My fractured mind

The problem with the stigma around mental health and mental illness is really about the stories that we tell ourselves as a society.

Matthew Quick

The first time I heard the woman’s voice, I was in a crowded market. This was before lockdown. I was there to buy fruits and vegetables: lately, I’d been craving for very watery tropical fruits. As I spoke to the vendor, I heard a female voice — it appeared as if whoever it was, was talking to another person about me. It was very confusing.

“She’s about to buy all the mangoes! What a bitch!” The voice said. I looked around me but there was no one there. I assumed it was my imagination. I have never been a fan of UK markets mangoes, I preferred ones from Marks and Spencer — they were the closest to the taste of mangoes of my childhood — but they cost an arm and a leg. I couldn’t understand why anyone would be judging me for buying mangoes in the market.

I bought 6 mangoes from the vendor. As he prepared to put them in a carrier bag, the voice piped up again.

“Buy the melons too!” This time the voice was angrier and commanding like a drill sergeant. I’m not sure why but I obeyed and bought a variety of melons. I looked around to see if anyone else heard the voice; it didn’t appear like anyone did.

I paid for the fruits and walked hurriedly towards the car park. For whatever reasons, I was scared for my life.

“Go to the fucking library!” The voice shouted.

‘What the hell?’ I thought. ‘Who was speaking?’ I wondered. No one was around but the voice was as clear as day. It was angry, loud and now abusive. I stood rooted to the ground, contemplating the next course of action, but I was jolted into action when the voice, louder than ever, demanded I go to the library.

I made my way to the library. Saner thoughts told me not to obey invisible voices. Saner thoughts told me to put the fruits in the car first, but the voice insisted I go to the library first. I had no idea why, but I obeyed. Confused and petrified, I made my way to a library.

As I stood in the fiction aisle, I wondered what it was I was meant to do. Then a thought crossed my mind — how insane was I to follow instructions from an invisible person? I shook my head at the absurdity of it all and made my way towards the exit. Suddenly the voice echoed. “Get any Danielle Steel title!” I was pretty sure everyone heard it this time but looking around it appeared no one did. At this point, I could hear my own heart beating and my blood flowing through the veins. My ears were hot. My body temperature raised. I decided to get ‘the apartment’ and sprint out of there.

As I reached out to take the book, a male voice reverberated. “No! Get a fucking Stephen King title!” “How is no one else hearing this,” I screamed and started crying. This time people looked at me. it occurred to me they could hear my voice but not the other voices. What the hell was going on? Who was talking to me and where were they? I looked around again. It was dead silent, even in the children’s section.

I grabbed two books — ‘the apartment by DS’ and ‘night shift by SK’ — both fairly new titles and to avoid conflicts among the voices. The voices that I knew were not in my head but in my presence with no bodies. I knew there was something wrong in my head or in my mind. I cowered as I ran towards my car, fearing the voices might tell me to jump in front of moving vehicles. I knew I shouldn’t ‘obey’ them but something else told me that if I didn’t obey something awful would happen to me or someone else. I was in psychological agony. My head was spinning, and my thoughts were out of sync with anything I thought I knew.

I have no idea how I got home. I don’t remember stopping at any red lights, maybe they didn’t appear. I don’t remember paying for the parking. I don’t remember if I checked out the books or I just walked out. I couldn’t be sure if I wore a seat belt or not. I doubted every thought that crossed my mind. However, I was very aware of my thoughts versus the voices. My thoughts were in my voice, but the voices were in voices of people I didn’t know or recognised.

I prepared a fruit salad cocktail using all the fruits I had bought. I had to use the biggest contained in my flat. And then as I served some on a small bowl, the lady voice told me to add vodka to the cocktail. The male voice disagreed. They argued for 3 minutes while I stood there thinking of chugging the whole bottle down my throat. But amazingly waiting for their decision.

I was sick. I was very sick — no runny nose or fever, no visible symptoms but a head full of darkness: no broken bones just my fractured mind. My biggest dilemma was how I would break the news of my mental illness to my family: because my family blames the devil for anything they don’t understand or want to understand.

When someone has a physical illness, they get all the sympathy and understanding but not mental illness especially in the BAME communities. Why is that? It is time to lift the lid on mental illnesses. Help is readily available.