That’s me standing in front of you in the self-checkout line at the supermarket. Brightly dressed, a middle-aged person doing a last-minute grocery shop with the hoard of other pre-dinner shoppers.
I’m laughing and attempting to control my two school-aged boys as they cause the usual chaos that heralds the end of another long day. I glance at you and we catch eyes as I smile an apology for the boys’ boisterous but entertaining behaviour. Behind my smile, I wonder if you can see the pain in my eyes. The self-loathing and constant fear that I don’t deserve this beautiful life, I don’t even deserve this beautiful, simple moment of standing with my children in the supermarket.
I take my turn paying and leave the harshly lit shop that exposes all but our internal dialogues. I doubt you could see my pain. It’s very well hidden.
“Anxiety and depression have always been my companions; I just didn’t understand they were there.”
As a child, I lived with irrational thoughts around death and how many ways I could be hurt. I wouldn’t eat, slept terribly, and kept to myself a lot. I salute my poor parents who did their best to support me on top of running two small businesses. In the 1970s, mental health wasn’t really a thing, especially in a rural Queensland region. But I have no doubt it was their love and support that assisted me in completing school and leaving the nest.
My little companions were always there, though. I just found ways of living with these mysterious companions I assumed all people entertained in their head. So many ways. Music, art, travel, my career, pets, exercise, and friendships all were tools in my kit. I was lucky to avoid many of the addictive traps that often afflict those battling their companions. Maybe my health anxiety helped? Maybe it was just luck? I know things like alcohol and drugs are a very tempting temporary relief from the internal dialogue pain, and many beautiful and creative friends have been lost to the world, self-medicating to switch off.
But I functioned and I got by. I fell in love, got married, had children, had and have a beautiful life, and the drone of my companions was just a background noise of minor irritation. Then one day, the companions’ drone became a banshee scream in my head.
“They got me, and I fell down.”
It was a perfect life storm. The confusion of a pandemic and desire to keep my family safe, an unsupportive work environment leading to an employment change, feelings of isolation and exhaustion all repeatedly pounded my mind, and after about a year, I shattered.
I saw death everywhere. Pain. Self-hatred. Sense of failure. My mind raced with panic as I woke up with dread. My wife was terrified for me. I tried to hide the impact from the kids, but I’m sure they knew something was wrong. I paced the yard burning off nervous energy as I talked to myself. Each day I was getting more lost inside my own mind, but I was lucky.
I reached out to friends and family. They told me to get to the doctor immediately, and luckily the first words out of the doctor’s mouth as I wept uncontrollably in her office were, “We are going to get you well.” My mother and sister dropped everything to drive five hours to be by my side. My wife took on responsibility for the household duties.
I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that the privilege of having this support saved my life. I have so much gratitude.
“A year on from the shattering, my family and I still have many scars.”
We moved cities to be near family, and I have just returned to working part-time. It’s been a financial pressure and we no longer own a home. I have learned a lot about myself and have a vast knowledge of how to try and keep my anxiety and depression companions as a faint background hum.
Maintaining focus on my mental health recovery can prove a challenge with a young family, but I use the tools in my kit; exercise, eating well, counselling, trying to like and show myself compassion. And when I feel the onset of a panic attack, I ground myself by activating the five senses, focus on my breathing and being in the present moment. They are just thoughts.
Photos by Josh Woning Photography.
