Mental Health Memoirs or '50 Shades of Grey'

Now, I love a good mental health misery memoir. I find them reassuring (“at least I’m not the only nutcase”), comforting (“at least I’m not as bad as that”) and the narrative arc they follow – back story, crisis, road to recovery, quietly optimistic finale – is satisfying when your own life fits no pattern or path, and you are navigating the wilderness without a route map.

However, these memoirs should come with a health warning. Inevitably they are chronicles of pretty bloody bad cases of mental distress. For the authors to be compelled to write them, and the publishers to publish them, they are dramatic tales of rock bottom and then recovery. There are no memoirs (to my knowledge) of the daily, mundane, tedious struggles with mild to moderate anxiety and depression that the vast majority of us face.

Many people who live with anxiety and depression are superficially functioning pretty well – holding down jobs, being parents, paying bills – but the toll that just getting by takes on battered psyches is huge. We self medicate (booze, carbs, recreational drugs, crap telly, excessive sleeping or even exercising), we flop on the sofa and lie there like Jabba the Hutt for entire weekends, we withdraw from anything vaguely sociable, much loved hobbies seem like chores, chatting on the ‘phone or making small talk is a struggle. This life, this shadowy, gloomy, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other life, is not the stuff of books and memoirs. It is boring to live it, let alone write about it.

So, that is why reading these memoirs can be dangerous if you are looking for clues about your own situation. You read them, and think, “blimey, I’m not that bad” and tell yourself you can’t have serious enough depression or anxiety to seek help. And you struggle on for longer than you ought to, with your little toolkit of props and crutches, rather than facing the fact that the life you are living is not really a life at all.

Depression and anxiety come in all different shapes and sizes, and medical people give them labels such as mild, moderate or severe.  I’ve had them all, and they are all grim - but for different reasons. Severe depression, the focus of many of the memoirs, is dramatic, obvious, life threatening and absolutely irrefutable. Your body and your mind, your very essence, have crashed and burned. Elvis has left the building. You look in the mirror and don’t recognise yourself. Getting through one minute at a time feels like a feat of endurance. Suicide seems a useful option. You are in crisis and everyone can see it. And that is the ‘joy’ (ha!) of severe depression. You can no longer function, and people will see you are folding in on yourself, you won’t be able to cope at all and I hope, for your sake, that something will be done. It is the car crash scenario, and people around you will ensure you are rushed into the mental equivalent of A&E for swift treatment with no questions asked.

Stretching the car accident analogy, mild or moderate depression is the whiplash of mental health – painful, debilitating and equally life-changing, but, because you can still trudge to school to drop the kids off, or show up to your desk at work, or shove some baked beans on toast at tea time – you and your friends and family might be fooled into thinking that things are OK, but just a bit crap. You have tiny glimpses of who you used to be, flashes of enthusiasm, bursts of energy…and you cling to these and hope they are the end of a rope that will pull you out of your mental quagmire. You spend an afternoon, doing the things you used to find satisfying or enjoyable (Housework! Shopping! Going to the gym! Having a proper laugh with a friend! Actually enjoying a game with your kids!). But, sadly, inevitably, you pay a price for believing you can put the ‘fun’ back into functioning. You hit a wall, your energy slumps and your mood flops back into apathy or the meat grinder of dread and worry.

And this cycle of feeling a modicum better and then feeling crap, getting through the days, is what ultimately can lead to a bigger mental crisis further down the line. It kids you into thinking you are OK, that if you can hang on till Christmas/summer/your holiday you will cheer up. Don’t be fooled. Get help. You are not living, you are surviving. And you could waste years of your life lying on the sofa, never smiling and feeling defeated.

Now, despite the health warning about mental health memoirs, and because I am a mass of contradictions, I’m going to list my fave reads down below.  Interestingly, they are all by people who write for a living (journalists, poets, authors), and I think that helps make them more satisfying to read. Just don’t believe they are in any way the only blue print for mental distress and because you are not that bad, you don't need treatment:

My Age of Anxiety by Scott Stossel

Fascinating and thoroughly researched, Scott Stossel shows how crippling anxiety doesn't have to hold you back.

Shoot the Damn Dog by Sally Brampton

Behind the glamour of editing fashion magazines, Sally Brampton wrestled with and prevailed over depression. Good 'useful stuff' section at the end with advice about what can help.

Sunbathing in the Rain by Gwyneth Lewis

A brilliantly comforting and positive book about depression.

The Devil Within by Stephanie Merritt

Vivid and eloquent descriptions of a life lived with anorexia, anxiety and post-natal depression.

The Woman Who Thought Too Much by Joanne Limburg

This memoir doesn't follow the usual narrative arc (which I like), but is so insightful and honest about living with obsessive compulsive disorder.

Through the Dark Woods by Joanne Swinney

This is written from a Christian perspective - and is excellent at looking at how the Church helps or hinders those with mental illness.

Just out of interest, do you have a favourite mental health memoir (not because I am a mental health memoir junkie or anything...)?