It wouldn’t be so bad

 

... if you hadn’t made all those promises. 

... and if they hadn’t all turned out to be lies

... and if they weren’t all acts of betrayal

... costing my health, wealth and years of my life

This is a serious question.

It's Mental Health Week (somewhere in the world, anyway) and to mark the occasion, I have composed an essay, of sorts, based on my recent experiences. It's called 

This is a serious question.

An essay, of sorts, on suffering, and when enough is enough, or becomes too much. 

Being brief and powerful, it seemed like something I could print on coloured paper, and put in coloured envelopes, and leave in certain precincts for people to find, read and contemplate, by way of raising awareness of mental health issues, and the supports available to them. Like an anonymous act of public service. I once heard senior organisational leaders opining that such a thing would be a useful tool to create a sense of importance and urgency around the issues of mental health in their workplace, and to stimulate acts of individual and collective duty of care. My essay, of sorts, meets all the criteria. Good writing, tick. On topic, tick. Timeliness, tick. Personal angle, tick. Relevance to that work place, high, tick. Low cost to implement, tick. 

But then I took a break and read it again. (Good mental health practice, right there). Did I mention it's based on my own recent experience? It is, to be honest, quite confronting. (Hence its potential impact). But do I want to be setting that free to work its chaotic magic in the hearts and minds of its audience? Now that it's written, it's always an option, I guess. But even with the careful language I have chosen and the deliberate structuring of its message, it is confronting. Potentially triggering. And I do not wish to stimulate any more suffering than that to which I have myself been exposed. That is part of my duty of care, my moral obligation to ensure the safety and wellbeing of others. I exercise that duty of care, it seems, even when it has not been exercised towards me.  

So, please take a moment to appreciate the generosity of my motives in writing such a piece, and admire my restraint in not circulating it widely at this most pertinent time. Perhaps my discretion and good judgement will inspire others to consider what actions they can take to assist those members of their own communities who are suffering for want of basic actions of care and access to otherwise inaccessible support. 

One of these days

One of these days, my story will be told. I will tell it, or it will be told, by someone else who cares enough to give it voice. (Oh yes, there is someone who cares for me enough to do this small, huge thing). My story will be told, and its audience will be astonished, first, and probably disbelieving, until the incontrovertible evidence is made plain, as plain as my story when it is told, by me or by someone who cares. Because it is a plain story, there are no fantastical embellishments or wild speculations, merely a line of words, sometimes straight and sometimes meandering, just like the path I have trodden. These words, being plain, will carry all the weight of that which has occurred, and finding their audience, they will bloom as understanding. And the disbelief will be made into realisation, as the jolting shock of horrified comprehension ebbs away, until what is left is witness to this story, this plain story that is my story, told by me or someone who cares for me, and a sincere apology will be made.