Last month I suffered a serious injury, earning a trip in an ambulance, a few nights in hospital, and an extended convalescence and staggered return to work.
Whilst waiting for surgery, I posted a quick Facebook message to let friends and family know what had happened, where I was, and that my recovery would take a little while. Within minutes I had a flood of comments offering sympathy and support.
My partner fielded a few calls offering meals and babysitting.
Once I was at home, a colleague visited, bringing chocolates and flowers from work. I had a few friends drop by to keep me company or bring a lasagne.
I’ve been struck by how healing it has been to be able to talk over the trauma of my injury and the frustrations of my recovery with friends, on social media, and in the lunch room at work.
All of this made me feel extremely lucky. Without this kind of help and care, my experience would have been far worse. As someone used to independence, my injury has been a great reminder of how hard -- but also, affirming - it can be to have to rely on a network for support.
And I’m acutely aware that not everyone is so lucky; having little practical support at home can make returning from hospital a daunting and alienating experience for many people in our community. I’m grateful.
And yet, this past month I’ve had to swallow a feeling of strong injustice, even as I appreciate what I’ve received.
The fact is that this is the second time in six months that I’ve faced a major health crisis, but it’s the first time that I’ve had anyone cook for me or bring me flowers. Because last time it wasn’t a limb that needed to heal; it was my mind.
Despite the gains in awareness, it is still the case that most people experiencing a mental health crisis face stigma, silence, and isolation. The best efforts of initiatives like have certainly encouraged some Australians to open up about psychological and emotional struggles and to reach out for help.
I have great admiration for people who go public with their mental health struggles, working to lift stigma and refusing to accept that they don’t deserve help and sympathy.
Even so, as , many people are afraid to disclose their mental health problems to employers for fear of discrimination. These fears aren’t all unfounded.
Despite clear anti-discrimination legislation, almost a quarter of respondents to a eported being discriminated against or avoided at work after a disclosure of mental illness, and about half of the respondents who had been job-seeking perceived that they had not been hired because of their illness.
This situation has a silencing effect; even those of us who try to brave the stigma and disclose to some colleagues or managers that we are undergoing treatment for a psychological condition are rarely as open about this as we might be about a physical illness or injury.
This can mean that some employees run the risk of being seen as lazy or uncommitted if they need to take time off for appointments or to recover, which only compounds the issue.
People are sympathetic. They’re open about their own similar experiences. They are eager to help, and to listen to me whinge about the everyday frustrations of reduced mobility.
Last year when I had to take several weeks off work because my PTSD symptoms were too severe for me to perform my job effectively, most of my colleagues thought I had the ‘flu, because I was too afraid that I would be gossiped about if people knew the truth.
Even when I did disclose what was going to a manager, I didn’t receive any follow up or support upon my return to work. In fact, I had to take more sick leave than I really wanted, because it was preferable to stay home than to have to negotiate temporary changes to my duties.
This meant that I’ve taken a huge financial hit following my physical injury because I’d used up all my paid sick leave on mental health days. This is the kind of hidden tax commonly paid by people with invisible illnesses.
We shouldn’t underestimate how important it is for people with mental health struggles to be accepted and helped by those around them.
I’ve been struck by how healing it has been to be able to talk over the trauma of my injury and the frustrations of my recovery with friends, on social media, and in the lunch room at work.
People are sympathetic. They’re open about their own similar experiences. They are eager to help, and to listen to me whinge about the everyday frustrations of reduced mobility.
Yet, I usually don’t have the luxury of talking about the (arguably more serious) medical condition that has impacted on my life for many years.
I have great admiration for people who go public with their mental health struggles, working to lift stigma and refusing to accept that they don’t deserve help and sympathy.
Recently a friend documented her experience with hospitalisation for major depression on social media, bringing light to a process that is often unseen outside of sensationalised movie scenes.
Expressing her frustration at the stigma -- feared and actual -- of telling workmates that she needed help, she quipped, ‘no one sends you flowers for a broken brain.’
I can only hope that changes. Maybe if I find myself in a mental health crisis again, I’ll be brave enough to ask for the same flowers and chocolates that were forthcoming after my injury.
Or even better, maybe we can all work on being brave enough to offer the same care and sympathy to those we know are struggling with invisible wounds, and something altogether more complicated than influenza.
If this story raises issues for you, contact Lifeline on 131 114 or beyondblue on 1300 22 46 36.
