only has he been promiscuous since WAY before the legal age, he also has mental illnesses.

The question that, as reporter and bastion of decency in the world, do we really need people like Steve living amongst us?

As a reporter for a well respected and well written newspaper and as indeed, quite literally a bastion of good clean decent living and a moral compass, I say an emphatic NO!

Do we really need people like Steve mixing with us decent living, morally upright citizens? No, they are a danger to themselves and more importantly, us. They prey on the young and weak minded with their perversions and their weird ways. And God knows how many others they have infected with their mental illnesses and desires for all that is unholy.

I have researched (Googled) mental illness and the results were not good. There is nothing good about mental illness, and it is a scary thing that luckily, does not affect us normal people. Personally, as a fine upstanding self righteous reporter, I do not want these people walking around in my community possibly corrupting our children.

And that brings me to another point. Children. I believe the children are our future, and that they should be protected from everything that is slightly strange or deviating from the norm. Deviant. That is the word that sums up those like Steve. And right minded, decent, clean living folk like me, and the readers of this esteemed newspaper should stand up for what WE believe.

And to this end, I propose that other hacks… I mean award winning journalists camp outside his home, his work place, where he shops and harass anyone who may know him and well will make a story out of it. It is in the public interest that the public know about his every detail so that they can join us in the fight for decency.

In other words, we must stand up for people of decency, moral standards and proper, normal living. Like what we do…

Words by Dick Tinyjohn

————————————————–

The above is a fictional account of an event that happened in my life that was extremely traumatic. The way it is written above is based on a rather nasty article that was written about  teacher Lucy Meadows.

Lucy meadows was a primary school teacher at St Mary Magdalene’s C of E Primary School in Accrington, Lancashire. What made her the centre of attention was that Ms Meadows was formerly known as Nathan Upton. She was found dead at her home on 19th March 2013.

There was a huge furore about the media being a part in her death. You can read an article regarding the late Ms Meadows here

Certain publications have been accused of hounding Ms Meadows and making her life unbearable, and also of carrying out monstering where the victim is made out to be a figure of revulsion, and almost dehumanized.

There has been much discussion on freedom of speech and what constitutes news. Was it in the public interest that the news of Ms Meadows’ transformation from male to female be broadcast? Was it essential that it was put into the public domain?

Maybe. After all, stories of human adversity sell papers, but does that mean that it can be written with such contempt and small mindedness?

Normally, I only blog about personal experiences, as, unlike some, I feel that I cannot comment on others issues, unless I have experiences them myself. Obviously I have not been shown in the press, and for that I am truly grateful. But it got me thinking : “What if someone HAD printed that part of my life in the press and hounded me? How would I feel?”

I don’t think that I would be here blogging about it if someone had thought that part of my life was newsworthy. Or to be more honest, if I had put up with the cynical, fear inducing monstering that Ms Meadows had lived with.

It made me think about the way the media portrays those of us that are different or even varying from normal. But what IS normal?

Who defines normal?

The media is indeed a powerful tool that can do a lot of good, but like all powerful things, in the wrong hands it can cause havoc and destruction.

Voltaire said “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I’ll defend to the death your right to say it”, and this is applicable to the popular press. Not every news story is a happy one, and there IS bad in the world that should be reported. But surely, in the case of Ms Meadows for instance, a sense of decency and humility should have been observed?

There is a natural fear of the unknown, but the way to conquer that fear is to learn and understand.

There are those in this world that are different, but they are their own kind of normal. All it needs is understanding and a little humility. But to get to that point, people have to WANT to learn and understand. Without that want, there is no way that the stigma of difference will be destroyed.

To counter the fictional article above, I will write the same thing, but with more humility and understanding.

————————————————–

A teenage boy has suffered an attack at the hands of two older men.

The boy, who we decided not to name, was raped by a man who he had met at a night club.

The young man has admitted that he willingly performed sexual acts on the man a number of times and that he returned to the mans flat on more than one occasion. The young man stated that at no point did he consent to full sex with a man.

It was rumored that the young man was the woman of the partnership, and, it has been alleged, that he dressed as such on the request of the older man, but only when in the older ones flat.

On the last occasion the youngster went to the flat, he admits to performing a sex act and spending time with the older man. It was at some point that a friend of the older man entered the premises. It was at this point that the young man was sexually attacked by both men.

He has stated that he was too scared to fight back because he feared that his ordeal would get worse. He feels that he could not report his attack due to not being believed. This is another stigma of victim blaming that is currently increasing.

The young man has a history of mental illness, including bipolar disorder, anxiety issues and feelings of self loathing. Also we have been informed that he was also a victim of child abuse from an early age.

