6 Facts I Want the World to Know About My Mental Illness

Shining light on the darkness.

On a cold winter night in 2003, I was guarding the bodies of two teenagers, dead from suicide. I had no idea of the lifelong trauma this night would inflict on me and my loved ones.

As I descended into the ranks of the mentally ill, I saw and felt society’s prejudice and ignorance at every step. As a heterosexual, white male — and a police officer, I never expected to experience prejudice. Yet, here I was, getting the funny looks that come when people think you’re lesser than them.

I’ve made a remarkable recovery. Not cured, but better. Society has many misconceptions about mental illness, and I need to address them.

1. It’s not my fault.

I got ill protecting people. That was my role as a police officer. I joined the job when I was young and naive. When I thought of danger, I imagined I could get attacked and physically hurt, but I never anticipated the dangers to my mental health.

I never knew witnessing tragedy, violence, and gore could profoundly impact me. I should have. I’d seen the Vietnam War documentaries — the veterans with their 1000-yard stares.

The job changed my brain chemistry:

• Teenagers killing themselves
• I discovered the body of a young man who hanged himself two weeks earlier
• The smell of death
• The woman who’s abusive husband found her and killed her and their baby
• The motorcyclist who died as I looked on
• Finding a drug addict dead in a toilet
• The broken families, orphaned children, and relentless sadness.

I’m not weak. I didn’t ask to be ill. I’m not to blame.

2. I don’t benefit from my mental illness.

When a psychiatrist diagnosed me with PTSD, I was careful who I told. I knew many people would be skeptical and think I was making it up to get a payout and leave the police. My dad told one of his friends about it, and he flat-out laughed. He didn’t believe a word.

I now realize this says a lot more about him than me. HE was the kind of person to fake illness for monetary gain, and he projected his lack of integrity onto me.

To get and stay well, I have to take powerful medication. It caused me to gain 80lbs in a year. For a long time, I slurred my words. I slept for 15 hours a day. It raised my cholesterol and blood pressure. It made my thinking foggy.

I hardly went outside for years. Most people no longer talk to me, as they faded away over time. This includes my colleagues — the so-called police “family.”

3. I’m not dangerous.

I know better than most how dangerous a minority of mentally ill people can be. My dad’s cousin murdered his mother with an axe and then called the police because he didn’t remember doing it. But these shock cases make the news because they’re rare.

As well as PTSD, I also have schizophrenia. It’s a word that terrifies many, including me. Yet even Schizophrenics are far more dangerous to themselves than to anyone else. I’ve never felt murderous, but I’ve frequently felt suicidal.

People also get the words “psychopathic” and “psychotic” mixed up. Part of schizophrenia is being psychotic. This means a detachment from reality, sensory hallucinations, and delusions. Someone who is psychopathic is incapable of empathy and is highly manipulative.

Many serial killers are psychopathic, but people with schizophrenia are psychotic.

4. I hid in the shadows for years.

I avoided the outside world for years. I wouldn’t even answer the phone. An exception was my annual vacation with my family because I trusted them, and we went to a secluded spot so other people didn’t bother me. One year, a close friend of my dad’s who hadn’t seen him in a long time asked to visit us.

I spent the entire time in my bedroom. From the outside, it must have looked rude. Weird even. I played video games all day.

Part of the reason I started writing is because I decided to stop hiding in the shadows. I’ll tell my story to anyone interested enough to listen. I’m an open book.

5. I’m not weak.

Mental illness has indeed weakened me, but I’m far from weak. People underestimate the strength it takes to survive:

• I got out of bed and pushed forward every day through depression
• I wished I was dead often, but I never acted on it
• I lost my purpose in life, but I found a new one
• I have kept my relationship for over 19 years now
• I write every day
• I invest in the stock market with all the ups and downs that entails

The fight to find meaning after my identity as a police officer was taken from me was the greatest struggle of all. For years, I just existed. Writing, trading, and investing have been life savers for me. I changed my life at 40. It’s never too late to do something different.

6. I remember how people treated me at my lowest.

People showed me what they were made of at my lowest ebb. My mum, dad, and girlfriend stuck with me no matter what. No matter how horrible I got or how desperate the situation seemed, they never gave up. They’re a fundamental reason for my recovery.

But there’s also the bad side. At one stage, I spent much time with my girlfriend at her old family home to escape my pain. One day, inexplicably, her sister decided she couldn’t stay in the same house as me. I felt that rejection acutely because I was vulnerable at the time. It was like kicking me when I was down.

No explanation has ever been given for why she did that to me.

I also remember the bullying of nurses in the mental hospital. I remember the other professionals who wrote me off as 100% disabled for the rest of my life.

You’re the fuel that propels me forward. When the going gets tough, I think of you, and my disdain for you keeps me going.

Conclusion.

Those fortunate enough to have survived mental illness genuinely want to live. Death tried to seduce us, and we resisted. Something keeps us going.

I’ll never be cured in the traditional sense where I no longer need medication. I’ll never be as strong as I was before I became ill. But I’m better than I ever thought possible.

Now, I’m strong enough to make a choice, and I choose to live.

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