We are our own worst critics. We wouldn’t dream of being so unforgiving and cruel to other people. While we are a fountain of compassion for our loved ones, we are a brutal jailor to ourselves, and the psychological abuse is constant.
If you have a mental illness, the chances are high that you struggle to love yourself. It took me years to gain confidence, only to lose it all to post-traumatic stress disorder. Rebuilding my life took years, and improvement was erratic.
Throughout my journey, I had to confront why I hated myself and learned what we could all do to love ourselves more.
. . .
We feel weak
People with mental illness feel like failures. I thought I’d mapped out the perfect life. I’d be a police officer for 30 years, rise through the ranks, and retire at 53.
PTSD crushed my plans. I was medically retired at 27 and had no idea what would happen to me. A doctor diagnosed me as 100% disabled for the rest of my life.
Over the next decade, depression and loss of purpose broke me down to nothing. Even getting out of bed was a victory. But my mind hadn’t stopped working. I could see how weak I was, and I felt sickened.
I couldn’t stand hearing police sirens because it reminded me of what I’d lost. I didn’t want to talk to my friends because they were still living my dream. The world continued to turn, but I’d checked out.
One day, I realized this was not how I’d talk to a best friend. If I knew someone was suicidally depressed and struggling just to get up, I’d be there for them every step of the way. I’d do what I could to help, encourage them daily, and remind them of their achievements. My friends would be under no doubt that I loved them.
Yet here I was, full of criticism and hatred. I told myself I was a failure and a coward. I mocked myself for not being able to get out of bed. I fantasized about suicide and pushed my loved ones away.
I was doing the opposite of how I’d treat another person.
The way to combat feeling weak is to constantly remind yourself of the challenges you’ve faced and what you’ve achieved. Write down every victory, no matter how small, on post-it notes. Put them everywhere.
Replace harsh words with encouragement. It might feel false at first, but do it anyway.
Be your own best friend.
. . .
We feel isolated
When people find out we have a mental illness, they recoil. They don’t want to know, or they mock us (to hide their fear).
Many people with mental illnesses are isolated. I’ve encountered people that have died and not been discovered for months. When I was retired, I only heard from one police officer, and even he got bored because depression didn’t give me much to talk about.
If a police officer is physically hurt, their colleagues rally around. They provide support, financial help, gifts, and anything the officer needs. If an officer is injured psychologically, no one gives a damn. You’ll hear tumbleweed before a message of support.
Other officers are scared that PTSD could find them, too. It hits too close to home.
In a broader context, the public has no fundamental understanding of mental illness. This is especially true of psychotic illnesses such as schizophrenia. Say the “S” word, and people imagine a serial axe murderer instead of a desperate, lonely person tortured by their mind.
This is why I stress the importance of education. We need people to listen to our message when we feel well enough.
They need to know that people with schizophrenia are far more dangerous to themselves than anyone else.
They need to know that depression isn’t just an excuse to be lazy.
They need to know that trauma is genuine and not an excuse to claim benefits.
Get well first, and then change your small part of the world.
. . .
We compare ourselves to others
The worst thing we can do is compare our depressed self to a mentally healthy person. I spent years comparing myself with my police officer friends. I knew they were out having exciting adventures and doing important things while I lounged in my pajamas, crying.
I could never measure up to that comparison, and it was brutally unfair of me to try.
Instead, and it may be a cliche, we should realize that we are our only competition. The best comparison is between you at the worst stage of your illness and you as you begin to emerge on the other side.
I remember the first time I read a few pages of a book and remembered it without rereading it a dozen times.
I remember rejoining a gym for the first time since I became ill.
After months of doing nothing, I remember signing up for an open university course.
Now I’ve recovered, I achieve things every day that my depressed self could only dream of. I’m not interested in what everyone else is doing.
. . .
We feel lazy
The prejudices others have about us only hurt because we feel them, too. We feel lazy because mental illness has robbed us of our motivation. We can’t focus on our goals because we struggle to make it through the day. And what goals do we have at that stage anyway?
So we feel lazy, which leads to poor motivation, which feeds into feeling lazy—a vicious circle of our creation.
When you’re in the depths of mental anguish, finding motivation should be the least of your problems. But as you emerge into recovery, you need to push your comfort zone a little each day.
I could never be a police officer again, so I needed to learn new things and find new hobbies. I tried a bunch and gave them up — learning Japanese and Spanish, studying Chess for 8 hours a day, and learning to play Go. But eventually, I found interests that stuck.
Almost three years ago, I started writing. I was 40 years old, and all I’d ever written were crime reports and essays at university. I fell in love with the creative process. Writing is the best form of therapy I’ve ever found. A clear writer is a clear thinker. People started to compliment me on my articles. They told me I’d helped them. Suddenly, my pain wasn’t for nothing. I had a new purpose.
I also found a love for investing and built a six-figure portfolio.
I’m happy to be awake each day because I have a reason to get up. Purpose brought me relief from suicidal thoughts.
. . .
We sometimes hurt others emotionally
Occasionally, someone with a mental illness physically harms or kills someone. It’s rare, but it happens. However, the emotional harm our actions cause to those who love us is much more widespread.
When I was a child, our dog was run over. Immediately afterward, he had a severe leg injury. We tried to approach him to help, and he bit my dad. He even tried to bite the vet.
My dog was lashing out because he was in pain. He couldn’t understand what we were trying to do. Similarly, I’ve lashed out verbally at my loved ones on many occasions because of the intolerable pain in my head.
I spent years feeling angry. Policing didn’t help, and combing it with mental illness made me a powder keg. After a blow-up, I’d feel a ton of guilt.
Eventually, after recovering and being away from the police long enough, my anger calmed. I also learned the importance of taking a break before I react to overwhelming news. If I start to feel angry, I take a walk before I say anything I’ll regret. By the time I return, cooler heads prevail. I’ve saved myself so much pain and guilt from this simple activity.
It doesn’t have to be a walk, although walking is the simplest way. Just hold back from saying things in the moment. Learn to think things through first.
. . .
Final thoughts.
The ignorance of the general public towards those with mental health issues is nothing compared to the brutal treatment we dish out to ourselves.
For the sake of our recovery, it’s imperative to be kind and forgiving.
To recognize our achievements, no matter how small.
To recognize we are doing better today than we were yesterday.
To be tolerant of other people, even when we’re hurting. Most of them are trying their best, too.
To do something daily, no matter how small, to improve our lives.
Most importantly, be your own best friend.
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This post was previously published on Invisible Illness.
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