This reporter asks : could this victim have been protected? What help is available to a victim of male rape?

To this reporters mind, rape is rape is rape, no matter the sex of the victim. Mental illness has a stigma attached to it that sometimes means that people with it suffer in silence. This silence should not be necessary. 

We, in the media, have a duty to inform and educate the public. We can capture the public’s imagination and we can break the stigma that surrounds things that are viewed as different.

Words by Salvador Q Gruntfuttock. 

————————————————–

Everyone learns by experience. I have learned a number of things in my life, but focusing on the attack I have learned a number of things.

I am NOT gay. I was NOT to blame for the rape. I have NOTHING to be ashamed of. I do NOT look good in a skirt…*

But… I have empathy for those who fight with their feelings about their sexuality. I can see things from other people’s point of view and I can put myself in their shoes** and see things from another angle.

I feel for Ms Meadows and her family. I can only begin to think of the trauma that was playing out in her life. She was not a monster. She was obviously a caring and dedicated teacher who was good at her job as she had the backing of the school staff. She had the bravery to admit to herself and others close to her that she was born in the wrong body.  And I am sure that she will be missed by all that knew her and supported her in what was a very harrowing time.

Personally, those in the media that had such contempt for a human life are the monsters. But we must be careful not to tar ALL reporters with the same brush. Because to do that would be hypocritical of us as those of us with mental illness or anything deemed ‘abnormal’ do not like to be grouped.

We’re all individual and no matter what issues we have to overcome, we manage it everyday of our lives.

*Trust me… I don’t have the legs. And how the hell you women wear that stuff is beyond me…

**…as long as those shoes aren’t Crocs. Or open toed sling backs…

The Shame Of Blame

Recently, events have occurred that are so heinous they are almost incomprehensible.

It seems that the value of human life has crashed to an all time low.

I’m talking of the rape and abuse of innocent victims and the way that the victims are treated afterwards.

In December 2012, a medical student in India was attacked, beaten and gang raped on a public bus. She was thrown from the bus after her ordeal. She suffered such horrific injuries at the hands of the animals, that she later died of her injuries.  Her death sparked the fight for stronger sentences for sexual attackers and better rights for women.You can read an account about her ordeal here

Then there was reports of a rape in Steubenville, Ohio, where two teenagers were accused and convicted of raping a 16 year old girl. Children abusing other children is indeed unspeakable, but sadly nothing new. But it is the attack on the victim AFTER the rape that has sparked more revulsion. Her character was assassinated, she suffered more humiliation as her ‘promiscuity’ was highlighted. She was even intimidated by other WOMEN because the accused were High School Football ‘stars’. The case sparked fury on social media and coverage of the case has been much written about.

In both of these cases, it has been the victim who has been to blame, and it is worrying that there is a growing ‘blame culture’ in society today. Two of my Twitter buddies, @nitramaraul and @PlanetPavs have both written excellent posts regarding the treatment of victims of abuse and decrying the seemingly growing band of rape apologists and the growing ‘trend’ of victim blaming.

But the thing is, a victim doesn’t need anyone to blame them, because in a lot of cases, they blame themselves already.

But what IS ‘victim blaming’?

It does exactly what is says on the tin. It is where people view the victim to be at fault rather than the actions of the perpetrator. And some people can’t see anything wrong with that…

It doesn’t matter how drunk the victim was, or how short her skirt was, how low her top was or what her sexual past is like. No victim is ever ‘asking for it’.

A comment was made by ‘actor’ Bill Roache that “…victims of paedophiles are being punished for past sins…”

Yes… I will let that sink in for a second.

If that is the case, then I must have been one hell of a bastard in my former life.

The connotation is that Mr Roache believes in ‘karma’, which as far as this uneducated blogger is aware is a religious view. And we shall not go into the Catholic church and its views on child abuse, same sex relationships and women in general…

The tragic thing is, that as I have stated earlier, the need for blaming a victim isn’t necessary.  They think that they were at fault anyway. The thought that maybe they DID deserve it because they were bad, or that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The stigma of shame that a victim carries around with them is heavy to bare, but they do it. Some will never tell another soul about their ordeal for fear that no one will believe them, or the shame is so great that they suppress it, they bury in deep in their memory.

The way that a victim of abuse is dealt with right from the start is both intimidating and degrading. The police DO have specialist officers to deal with victims of abuse, but it is a stressful process and the thought of it can and does indeed put victims off.

And so therefore a lot of abuse goes unreported.

And the victims suffers a life sentence whilst their attacker walks around free.

