The generational gap

‘Little bit lost and a little bit lonely

Little bit cold here

A little bit feared

But I hold on

And I

Feel strong

And I

Know that I can

Getting used to it

Lit the fuse to it

Like to know who I am

Been talking to myself forever, yeah

And how I wish I knew me better, yeah

Still sitting on a shelf and never

Never seen the sun shine brighter

And it feels like me

On a good day’

Grant, J. McGuinness, T. Siljamäki, P. & Suissa, J. 2014.

‘Are you depressed?’ my doctor asked me in a drawling bored voice. 

Was I depressed? My face felt warm; red blotches were creeping their way up my neck. It happened whenever I was nervous or embarrassed. Was I allowed to be depressed? I had a fulfilling job, friends, a loving husband and family. I had purpose in my life. On paper, my life looked great. 

I thought back to the last few months, where things had reached a breaking point. My throat felt tight, threatening tears. I recalled feeling overwhelmed in a room full of laughter, finding it too loud. The days I called in sick because I could not bring myself to get out of bed. Crying for no reason. My mind, becoming a bucket filling up with stress, worry and sadness – the bucket was overflowing. I was drowning.

Grateful to my doctor for his bluntness, I answered ‘Yes. I am.’  I felt a weight had lifted off my chest in admitting it to myself.

Months later, I confided in my older sister that I was seeing a psychologist.

‘But you always seem happy. You don’t look depressed,’ she said.

‘It’s not about looking depressed!’ I snapped.

‘Maybe it can help your short fuse!’ she said and laughed.

The subject made her uncomfortable and making a joke helped. I said nothing in response. It was the reaction I was used to, and I didn’t have the energy for an argument.

**

It still infuriates me that there is a stigma and a disconnection in understanding mental conditions today. According to the most recent Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) National Health Survey, there were 4.8 million Australians with a mental or behavioural condition in 2017–18, an increase of 2.6 percentage from 2014–15. The interesting thing about these statistics is that despite this being the most recent available data for mental health occurrence in Australia, it only provides data on people who identify as having a mental illness. This means that the number of occurrences is likely to be higher accounting for those who do not identify with suffering a mental illness, either because they don’t seek help or because they don’t know they are struggling.

I am exhausted by people who refuse to acknowledge and understand depression and anxiety. People often say to me, ‘just be happy’ or ‘don’t worry.’ They don’t understand that depression it isn’t something you can turn off like a light switch. It’s feeling lonely in a crowded room. Becoming overwhelmed with daily tasks. Life for most people now is much more demanding, and we are expected to do more with less, to multitask, to take on more all at once. In my experience, this leads to one end, burnout and breakdown.

Since 2011, I have worked in WorkCover injury claims, and the occurrence of psychological injuries diagnosed under the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) has increased significantly each year. So much so that there is a Mental Health Early Intervention Unit at my current employer. Mental health is being talked about more in workplaces, and amongst medical professionals, however, it is behind closed doors and stigmatised.

I deal with mental health claims every day. In my conversations with claimants, I hear of their suffering, and see instances where mental health is a constant source of judgement. The conversations surrounding this topic seem to always be reserved for quiet corners and hushed tones. Society has come a long way in talking about mental health as a condition, and there are many support networks to assist those with psychiatric conditions and their families. It is also recognised as an injury in all WorkCover industries I have worked in, long before 2011. However, in both my personal and professional life, I have seen the stigma and confusion that society associates with mental conditions. I believe a lot of it comes from lack of understanding, upbringing, and generations of denial.

**

When I was growing up, mental conditions were never discussed in the household. Despite my uncle having schizophrenia, my younger sister developing an eating disorder, and my parents getting divorced. Psychological conditions were never considered real, let alone valid reasons for being ill or needing help.

Mum and Dad both came from large middle-class families. I think they both avoid talking about mental conditions mostly because they come from a generation where access to mental health support was not available, and it was taboo to talk about. It was almost as if it didn't exist at all.

Coming from a family who refused to acknowledge mental health as an issue meant it was difficult for me to accept what was happening to me when I had a mental meltdown in 2014. Things had been building for a while, and I soon came to realise that I had likely been dealing with anxiety and depression throughout my teenage years and for a lot longer than I thought. I’d been wearing a mask all this time pretending I was okay.

**

After a quick visit and an overly sweet coffee, Dad stopped in my doorway as I saw him out. He turned to me and asked, ‘Hey, what’s this I hear about you seeing a psychologist?’

His tone was accusatory, and I suddenly felt like I was ten years old again and had been caught sneaking chocolates before dinner. My chest tightened, and my mouth went dry.

‘Yes, I am. Things are too much lately,’ I replied.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your head. You don’t need to see a psychologist. It’s a waste of money,’ he said.

My parent’s reaction to my health was disappointing and upsetting. I felt that I would receive limited support from them in the battle that lay ahead of me. I don’t think they realised the full impact of their actions at the time. There were no malicious intentions. They didn’t understand, and I don’t blame them for that, how could I?

**

Afternoon sun reflects off the plastic rose gold K-Mart placemats arranged on the dining table; my hands are snug around a hot cup of Milo. I can hear myna birds chirping outside the window, some of them come down and drink from the dog’s water bowl. The house is quiet and peaceful, a welcome change to the daily grind of the office. I turn to my sister sitting next to me.

‘Why do you think Dad doesn’t believe mental health is real and thinks it’s all a waste of money?’ I asked. As she contemplated her answer, I could see her mind ticking over. She was putting on her psychology degree hat.

Michelle had moved in after her mental breakdown. Everything in the family home was too much and rather than find out why she was feeling this way, my parents antagonised her and told her she was dramatic.

‘Well, Dad comes from a migrant background, he’s dealt with adversity from a young age. He was also in prison for a long time. I would assume he learned not to show any signs of weakness,’ she replied.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I replied.

‘But both Mum and Dad look the other way about mental health, maybe because it’s like an avoidance of guilt that their divorce had an impact in shaping how we cope and our mental health,’ she added.

**

I was only nine when my parents got divorced and ten when Dad went to prison for thirteen years. That was only the beginning; a lot of monumental events occurred during my developmental years, probably more than your ‘average teenager.’ Three house moves, many family arguments (some coming to physical blows), estranged grandparents, a street full of gossips, the house being searched by the cops, bullied at high school. The list goes on.

I used to think that I grew up relatively normal for someone who had endured such an upbringing. But I didn’t come out unscathed.  Through all of those big moments, there was never an open discussion about what was happening in the family or a check in to see if my sisters and I were coping.

All these reasons are why I felt alone in the struggle I was facing when I acknowledged I needed help. My upbringing had brought with it a generational gap about mental health and acknowledging it openly. All of which impacted my recovery to recognise what was happening and get better.

Eventually, with the help of my psychologist, I started to recover. I learnt how to manage it and gained the confidence to open up and discuss it with my parents. In doing so, I helped show them how they could help me. They still avoid talking about mental conditions, but they offer support when I ask for it

The medical world has come a long way in understanding what psychological conditions are, but I feel we are still a long way away in terms of understanding it as humans. It remains a taboo subject in many homes and families. Open communication about mental health is the key to eroding the stigma that surrounds it.

I am hopeful that with more discussion, we will get there and break down not only the stigma but bridge the generational gaps that many people face when seeking help and understanding from our loved ones.

© Sarah K. Gill