Why do I write about mental illness and trauma?

Why do I write about mental illness and trauma? I’ve been asked that a lot lately. Most people appreciate the information, but don’t really understand why I write. “Shouldn’t you be…?” followed by a huge list of things they think I need to do, or “isn’t too painful?”, they ask.

And just like I wrote in my review of Broken by Jenny Lawson, aka the Bloggess, yes there are things that are probably more “useful”, but writing is necessary for my mental health. It’s a way to cope with my mental illness.

“Wait a minute,” some of you might think. Yes, you’re right. I need to eat and exercise, feed my pets, walk my dogs and such. Spend time with friends and water my plants. But I don’t just want or like to write. I need to. Because if I don’t, I can’t even do those other, “really” necessary things.

Why I write – reading and writing as a coping mechanism

My childhood was filled uncertainty and trauma. Reading was a way to escape into a world where I wasn’t being molested, leaving another school, social circle or country. Where I wasn’t just on auto-pilot or surviving day-to-day. Writing was my solace, just like composing and dancing. During those times I had control, no matter how briefly, when in my own life I had none.

When my mental illness flares up I stop being creative. There’s just no room for it. During survival mode I do what is necessary. It’s all I can muster. I’m grateful if I manage to do half of what is needed. Anything else just goes on the back burner.

When I can’t read anymore I’ve hit my lowest point. The longer I can’t read, the worse my symptoms become.

I couldn’t read nor write

I have been trying to get fitting treatment for my cPTSD for most of my life. In the past 5 years alone, I have been assigned 5 different therapists, of which I actually only met 4. If I had more than 6 sessions with any of them, it was extraordinary. Most of those sessions were spent trying things like EMDR or exposure therapy. Things which made my symptoms infinitely worse. The rest of the time I was waiting for the next therapist to be assigned.

These therapies were started even though there had was no official psychological assessment or treatment plan. I had no case manager, let alone a back-up case manager. Most therapists were not trauma-informed. So despite barely being able to function and having incredible difficulty concentrating, let stand reading, I started gathering information about cPTSD.

I needed to read to understand my disease

Reading was a necessity, because the professionals who should have given me answers, couldn’t or wouldn’t.

When I was able, I’d read a bit. Then re-read it. Then read it again, because retaining information when my mental health is poor or my mental illness is raging, is nearly impossible.

I struggled for years. Questions I had about cPTSD were answered by (mental) health care professionals with, “this is not my area of expertise.” When I’d try to explain why moving out of my house or moving countries again would be bad for me, I’d suddenly stop getting the care I needed. I was offered care at home. Then was told I no longer qualified without rhyme or reason. At that point in time I could barely leave the house. If I succeeded getting out the door twice, just make it to sitting n my car, I considered it a good week. Actually driving anywhere was still beyond me.

I had never been as low, and yet I had no access to fitting care.

Both my doctor and my psychiatrist urged me to write letters of complaint. I didn’t even have the energy to explain I could barely speak in Dutch or English. That I could barely move most days. Let stand write anything even remotely meaningful.

A little light bulb

One day I came across a dissertation which discussed how childhood traumas could be categorized, and that’s where I first read the term ‘covert trauma’. There was more information in that dissertation. It was referenced a lot of research about trauma and mental illness. But it also referred to a lot of studies, and gave facts and figures which were absolutely terrifying. But at least they were answers. And at least I had tangible proof that I was not alone in feeling what I felt or experienced.

I highlighted the sections of the dissertation which directly affected me and sent it to the three most important people in my life.

The first has trouble reading due to a physical ailment, but promised to do so when able.

The second who’s read thousands of complex documents for his work and his community, told me it was too much to read and couldn’t I just dumb it down in a few words.

The third told me he just didn’t care.

I have to admit I stopped trying then.

Sharing what I’d learned

I could not read, but I could sometimes still talk. Slowly but surely I started explaining bits and pieces to others. For every 9 people who weren’t interested, or couldn’t care less, there was a tenth who listened. Some of those shared their experiences. And slowly but surely, with lots of bumps in the road, I started being able to form concrete, coherent thoughts again. Some days I could read. A few months ago I was able to write again.

Not as I used to be able to do. My imagination is gone. I have no creativity left. But I can write about this. About mental health and mental illness. About trauma and cPTSD. There are incredibly complex ideas and abstract ideas, studies and analyses that are way beyond my comprehension. By writing about them I make it easier to understand myself and my disease.

I might not have a therapist to help me out with these concepts. Let alone anyone who can help me process or deal with my traumas. But at least I have some room for understanding. And hopefully paving the way to some form of recovery.

Why I write

So here’s why I write. I don’t want to. I don’t even like it most of the time. It’s confronting and terrifying. It’s triggering. But I need to write. Just to survive another day while waiting for fitting treatment for my disease.