I have spoken about my past as a victim of abuse from an early age. I have also spoken of the time where, in hindsight, I ended up being raped. Now even though I was there by choice, I did things by choice, and dressed up by choice (kind of…), I did not ask to be attacked and abused by two men. In fact, I remember pleading with them to stop. But then, I also remember just thinking that it’ll soon be over, so just do what they want, and you’ll get through it.

Yes, I was there by choice because I was confused as to who and what I was. I even dressed up the way he wanted me to, because that was what had happened before. But I thought I knew my boundaries and what I felt comfortable in doing.

And the same applies to women who are blamed for being attacked. Just because they do one thing, it doesn’t give abusive males the right to take it further against her will.

The sad thing is that the only people who will ever REALLY know what went on in any given situation are the victim and the perpetrator. And the times that the victim stays silent means that a lot goes unreported.

So the victim blaming HAS to stop. It seems that you can get into trouble for saying derogatory comments about someone famous, but some can say what they want regarding a victim of abuse.

Victims need to know that they are going to be supported, and more importantly, believed. It is a VERY emotive subject, but it is something that I feel needs addressing.

Suffering is silence is just that – suffering. A victim will live with the shame of what happened to them on their own, and until things change and victims can come forward without fear of further abuse or retribution of any kind, this will sadly continue.

There is no need for anyone to blame a victim, because the shame of blame is already there for them.

A poem… of sorts

I had a bit of an ‘arty’ moment, so with apologies to poetry lovers everywhere, I give you this….

P.S – I’m REALLY sorry about the way it’s laid out. I DID try to separate the verses, but WordPress had other ideas… Sorry…

A POEM THAT DOESN’T HAVE A GOOD TITLE AS MY MIND WENT BLANK…

I stand in front of you and tell you how I feel,

But because you cannot see the scars, you think it is not real.

I find it hard to talk sometimes, the words will not come out,

But something deep inside of me makes me want to shout.

I NEED HELP!! I NEED A FRIEND OR EVEN A HUG

But all you do is look at me and… shrug.

———-

My scars are not visible, but trust me, they are there,

And in the time I needed help, did you really care?

Or was it that you didn’t know what to think, do or say?

Please don’t ignore me, just say that its OK.

———-

My mind is broken, but not weak,

That I have to say,

The black feelings, the dark emotions,

They will not go away.

———-

The thoughts weigh heavy on my mind,

So all I ask of you, is please.. just be kind.

I do not want your sympathy, or even a helping hand,

All I ask and want from you,

Is for you to understand.

———-

I promise I am not weak minded, of that I can be sure,

For what I suffer, a weakened mind I know would not endure.

The abuse, the torture, the anguish, the pain,

Although my scars aren’t visible, those memories still remain.

———-

You look like you’re scared of me,

Because my illness you cannot see.

But trust me, my friend, when I say,

I wish more than anyone, it would go away.

———-

Do you think I want to be like this?

I can assure that’s not true.

I hate it, detest it, but it’s part of me

So what else can I do?

———-

I take my meds and carry on,

And hide behind a mask,

But I tell you, my friend,

It’s never an easy task.

———-

I wear a mask to hide the real me,

From others, so they cannot see,

And it saves them having to deal

With the pain and anguish I feel.

———-

I am honest with you about myself,

So, please, try to be the same

If you don’t understand, just ask,

And you will see behind the mask.

———-

I am a normal person,

I just admit my faults,

I am mentally ill. I am sick,

Which ever one you like, please just take your pick.

———-

So, my friend, as I hope you now see

There are indeed two sides to me.

But my illness was not planned,

And all I ask of you, is for you to understand.

———-

My rock in a hard place (and some pebbles too…)

I am, in some ways, a lucky man.

I am not blessed with the perfect body, or good looks. I am over weight (or, under tall…) and I wear glasses due to being short-sighted and having a slightly lazy eye. My teeth are crooked from years of rugby, martial arts, working the door and walking the beat. I have a stammer that comes out when I get tired or stressed. I have unruly hair that no matter how much hair product I apply to it, the tuft at the back WILL stick up as will the cowslick at the front.

Anyway… Moving on…

So why do I feel that I am lucky?

Well, as you know if you’re a regular reader of this blog (and if you are, there is help out there for you…) I live with my mental illness and i have come to accept it. I may not like it all the time, but I cope with it. Mostly…

I use social media in the form of Twitter and hopefully I have tweeted some useful, insightful or just plain amusing tweets or something that someone has found comforting. I hope so. And the people who follow me and those that I follow on Twitter are amazing to. They’re very supportive and extremely helpful, because without them, this blog would be nothing.

