A Lived Experience Story
When I was 16, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to 25. I couldn’t see myself surviving that long. I’m now 35, so I guess the last 10 years have been a bonus of sorts. That’s not to say it’s been smooth sailing. On my 28th birthday, I went to a psychologist appointment I had booked months earlier. That was the day I was told there was absolutely no doubt that I was experiencing anorexia nervosa. I was told if I lost any more weight, I would need to go to hospital. 5 years later, on my 33rd birthday, I was starting to notice signs of increased anxiety. A few months later, I started seeing a psychologist again, and watched myself spiral into a deep depression. Around my 34th birthday, not long after a 12-week inpatient stay, I was in and out of the emergency department. I wasn’t confident I could keep myself safe at home.
At 35, I’m finally starting to begin to understand why not everyone feels as though life isn’t worth the effort. It’s taken a lot for me to get here, but I’m glad. I’m glad I’ve been able to experience the world as a place where I can feel safe a reasonable amount of the time, and at ease with myself. I’m glad I have the privilege of being able to share my experience with others, and potentially give people struggling some sort of hope.
What was the turning point for me, you may ask? During that 12-week admission a couple of years ago, where I was subject to many cocktails of medications, and electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), I had time (a lot of it!) to sit with myself and reflect. That anxiety I started feeling at the start of this episode of mental illness was something I’d been pushing down for a long time by not giving my thoughts space, and not allowing myself authenticity. The anxiety was a sign that I just couldn’t keep ignoring what was under the surface, I couldn’t mask any longer. When I had no option other than to stop and reassess, I was finally able to pay attention to what my mind and body had been trying to tell me for over a decade: I am not a woman.
At the time, I described myself as non-binary. It felt easier to explain to people. Easier to affirm and make sense of. But as the floodgates of my mind opened, it wasn’t long before figured out that I actually identify as transmasculine, and the only way forward would be to take action to affirm my gender.
All of these experiences have taught me the importance of connection with my body. From starving myself to near-death, to working incredibly hard to subconsciously conceal my gender identity, and not trusting my gut instinct to the point where I couldn’t even recognise a gut feeling. Not allowing myself to pay attention to my body or what my mind was telling me left me so unwell, feeling alone and disconnected from the world around me. It’s always been a strange concept to me that you can feel so lonely even when you’re surrounded by people who claim to care about you. The disconnection and loneliness I felt, which stemmed from not feeling truly seen, meant that I didn’t really see the point in being alive. In combination with engaging in compulsory heterosexuality in my 20’s, and marrying a man (who used violence to control me), ignoring my body’s cues felt like the safer option for such a long time. It wasn’t until I learned to trust myself and allow my true self to be seen, that being alive felt like it was ok.
Coming to terms with who I am has been a battle in and of itself. As a healthcare professional, I was of the belief that being anything other than cisgender and heterosexual would mean that I would never be able to progress in my career. I had witnessed that name-calling, bullying, and covert discrimination that came with not fitting the mould. So I bent and broke myself, and forced myself to fit into that mould, to my own detriment. A square peg trying to fit into a circular hole. I’ve had friendships fade because “normal” people have difficulty accepting differences. I still get nervous when the topic of gender comes up with new people. I never know how they’re going to respond, and I hate conflict!
Despite all that, some of the deepest connections I have created have been with people I have met in the past 12-18 months. Not only because I am living authentically and feel seen, but because I have found a whole community with whom I have shared experiences. Other queer folk just get it, sometimes without really having to speak. This is the stuff that, I have found, makes life more fulfilling. The genuine connections and choosing to do things that align with my goals and values, instead of doing things to appease others.
Now that I’m recovered, I’m proudly part of the mental health workforce. My lived experience informs my work in so many ways. I feel very lucky to have the privilege of supporting people during some of the toughest times of their lives, and to see people, more often than not, move into a phase of feeling good about themselves.
I write this story to let people out there know, that the struggle is worth pushing through. No matter how old you are, there’s always the chance that things could be better than they ever have been. It’s hard to conceptualise if you haven’t experienced these kinds of joys before, but it is possible that you can feel “good.” I encourage you to hold on to that microscopic particle of hope that things can get better. That speck of doubt about taking action on the thoughts of exiting this world.
Take time during the darkness to think about what is missing. You don’t need to know who to resolve the issue yet, you just need to begin to identify what the issue is. People around you can help you to come up with a plan to make things better. Even if you’ve never really felt like life is worth living, things can and will change, and you have the strength to get through. I believe in you, and I’ve been where you are.
