Open Up. No, Not Like That.

Cast your mind back to 1984. A young and bequiffed Midge Ure and Bob Geldof, who I think only owned that one ‘Feed the World’ t-shirt that year, seemed to have set the stage for some tuneful social and economic change when they got the band together for festive banger Do They Know It’s Christmas. Sadly, they properly shit the bed because there is loads of snow in Africa at Christmas time, Africans do know it’s Christmas, and a lot of the relief money from Band Aid 1984 ended up being used by Ethiopia’s dictatorship. When the only water flowing is the bitter sting of patronising white knights unwittingly arming a regime.

Sometimes there is a veneer of genuine change and care, but do pay attention to the man behind the curtain. Surface level care towards sufferers of mental health problems can wear many disguises and, while these are not necessarily sculpted by malice, they shape an environment in which an invitation to open up does not mean we are welcome to do so.

The first is the hypocritical figure of ‘care.’ Twitter is awash with #BeKind, but is anyone kinder when they see someone suffering? In the last few weeks singer Sam Smith- who openly experiences bouts of depression- has been the subject of a social media battering, labelled spoilt and out of touch for daring to be photographed crying in their own home during a global lockdown. The sardonic vitriol Sam Smith has recently been on the wrong end of bears more than a passing resemblance to the venom Britney Spears faced during her public mental breakdown in 2007. I have seen the same people on social media call Sam Smith a spoilt brat that were mere weeks ago preaching kindness in the wake of Caroline Flack’s loss. Pick a lane- you either care or you don’t.

Friends share mental health awareness posts on social media, but would you be comfortable going to them if you had a problem? What would happen if you did? Unfortunately, the onus is squarely on the sufferer to set the tone of the conversation and educate those around them of how they can be helped during a crisis. A lot of this hinges on the way these friends talk about mental health in a more general capacity- seeing someone I know using codified or overtly dehumanising, patronising and nasty language is the sort of thing that really stays with me. How do you tell a friend you are scared to talk to them because you’ve seen the way they have reacted to public figures suffering from mental health problems? How can you tell them you are worried that’s what they think of you?

This brings me on to the next figure- the one that will tell you to open up to them, but expect you to do so within parameters they have not verbally set. On the surface, at the most superficial level, it looks as though we have come far enough to confidently be able to step forward and say “I am not well.” Sometimes it does not come out like that, though. I know that in the middle of an episode I can’t necessarily verbalise what’s going on with me. I can lose track of the actual problem and fixate on something seemingly innocuous, I can lash out, I can say the wrong thing, I can go radio silent. If I don’t do it right I know I probably won’t be taken seriously. Some of the most damaging conversations I’ve had about my mental health have been with friends and family for the simple reason that they want my illness to be compliant enough to choose a convenient moment and a considerate outlet. It’s not convenient or considerate when it exists only in my head, so it stands to reason that it probably won’t be either of those things outside of it. Open up, be honest with me. No- not like that.

I don’t think one dimensional approaches to mental health are born from a stark lack of care. It’s clear that people want to care, but often don’t know how. Perhaps mental illness can seem like a problem detached from us- it’s a picture of Britney in a salon with a pair of clippers; it’s a photo of Sam Smith crying; it’s a news article about suicide statistics or the number of Britons on prescribed antidepressants. Unless it’s a regular part of our lives, we don’t expect to be faced with it on a personal level and we can be blindsided by its unpredictability. This sense of detachment can mean that we have no idea how to deal with it when it comes and stands toe to toe with us. We don’t know how even the most seemingly inconsequential uses of language can have a personal impact on someone close to us.

Loving someone that you know experiences episodes of poor mental health comes with a set of responsibilities, but they are probably not the responsibilities you think they are. We don’t want you to have all the answers. We don’t want you to feel you have to take responsibility for us and we certainly don’t want a Do They Know It’s Christmas-esque attempt to solve the problem. Conversations during episodes are important, but so too is the preparation of an environment in which we feel we can speak up without feeling as though people think of us as spoilt, dramatic or overreacting. Accept variations in the ways we can express ourselves during an episode and don’t shut us out if we aren’t meeting expectations- to open up at all is to show a huge level of trust. For as much as there is social media bluster and a mirage of genuine care, this is rarely backed up in any meaningful sense. Like Bob and Midge, for all our efforts to do and say the right thing, we might shit the bed from time to time. Save on laundry by amending your language, approach and scope of what mental illness can look like, need and manifest as. Let me open up to you. No- not like that.