I have had comments on here about how brave I am for writing what I do, but I’m not really brave at all. After all, I use a pseudonym and my real name and face are never seen here or on Twitter. And to those who have said “I wish I could talk so directly about my illness”, I say this.

You can. Starting to talk about mental illness IS hard, that I will not deny, but I found that once I started, it got easier. I liken it to making a small hole in a dam. It will start as a trickle, but in time, that small hole will get bigger and bigger and the bigger it does, the more will come out, and it will become easier.

And the more we talk about it, the quicker we can get rid of the stigma that follows mental illness like a dark shadow.

So to all the Twitterati who follow me and support me and this humble blog, and those that I pester religiously to retweet every time I write a new post on here (Mr B and Mr F, I mean you two…) I really appreciate it. You are my online support network. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

But what about the time I am away from Twitter?

Well… I have my rock.

She is, without doubt, one of the most amazing women I have ever met. We have been together for 18 months and I can honestly say that I have opened up to her more than I ever have with anyone. And that includes my parents, siblings and the mother of my children.

She is one of the most understanding and caring people who I have ever been honoured to meet. She knows my deepest darkest secrets, and she hasn’t run away. She knows when I’m heading for a dip or a crash, usually before I do, and she is patient when I do crash. She is there for me no matter what. She will listen to me pour my heart out, listen to me be reduced to a blubbing wreck, and she will calm me down before I lose the plot.

She has put up with my mood swings. She doesn’t mind that I am the winner of ‘MOST UNROMANTIC MALE’ award for the past 21 years running. She can handle the way that I am very unpredictable.

She will happily sit and watch me typing away at this blog, supplying me with tea while she sits next to me. In fact, she is extremely supportive of my blogging. She never complains about anything, even when I inadvertently say something out of order and if I do crash, she is patient and will never rush me. As long as she gets a text when I get in from work, she is happy. She gives so much and asks for nothing in return.

She even doesn’t mind my obsession with Lego Star Wars, and Star Wars in general. She actively encourages my geeky side. And she is much liked and respected by Old Mother Biker*. And meeting my mothers approval is no easy thing.  Trust me… I know…

And the thing is, she, like me, is slightly damaged. Not in the same way as me, but she has survived a nasty relationship. She is 5′ tall, size 12 and her ex was a 5’9″ 22 stone bully. Someone I would SO like to meet one day to ‘have a word with’. But she doesn’t dwell on it. Her size belies her inner strength.

And yet she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see what her friends and I see.

She has something totally alien to me – life long friends.

And I am privileged enough to have been accepted into that close circle.

They all know about my illness, and they accept me for who and what i am. Each one of this circle has their own flaws or problems, but they are survivors, each and every one.

But above all, they are all amazing individuals, and truly great people.

And that is why I am a lucky man. I have the support of some pretty amazing people, both on Twitter and in real life.  And if you are reading this, then I thank you for your support. Long may it continue.

However, the one person who I appreciate and indeed love the most will probably not see this as she will not read it unless I show her because she has got upset by some of the things I have written regarding my illness. That is the way she is.

We have no secrets from each other and she knows everything about me, and vice versa. She is, without doubt, my soul mate. I have gone from a “cold hearted, hard faced, unemotional git” (her words, not mine…) to someone who can trust another person enough to open up and talk. I may not be able to talk about everything to everyone, and positive emotions can still be difficult, but with her help, love and support, I will get there.

That cold hearted, hard faced, unemotional git is still there a lot of the time, but there is another side to me that hasn’t really been seen. A me that can be hopeful and slightly optimistic. Or at least as optimistic as I can be.

She’s my rock in the hard place that can be my mental health.

And I cannot thank her enough for all that she has done.

 

*No… My mother does NOT ride a bike… She can’t even drive. Unless it’s from the back seat… :-[

A victim speaks up…

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL ABUSE, VICTIM ABUSE & RAPE APOLOGISTS

Last week, I wrote a piece about when I was attacked by two men during my mid teen years. You can read that piece here

I spent a few days going over it, wondering if I should publish is or not, whether I should change some content, or be blunt and direct and to hell with the consequences. I think I found a pretty good balance. But also, it was letting out my deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret. THAT was the main thing that scared me.

I was terrified of what people would think or say, but for the most part, the replies that I got were positive. Some where shocked and said that I was ‘brave’ for writing it, some applauded me for speaking about my experiences. And that was a good thing. Thing was, I didn’t FEEL brave. I was scared about public reaction. Contrary to popular myth, I DO care what people say or think about me.

But, like I said, most of the comments were in the supportive and positive vein.

