This week is mental health awareness week in the UK. I love that there are beautiful souls who try to raise awareness to something that’s affecting so many people, especially now we can feel extremely lonely combating this uncertainty. Compared to years ago, the stigma around mental illness is diminishing, but what do we know about them? Do we even know what to do?
I was carrying this label for years. I was always opened about it, at least in front of my friends and families. But I’ve never found the courage to open it up to my then employers. To this day, I still have an ongoing relationship with Bipolar Disorder but it is a much more gentle one. I was just telling my GP the other day, I think it’s manageable, considering everything that’s going on in our lives.
My soul was desperate for something more.
My soul was crumbling
The first time I knew something was in 2007. I was in a boarding school. It was like a prison - at least mentally it was. We had a fixed schedule. We were each assigned a room with a table, a sink, a single bed. Surely we were free to decorate the room however we liked. But being a student and trapped in that room, my creativity was limited. I remember I woke up at the middle of the night, staring at the white wall and the almost too large cupboard, I felt trapped. I couldn’t breathe. I hated the colour of the wall, the size of the wardrobe, the fact that there’s no place to probably hang my clothes. I hated that I couldn’t control the temperature of the heater. I felt imprisoned. My soul was desperate for something more. My soul was crumbling.
I was not in a healthy state. To ensure my own safety I decided to go back home for university. I stayed at home. While I had the freedom to control the temperature using remote control. I never really felt at home. I still felt a desperate need of space. I told my then psychatrist I NEED SPACE. I couldn’t breathe in my home. Hong Kong is a small city and the property price was, and still is extremely high. I was fortunate enough to have a room that could hold bookshelf, desk, wardrobe and a bed, but still I felt I could not breathe. None of the furniture spoke to me. Bed was bought during my early teens. There was an ikea chest of drawers that is functional but ugly. I frequently fell in my room because there’s absence of space. I scattered things everywhere because I did not have the strength to figure out where they should be stored, nor had I worked out a storage system.
I never felt at home. I felt a desperate need of space. I couldn’t breathe in my home
After my brief stay in hospital in 2011, I did not even want to go home. I told my parents who were extremely worried and stressed, I needed to drive, I need air. Obviously they were alarmed. How could someone who’s just tried to kill herself be allowed to drive?
I hated my home. I hated it. I couldn’t find the right words to explain why I hated it. I’m sure there are a lot of underlining reasons apart from the colours, the furniture, the lack of lives. I was not in the right mind to explain in details, I could not gather my thoughts, at that time everything seemed illogical. I only feel trapped.
The only time I felt comfort and safe was between 12:00am to 6:00am. I never slept in my bedroom. I just could not. I felt like the furniture was mocking my inability to do anything constructive. They just didn’t speak to me, nor they provided anything other than existence. I felt they were just being there, not helping me, but just being there.
Mental illness is complicated…
but what I’m saying is my home at that time definitely did not help me
The trick to falling asleep at that time? I took my favourite teddy bear, pillows, and the thickest blanket I could get and I’d just lie on the sofa. My sofa at that time was my favourite furniture. It was a beige colour 3 seated sofa, I felt much safer sleeping on the couch than my bedroom. I’d just have TV on, watching old thriller movies like Goodfellas, as if it’s the only thing that could offer me excitement, and then slowly falling asleep.
It’s funny I have so much trouble remembering how everything looked exactly. I have difficulties conjuring an image of my family having a meal together in those years. I do not remember how the kitchen or dining table looked. I only remember my utter sadness, my sense of entrapment. I’m not saying the absence of space and the lack of a connected space is the sole reason for my mental illness. Mental illness is complicated, but what I’m saying is my home at that time definitely did not help me.
Things started changing when I found meditation, and then I started swapping things, doing a mini makeover, and eventually a renovation. I can’t wait to share with you how then home was instrumental to slow recovery.
