Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental illness. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Chronic Illness Sufferers: Don't Call Us Liars

(Lees die Afrikaans hier)

“People only have chronic illnesses because they’re not passionate enough about life.”

This statement is probably one of the the most idiotic and uninformed statements that I’ve heard in a long time. Well, apart from “Have you tried drinking more water?” as if every illness known to man (physical and mental) is caused by dehidration and your DNA plays no role in any of it.

I call this statement idiotic and uninformed for a couple of reasons. One is that there seems to be this assumption that the person suffering from a chronic illness chooses to be ill. At the same time it is also assumed that the person is only lazy and wants to use an illness as an excuse.  And, because the person is lazy, they do not have a passion for life. They take a day’s leave because they’re lazy. That they’re too ill to get out of bed is not taken into account at all.

Not just one definition of “passionate”
But, perhaps, we have also started to give “passion for life” only one specific definition. It means that you always have to be busy. That you have to climb mountains and skydive. That you actually have so much energy you don’t know what to do with it all. That you don’t need assistance from medication to keep your symptoms in check enough that you can get out of bed to go to work or even just have a bath. 

And that is why it looks as if being chronically ill – something that you have no control over – is seen as a weakness. If you don’t have a runny nose or a cough or something of the like, you’re seen as lying or simply seeking attention. You’re not believed when you say that you’re in too much pain to climb stairs or just really need to go and cry in the bathroom for a few minutes because you feel like you can’t carry on.

And this may be the big secret – you don’t see the symptoms because they’re being hidden. You hide them because you don’t want to be seen as weak, lazy or unintelligent – or even dangerous when it comes to mental illness.

We are not liars
What many people who make such statements don’t realise, is that it is about much more than simply implying that someone is lazy. You are calling the person a liar. As simple as that. You are accusing the person that they are only acting as if they are ill and are lying to you every day of their lives. That they’re whole life is an act to seek attention.  

And yet it is these prejudices that cause chronic illness sufferers and those suffering from mental illness to hide their symptoms more and more. Because, when you say how you really feel on that day, you’re asked why you are at work if you’re feeling that ill. But what is so difficult to make others understand is that a “good day” isn’t a day on which you have no symptoms. It simply means that the symptoms are at a level that you can handle. Because you have to learn with time that you have no choice but to handle it.

Prejudices and stigma
How do you move past the stigma and prejudices? Especially in a world where you can not only lose the respect of friends, colleagues and family, but where your work can also come under fire overnight? In a world where, as soon as certain people find out that you suffer from a mental illness they immediately act as if you’ve suddenly morphed into a violent mass murderer. In a world where people, instead of trying to learn more, just keep away and doesn’t want to let their children near you.

Both the easy and difficult answer is to try and educate people about it. People with chronic illnesses – especially those that impact on quality of life – usually do a lot of research about their illnesses. I know, for example, a lot more about the CACNA1 gene than most people. The problem is to find a way to educate people in a way that they will actually make them listen to what you have to say. (Which means that you don’t start off with, ‘so there’s this one gene’…)

Humour… It’s not funny
Apart from the problems around discrimination, humour – as strange as it may sound – is also a big problem. Jokes about illnesses – and especially mental illnesses – are very seldom funny. For the most part it’s people who joke they’re “OCD” because they have to have three sugars in their coffee, or are “bipolar” because they lose their temper very easily. This only shows their ignorance and that they have no idea what the illness is all about. And then they act as if it is an unimportant thing and isn’t really an illness. It’s something for which you just have to drink more water or be less lazy.

I wish that there would come a day when people will really try to find out more about chronic illnesses and will no longer be scared of someone with a mental illness. I wish that there would come a day when you can walk into the workplace and say I have this or that illness and, instead of hearing stupid jokes or being told to drink more water (or stop your medication), colleagues will just silently support you and not blame you for something you have no control over.

Note: This post was written from own experience and that which friends and family have shared about their daily experiences. Thankfully there are also people who are supportive and either have no prejudices or have gotten rid of them. Many times these people make life worth living.


Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Fairy Cakes, Gods, Magic, Lost Love & Mental Illness – April’s Flash Fiction

April’s entries for Flash!Friday turned out to be quite a motley bunch. I received a special and honourable mention for two of the stories and received a “Ring of Fire” badge for taking part at least three times during April. I love the amount of writing practice these stories gives me every week and I hope you enjoy them. To see each story’s prompts, click on the titles to be taken to the individual pages. They can, however, be read without the prompts as well.


Yesterday’s Colours

Yesterday is the colour of an old photograph. The first sign of your love is white clouds at the beginning of spring. A vermilion rose is my love for you. A peacock feather’s rainbow is the flowers and gifts I give you. Bright sunlight is our first kiss.

Betrayal is the colour of soot on glass. The same soot that now taints all I see.

Fading love is cirrus cloud white turning into thunderstorm sky grey. Scarlet is the colour of my heartache. Hope for love to return is the colour of a candle flame. Gold and blue lightning is the colour of screamed words of anger. Goodbye is burning pitch; strangling words and tears alike in my throat. Silver is the knife of your words twisting inside me.

A silver knife stabbing.
A stabbed heart crying.
Red blood dripping.

Bruised skin purple is the colour of your new love. Sickly yellow-green bile is my anger and jealousy.Maggots and rotted black teeth is his look of glee, knowing my hurt. The carmine red of dried ox blood is my despair. The last goodbye is a city’s polluted night sky.


Yesterday’s broken love is grainy photograph hidden in a drawer.



Fairy Cakes

When I recognise the man in the shadow coloured coat, I realise that more than a decade have passed on his side of the wall since he was told he had to leave. It feels like centuries have disappeared.

At the kitchen window I wave at him and can see the haze of blue and grey glass buildings on his side of the world. But he doesn’t see me.

The oven dings and I rush over to remove a new tray of cakes. Now that I know he’s here, I start on a new batch of batter; all golden eggs and silver apples. His childhood favourite. I make snow white frosting flavoured with summer roses. Flakes of crayon-yellow sunshine glitter on top.

An apprehensive hand grips my heart. Almost none return here. They disbelieve every memory of magic. They start believing none of this matter. They become hollow.

Clutching hope in my chest, I put the tray of frosted cakes by the open window and let the fresh smell drift into the air.

I wait, hands trembling. Fidgeting. Every second stretches to a year.


Then he looks around at the familiar smell and smiles like a child; released from the glass and smog world for a while.


We’ll Be Free

I know the Nithin can see me where I’m sitting on the corner of the street. It was foolishly stupid of me to sneak so close when I know they can spot me - even though the shadow cloak worked with charms of invisibility hides me from other eyes. But it was my ticket to learn the truth. Now I know how they make their poison. Now I know that my best friend has been helping them. I’’d recognise the Dragon’s Bane plant anywhere. Her family’s safety bought with a bunch of thorny leaves, berries, and roots at the expense of ours. I want to throw myself at her. Claw at her. Curse her for being a traitor and murderer.

The Nithin steps closer in order to see my face, but a mask of white clay hides my features. A ball of paper wrapped around a dragon tear buys me time as I throw it on the cobbles and let it pour forth a veil of acrid smoke. Panic grips the closest people and I run with the knowledge of how to save my people. No longer will people accept the Nithin and their magical hold on life and death here in Agraver.


We’ll be free.


Twisted Time

I don’t know where I am. The place looks familiar in a time-twisted sort of way. The shop over there should be the bakery. The sweet shop across from me. But they’re gone, suddenly, disappeared overnight. Someone came to change everything.

“Crazy crone,” someone mutters as they walk past.

Why is the sweet shop selling gambling tickets?

I want to play, but I feel drained. My mind feels strange. Someone changed everything.


Something clicks.
I wonder why I’m sitting on the cobbles. I should be at home where it’s warm. In my hand is a piece of chalk. Next to me, in a cup, more pieces. There’s a picture on the cobbles of a house with a tree and a family. It looks like it was drawn by a child, but I don’t see any children close by.

