Hope to be seen
James Withey
We tend to forget what a comforting, loving and hospitable word ‘asylum’ is. It’s a word full of hope.
Its meaning has been so altered over the years that we can’t help our associations with patient restraint, small locked rooms, distressed cries and cruel staff. But that’s not the whole picture, and certainly not at the old Gartnavel Royal.
I spend a lot of my time (probably too much of my time) thinking about what it was like for people like me, in asylums, in the 19th century. There’s no doubt I would have been there and I can’t help thinking, if I was going to be anywhere, I’d like it to be at the old Gartnavel Royal with its green spaces and progressive attitudes.
When I think of the lack of care and compassion shown in my own inpatient stays in psychiatric hospitals, it makes me weep for the lack of lessons learnt. Give me work on the piggery and a shot at curling any day over mindful colouring and nurses hiding from patients in the office. What gems of learning there must be in the locked archives.
One of the many things I’ve learned over the years managing my mental health is the importance of being seen and the importance of hope. Without these elements it’s hard to carry on.
We need to be heard. For our mental health to be witnessed and understood. For compassion to be at the heart of our care. For connection to be the lead in our ‘treatment’, if we have to call it that. When our pain is dismissed or unacknowledged, we’re left floundering around in our minds, wondering what we can do to let people see the distress we’re in.
It’s so hard to explain the pain in our heads, to try and articulate the dizzying awfulness of mental illness. The endless rush of fear, the constant gnawing of terror. We’re often so ill that we’re not in a position to get any words together anyway, let alone in any coherent way. Sometimes, when I’m in crisis and someone asks me how I am, all I can do I frown or grunt slightly, it’s too exhausting to speak, too confusing to.
The idea for The Recovery Letters website came to me when I was in a psychiatric hospital, because I didn’t hear enough about hope and I didn’t feel seen in my depression. The website (2012) and The Recovery Letters book (2017) contain letters from people recovering from their depression and writing to people who are currently experiencing it. It’s proper peer to peer support, where both the letter writer and reader benefit. I reckon the old Gartnavel would have embraced this idea with gusto.
When we connect to other people with similar experiences, something almost magical happens. The part of us that is trying so hard to exist, is ignited. The tiny flame that mental illness is trying to extinguish starts to flicker, not with any strength initially but the more we are seen and the more hopes gets in, the essence of us is illuminated, and we can see a way through.
The letters are a type of asylum, a place for us to go where we’re validated, where a hand reaches out to us and says, ‘it get it, I see you, I see your pain because I know that pain too.’
We don’t talk enough about the loneliness of mental illness, the torture of being in our own heads. Sometimes I want to open a door into my mind so people can look inside and see what an isolating place it is. I want to be able to do this especially when I’m in crisis, so I can go ‘now you can see how awful, how all encompassing it is.’
Hope helps loneliness. When we see others living their lives, the loneliness starts to dissipate. When I see that people crochet sausage dogs in their spare time, or play crazy golf with their cousins, or travel to Azerbaijan to see the carpet museum, I think, ‘OK, I could do that too’. They live, not despite of their illness, but alongside it, not letting it overtake them. They are part of my community, part of the tapestry of my future, they are beacons of hope.
It seems to me that the old Gartnavel was all about being seen and seeing hope. I imagine that the peace of the place was a sanctuary to so many who, like me needed a rest from the noisy chaos of their brains.
We need more places of solace, more places where we will be listened to, gain insight from others and rest our weary, weary heads.
James Withey is the author of five best selling self help books on mental health, and the co-editor of a further two. His books are published in fifteen countries and multiple languages. He is the founder of The Recovery Letters project (www.therecoveryletters.com). He lives with depression, anxiety, PTSD and a whole heap of other crap. He likes yoghurt, a lot. He lives in Hove, with his husband and rescue cat. You can find him at www.jameswithey.com.
Hope to be seen
James Withey
We tend to forget what a comforting, loving and hospitable word ‘asylum’ is. It’s a word full of hope.
Its meaning has been so altered over the years that we can’t help our associations with patient restraint, small locked rooms, distressed cries and cruel staff. But that’s not the whole picture, and certainly not at the old Gartnavel Royal.
I spend a lot of my time (probably too much of my time) thinking about what it was like for people like me, in asylums, in the 19th century. There’s no doubt I would have been there and I can’t help thinking, if I was going to be anywhere, I’d like it to be at the old Gartnavel Royal with its green spaces and progressive attitudes.
When I think of the lack of care and compassion shown in my own inpatient stays in psychiatric hospitals, it makes me weep for the lack of lessons learnt. Give me work on the piggery and a shot at curling any day over mindful colouring and nurses hiding from patients in the office. What gems of learning there must be in the locked archives.
One of the many things I’ve learned over the years managing my mental health is the importance of being seen and the importance of hope. Without these elements it’s hard to carry on.
We need to be heard. For our mental health to be witnessed and understood. For compassion to be at the heart of our care. For connection to be the lead in our ‘treatment’, if we have to call it that. When our pain is dismissed or unacknowledged, we’re left floundering around in our minds, wondering what we can do to let people see the distress we’re in.
It’s so hard to explain the pain in our heads, to try and articulate the dizzying awfulness of mental illness. The endless rush of fear, the constant gnawing of terror. We’re often so ill that we’re not in a position to get any words together anyway, let alone in any coherent way. Sometimes, when I’m in crisis and someone asks me how I am, all I can do I frown or grunt slightly, it’s too exhausting to speak, too confusing to.
The idea for The Recovery Letters website came to me when I was in a psychiatric hospital, because I didn’t hear enough about hope and I didn’t feel seen in my depression. The website (2012) and The Recovery Letters book (2017) contain letters from people recovering from their depression and writing to people who are currently experiencing it. It’s proper peer to peer support, where both the letter writer and reader benefit. I reckon the old Gartnavel would have embraced this idea with gusto.
When we connect to other people with similar experiences, something almost magical happens. The part of us that is trying so hard to exist, is ignited. The tiny flame that mental illness is trying to extinguish starts to flicker, not with any strength initially but the more we are seen and the more hopes gets in, the essence of us is illuminated, and we can see a way through.
The letters are a type of asylum, a place for us to go where we’re validated, where a hand reaches out to us and says, ‘it get it, I see you, I see your pain because I know that pain too.’
We don’t talk enough about the loneliness of mental illness, the torture of being in our own heads. Sometimes I want to open a door into my mind so people can look inside and see what an isolating place it is. I want to be able to do this especially when I’m in crisis, so I can go ‘now you can see how awful, how all encompassing it is.’
Hope helps loneliness. When we see others living their lives, the loneliness starts to dissipate. When I see that people crochet sausage dogs in their spare time, or play crazy golf with their cousins, or travel to Azerbaijan to see the carpet museum, I think, ‘OK, I could do that too’. They live, not despite of their illness, but alongside it, not letting it overtake them. They are part of my community, part of the tapestry of my future, they are beacons of hope.
It seems to me that the old Gartnavel was all about being seen and seeing hope. I imagine that the peace of the place was a sanctuary to so many who, like me needed a rest from the noisy chaos of their brains.
We need more places of solace, more places where we will be listened to, gain insight from others and rest our weary, weary heads.
James Withey is the author of five best selling self help books on mental health, and the co-editor of a further two. His books are published in fifteen countries and multiple languages. He is the founder of The Recovery Letters project (www.therecoveryletters.com). He lives with depression, anxiety, PTSD and a whole heap of other crap. He likes yoghurt, a lot. He lives in Hove, with his husband and rescue cat. You can find him at www.jameswithey.com.