I say most, because there were some truly horrible things that were written in response to it. Most of these were replies to the post on this blog, but luckily, I have to ‘approve’ comments before they appear here for all to see. Some were sent to my Twitter account, but those were deleted as soon as I got them. I am not in the habit of naming those responsible because what is the point? Chances are, it’s a false name under a ghost email set up for the sole purpose of online bullying, intimidation or ‘trolling’.

To give you a taster of some of the comments, these have been copied word for word, but only the salient points are printed…

“…you said that you went back time n time again, so why are you surprized you got f***ed up the arse…”

“…sounds like you wanted it but now youre whining like some bitch…”

“…lol fag…”

“…how can you suck dick and then cry when you get what you know you wanted…?”

But possibly the worse comment was this one…

“…Oh another man trying to get us to feel sorry for him. You obviously do not have ANY idea of what women go through so DO NOT bring your woes down on us…”

I suspect that this was written by a male trying to write as a woman, but I cannot be sure, and that’s part of the reason why I refuse to put names to messages. A troll by any other name is still a troll…

And those were the more erudite sections of the comments I received. Yes, it upset me but I just refused to give these idiots the publicity they seem to so desperately desire.

It seemed that I opened up a can of worms with my last post. That wasn’t my intention at all. It was never my intention to denigrate ANY victim of rape. I am not comparing male rape with female rape. One is not better than the other. BOTH are heinous crimes that leave behind the same thing.

It leaves behind a victim. A very emotionally scarred victim.

But apart from causing upset, I cannot think why anyone would want to write such things about ANY kind of victim, whether it be a victim of mental, physical or sexual abuse, or of domestic violence. The sad thing is, the vast majority of rape victims ARE female, but abuse doesn’t discriminate.

Male, female. Young, old. Gay, straight.

Whilst on Twitter, I came across another blog written by @PlanetPavs that was about abuse she suffered online regarding misogyny and rape. You can read her excellent post here

This point of this post is NOT to say “HEY!!! US MEN GET RAPED TOO YOU KNOW…”

No… It is about how victims suffer time and time again, even after their ordeal is over. It is a males view on what a victim of abuse goes through. But I hope it is more than that. I hope that anyone who reads this will know there they’re not alone.

The abuse that @PlanetPavs suffered was indeed vile in the extreme, but I find it greatly upsetting that there are those out there that can take the piss out of such an event.

The shame that a victim feels is intense. They don’t need idiotic comments like those @PlanetPavs and I received. Victims do not need to be told that they were asking for it, or that they deserved it.

And I shall tell you why. I, for one, do not need to be told this by some keyboard warrior on the internet who get their kicks from trolling and making inane comments, because I already THINK these thoughts.

I have asked myself time and time again over the years if there was anything I could have done to stop it. I have lived with the shame that others have forced me to do things that I do not what them to do. I have  been too scared to tell anyone for fear of their reactions. I have had many sleepless nights where I wish for sleep that never comes because all I can see in my mind’s eye are the acts they made me perform. I have tried to deal with the adverse effects on other intimate relationships that were caused by the rape.

Victims need support, not more abuse. There is NO excuse for any kind of assault. No-one has the right to make another human do something against their will.

No-one has the right to leave physical or emotional scars on another person.

There are a few (mostly men, I admit) that seem to make ‘excuses’ for abusers. There are times when rights and feelings of the abuser are put above those of the victim. But there can be no excuse what so ever for such crimes.

There has also been times in the past when a man has been wrongly accused of rape and had his name smeared across the tabloids. There have been times when a man has been acquitted of rape because the victim was ‘too drunk’ at the time of the attack to recall the actual events at the time of the attack.

But each time, I can assure you, the victim stands there in court and relives every single moment of their attack. It is a tough business being in court. I know, but I was trained to give evidence. It was my job. But for a solitary victim, to stand there in the dock and recount every last detail of their attack, it is truly horrific. Their lives are picked apart by the defense team. Previous sexual encounters. What they’ve done before. What they were seen doing right before the attack.

Basically, they can be portrayed of as bad a character as possible.

And this is why so many victims, both male and female, suffer in silence.

And when the trolls come out from under their bridge and send vile messages to victims of abuse, it can hurt sometimes. The ones who are apologists for abuse and accuse the victims of being promiscuous or wearing ‘slutty’ clothing are only doing it for a reaction, or to gain kudos with like minded knuckle scrapers.

Naturally, these cowards, these internet warriors, would never say anything to victims face to face.

Because then, they might, in all likelihood,  get the crap beaten out of them.

And then we could say “You know what? You were just asking for that…”