My fingers are covered in coloured chalk dust.

What on Earth am I doing here?


I don’t know where I am. The sweet shop is gone, but I have chalk to draw with. None of the other kids want to play with me.

A beautiful lady in a silver dress comes to sit next to me.

Something clicks.

“Time,” I ask. “What have you done to me?”



Sand of the Gods

The gods’ mountain towered in the desert, spilling sand from its peak. In hidden furnaces the glass life-shell hourglasses of mortals were formed before being sent into the scorching sun to be filled with the falling sand. And the Fillers at the foot of the mountain became immortal as life seeped from the sand into their pores.

He poured a few grains into a tiny glass and handed it to the sightless Gatherer. He knew what such a tiny hourglass meant – mother and child would run out of time together. At his age he could no longer stop the tears. Knowing how much time a person had to live wasn’t right. Just last week they’d filled thousands of life-shells belonging to those who’d all die in the same war.

How many glasses had he filled of people who would die in their sleep?

That night he scooped sand into a bag, swung it over his shoulder, and headed out to where the Gatherers kept the hourglasses.

Rows upon rows of life-shells were hidden inside the Gatherers’ caves. He took the first hourglass and added more sand. When he came to the tenth, the hourglasses rattled, cracked and then one after the other exploded.

He dropped the sand. And ran.



Monday, May 11, 2015

Fairy Cakes, Gods, Magic, Lost Love & Mental Illness – April’s Flash Fiction

April’s entries for Flash!Friday turned out to be quite a motley bunch. I received a special and honourable mention for two of the stories and received a “Ring of Fire” badge for taking part at least three times during April. I love the amount of writing practice these stories gives me every week and I hope you enjoy them. To see each story’s prompts, click on the titles to be taken to the individual pages. They can, however, be read without the prompts as well.



Yesterday’s Colours

Yesterday is the colour of an old photograph. The first sign of your love is white clouds at the beginning of spring. A vermilion rose is my love for you. A peacock feather’s rainbow is the flowers and gifts I give you. Bright sunlight is our first kiss.

Betrayal is the colour of soot on glass. The same soot that now taints all I see.

Fading love is cirrus cloud white turning into thunderstorm sky grey. Scarlet is the colour of my heartache. Hope for love to return is the colour of a candle flame. Gold and blue lightning is the colour of screamed words of anger. Goodbye is burning pitch; strangling words and tears alike in my throat. Silver is the knife of your words twisting inside me.

A silver knife stabbing.
A stabbed heart crying.
Red blood dripping.

Bruised skin purple is the colour of your new love. Sickly yellow-green bile is my anger and jealousy.Maggots and rotted black teeth is his look of glee, knowing my hurt. The carmine red of dried ox blood is my despair. The last goodbye is a city’s polluted night sky.


Yesterday’s broken love is grainy photograph hidden in a drawer.



Fairy Cakes

When I recognise the man in the shadow coloured coat, I realise that more than a decade have passed on his side of the wall since he was told he had to leave. It feels like centuries have disappeared.

At the kitchen window I wave at him and can see the haze of blue and grey glass buildings on his side of the world. But he doesn’t see me.

The oven dings and I rush over to remove a new tray of cakes. Now that I know he’s here, I start on a new batch of batter; all golden eggs and silver apples. His childhood favourite. I make snow white frosting flavoured with summer roses. Flakes of crayon-yellow sunshine glitter on top.

An apprehensive hand grips my heart. Almost none return here. They disbelieve every memory of magic. They start believing none of this matter. They become hollow.

Clutching hope in my chest, I put the tray of frosted cakes by the open window and let the fresh smell drift into the air.

I wait, hands trembling. Fidgeting. Every second stretches to a year.


Then he looks around at the familiar smell and smiles like a child; released from the glass and smog world for a while.



