Being Kind to Ourselves by Nicky Hayward
I am the voice of the spirit trapped between inexorable cycles, caught in the crossfire, hanging on by my fingernails to a life that repeatedly loses meaning.
I am the voice of the spirit trapped between inexorable cycles, caught in the crossfire, hanging on by my fingernails to a life that repeatedly loses meaning.
I never intended to forgive the two young men who gang raped me when I was 13 years old. I wanted to hate them forever. As far as I was concerned they were evil, sadistic animals and I wanted someone to kidnap them, tie them up, beat them up, rape and torture them just like they had done to me for hours on end.
“The people that I work with and the patients that I serve may not remember my name, but they will certainly remember how I made them feel,” said a nurse interviewed in a recent BBC News report on compassion in healthcare.
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As far back as I can remember I have experienced times of intense sadness. Feeling like a heavy weight is dropped into my solar plexus, and at the same time as if some creature is clawing at my insides.
It makes me feel exhausted and restless at the same time; exhausted with the unexplainable emotional pain and too restless to make it shift.
In a wonderful recent piece, a response to our collective lack of compassion in the face of the migrant crisis, author and activist Owen Jones wrote: “Almost all human beings have the capacity for empathy. Everyone has the potential to be at least troubled, or feel genuine anguish, about the suffering of other human beings.”
“Were you abused? Do you think you might be gay? Or perhaps there’s someone in the family with anorexia?”
Such are the types of questions I’ve been asked by probing psychiatrists fishing for an explanation of my mental illness. Some of these questions may well be involved in my coming to rely on a severe eating disorder, but I’ve long been frustrated by the quest for explanation – a sole cause or triggering factor.
It all starts with love.
It took every ounce of self loathing, punishment, starvation, self harm and self directed mental abuse to keep me in hospital for two years, knocking on death’s door.
I fully believed that being emaciated was the biggest achievement of my life. And if I died of starvation then I had succeeded … I held onto this dream for many years even with the imminent threat of death, the loss of an international sports career and a modelling contract
Of course I was miserable.
I used to wonder why all my close friends were mentally ill, addicted to something or both. Why did I attract them? Was I co-dependent? Possibly. Did I have such a low self esteem that I didn’t think myself capable or deserving of having regular, healthy friends? Could be. Was it because I found them to be more creative, open-minded and interesting? Possibly, though plenty of mentally well people also have these characteristics.
That was it – the final straw! I had to do something or risk getting a ‘diagnosis’ myself.
I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but I know that there had been an accumulation of stuff. Just one thing after the other; seemingly relentless.
It was February 2016, the UK EU referendum debate was beginning to warm up and my tolerance for absorbing toxic tweets and frustrating Facebook posts was dwindling fast. Not long before this Stephen Fry’s documentary ‘An exploration of manic depression’ had been aired and Ruby Wax was on a riotous roll, touring with her new book and generally shouting about ‘broken brains’ at every available opportunity.
The narrative of diagnosis and disorder was all over the place. It had somehow, when we were not looking, managed to sneak quietly into our profession.
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