Unikum januar 2020

of times. And my parents freaked out.
Because this meant that I was on heroin.
In retrospect, I understand how someone could jump to
this conclusion. I had not volunteered anything up to this
point, so it is perfectly understandable for someone to
assume that I was lying about or downplaying drug use.
But what is important to know about my parents, is
that their perception of cannabis is decades out-dated.
Most of us realise that if you try cannabis, it does not
mean that you will end up as a heroin addict by definition.
But in my parents’ eyes, that is exactly what
that would mean unless you are stopped in time.
I was later told that my father wanted to give up on
me to protect my siblings from my assumed drug
abuse, but my mother overruled him and insisted
on saving me. I only vaguely remember isolated
moments from these few days. I think I agreed to
take a drug test, which calmed them down.
Anyway, my years of deception were finally over. Throughout
that summer, my mother put me on a very strict
schedule. I would wake up at 06:30 every morning in order
to start my morning ritual, which consisted of (among
many other things) a long jog, strength exercises, meditation
and motivation classes. I also worked most days to
pay back my parents for the debt I had yet again accrued.
It was my best summer in several years. I felt as if
I was “waking up” from a haze. After a couple of
weeks where I progressed significantly both in physical
and mental health, I was officially diagnosed
(retroactively) with severe depression, whose symptoms
explained my behaviour and deception.
I hope you believe me when I say that I am not a
bad person. Because everything I have confessed
to here started from a very simple lie that was aimed
at me and only me: “I am doing well”.
From there followed the next one “I am doing well
with my studies”, yet again aimed only at me.
But when people asked me how I was doing, because I
was lying to myself, those lies were extended to them.
This is where everything came from. The only way I
was able to survive (at least as far as I could think),
was to lie to myself. And those lies were then extended
towards the people around me. Slowly but surely,
one lie at a time, this festered into an immense web.
I understand if I you judge me harshly for all of
this. But for the same reasons you would not judge
someone with broken legs for their lack of
ability to run the 100-meter dash, I ask you not
to judge the dysfunction of a broken mind.
Support Turned Destructive
The Early Signs of Toxicity
The support I got from my family was initially amazing.
They provided the structure and help I needed to heal.
They got me a therapist that I saw through the summer.
They got me back up on my feet. For real this
time. I will forever be grateful for that.
But even though the support was awesome,
problems started appearing.
My mother seemed to have a very specific idea
of who I was supposed to be and what help I needed
to get there. An idea that I no longer recognised
myself in nor wanted to be.
For however much these two years of severe
depression had impacted me negatively,
they also changed me in good ways.
Living through and reflecting upon my mental illness
and its effects has given me insight. It made
me more self-reflective and empathetic, and it made
me less judgemental towards mentally ill people.
Initially I was quite happy letting my mother direct
me, but as I started “waking up”, I started to get
a feel for what was working and what was not.
But mother knew best, and I bowed to her wisdom.
Or at least I did at first, but I soon started feeling the need
for agency. Now, it is completely understandable that
my mother did not trust me given the story above, but
all I wanted was to participate in planning my future.
But my mother refused. She knew “who
Emil really was” and how to get me there.
She was not willing to discuss this.
It should also be noted that I was growing increasingly
annoyed at how all-encompassing my mental
illness was in any conversation with my family.
It felt like I could not talk about anything without
it being put into the context of my depression.
It felt like my life was only allowed to be about getting
well and getting an education. Whatever down-time or
social activities I was doing, they were all met with scepticism
and advice about what I should be doing instead.
My interactions with my mother started growing increasingly
irate and toxic on both sides, so I tried to
talk with her about it as carefully as I could. But what
I felt was a good-faith attempt at communication was
met with anger. I was accused of being ungrateful and
manipulative. I understand that she was afraid that I was
up to my old tricks, but the point of helping me was to
get me healthy and independent again. It was a no-win
situation that was untenable. It was starting to actively
work against me and trying to amend this would only
back-fire and endanger the help I desperately needed.
I was also accused of lying about what I was feeling, because
my mother could not read my face. It was very confusing
to be derogatorily called “stone-faced” when I was
talking honestly about my emotions. Here, it is important
to know that I am likely an undiagnosed autist. I simply do
not emote in the same way as others. This was not known
to anyone at the time, but it still seems unfair to be yelled
at just because I was not expressing emotions the way
someone else expected me to. Also, my instinct in tense
situations is to try to calm down, and most of my conversations
with my mother had become tense at this point.
The result was that I was accused of lying when I did
not emote “properly”, and when I got pressured enough
to get angry, I was “unreasonable” and “ungrateful”.
Despite this, I was healthy enough to study law in Bergen,
and I was hesitantly supported by my parents in this.
JANUAR 2020 UNIKUM NR 1 15