We’ll Be Free

I know the Nithin can see me where I’m sitting on the corner of the street. It was foolishly stupid of me to sneak so close when I know they can spot me - even though the shadow cloak worked with charms of invisibility hides me from other eyes. But it was my ticket to learn the truth. Now I know how they make their poison. Now I know that my best friend has been helping them. I’’d recognise the Dragon’s Bane plant anywhere. Her family’s safety bought with a bunch of thorny leaves, berries, and roots at the expense of ours. I want to throw myself at her. Claw at her. Curse her for being a traitor and murderer.

The Nithin steps closer in order to see my face, but a mask of white clay hides my features. A ball of paper wrapped around a dragon tear buys me time as I throw it on the cobbles and let it pour forth a veil of acrid smoke. Panic grips the closest people and I run with the knowledge of how to save my people. No longer will people accept the Nithin and their magical hold on life and death here in Agraver.


We’ll be free.


Twisted Time

I don’t know where I am. The place looks familiar in a time-twisted sort of way. The shop over there should be the bakery. The sweet shop across from me. But they’re gone, suddenly, disappeared overnight. Someone came to change everything.

“Crazy crone,” someone mutters as they walk past.

Why is the sweet shop selling gambling tickets?

I want to play, but I feel drained. My mind feels strange. Someone changed everything.


Something clicks.
I wonder why I’m sitting on the cobbles. I should be at home where it’s warm. In my hand is a piece of chalk. Next to me, in a cup, more pieces. There’s a picture on the cobbles of a house with a tree and a family. It looks like it was drawn by a child, but I don’t see any children close by.

My fingers are covered in coloured chalk dust.

What on Earth am I doing here?


I don’t know where I am. The sweet shop is gone, but I have chalk to draw with. None of the other kids want to play with me.

A beautiful lady in a silver dress comes to sit next to me.

Something clicks.

“Time,” I ask. “What have you done to me?”



Sand of the Gods

The gods’ mountain towered in the desert, spilling sand from its peak. In hidden furnaces the glass life-shell hourglasses of mortals were formed before being sent into the scorching sun to be filled with the falling sand. And the Fillers at the foot of the mountain became immortal as life seeped from the sand into their pores.

He poured a few grains into a tiny glass and handed it to the sightless Gatherer. He knew what such a tiny hourglass meant – mother and child would run out of time together. At his age he could no longer stop the tears. Knowing how much time a person had to live wasn’t right. Just last week they’d filled thousands of life-shells belonging to those who’d all die in the same war.

How many glasses had he filled of people who would die in their sleep?

That night he scooped sand into a bag, swung it over his shoulder, and headed out to where the Gatherers kept the hourglasses.

Rows upon rows of life-shells were hidden inside the Gatherers’ caves. He took the first hourglass and added more sand. When he came to the tenth, the hourglasses rattled, cracked and then one after the other exploded.

He dropped the sand. And ran.




Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Flash Fiction: The Destroyer of Worlds

This was written for the 1 May Flash!Friday competition and received an honourable mention. The prompts were the photo and “catch 22”.

The Destroyer of Worlds

Build a door to keep the Darkness out. To keep the Darkness in. Call it simply Darkness. Not worth a name. Too scared to name It. 

Hide the keys and act like you aren’t afraid of It escaping the room you built from the chemicals with the strange names. The only thing that can bind it.

But still afraid of Its return. The Secret that can choke and kill. 

Try to see the tendrils escaping the room before it’s too late.

But Its fingerprints look like yours.
Its voice sounds like yours.

You are a puppet, It the master.
Or is it the other way around?

A piece of yourself?
A dark entity?

A liar, or not?

Lock it away and kill a piece of yourself?
Let it out and find Its true nature?

Perhaps this time you’ll be able to control It.
Perhaps this time It will kill.

Perhaps this time It wouldn’t steal memories.
Perhaps you’ll forget yourself.

Will It always find the keys?
Will Its prison last?

Will you live with fresh wounds meant to draw the darkness out?
Will you live with scars that trap tendrils of darkness?

Do the Darkness leave a choice, in the end?

Is twilight trapped in darkness or in light?

Keys. CC2.0 photo by Apionid


Here’s what the judges had to say: