“… mental illness does not always fit the binary, black-and-white terms given to it in the media, books and films. This is also why it is such a bastard. It is good at hiding, evading capture, putting on a show. It is the world’s greatest actor.”
Mental illness memoirs are often written by those in the public eye, who type earnestly about their time spent in bed or struggling without ever addressing the fact that despite their health issues, their lives have hints of glamour and privilege that are completely ignored in their narrative of suffering. It’s not that these things make you immune to mental illness, of course, but they do mean that it’s easier to afford a doctor, or counselling, or time off work. Working-class sufferers of mental illness don’t write books about it; we don’t seem to be interested in that.
Bryony Gordon, successful columnist with the Sunday Telegraph, deviates from the typical pattern not because of her lack of privilege – this is a lady doing well for herself – but because she acknowledges that even as she was in a very dark hole mentally, her work was going well. She writes about the fun stuff, about how her drug and alcohol dependency facilitated both socialising for work and penning cheeky columns about her life as a ‘single lady’. Though, as she admits, the older one gets in this role, the more awkward it becomes and the more pitying looks one gets: “No single woman in her thirties wants to be described as a character. We should – it’s good to be a character, much better than relying solely on your looks – but we don’t.”
This is Gordon’s second memoir, but it’s her first to address the OCD that kicked in aged twelve and had her on medication by age seventeen. Despite the severity of this condition – and she conveys the repetitive, terrifying, unstoppable thoughts expertly on the page – she also handles it with a lightness of touch and casual asides, cheerfully acknowledging her worries about her alopecia preoccupying her over things like bringing the iron to work so that she won’t have to worry about it having been left on. She is scared all of the time: worried she’s done something terrible despite all evidence to the contrary. Worried she’s capable of it.
This is the origin point of other problems that plague her throughout her twenties and thirties. She develops an eating disorder, reflecting that, “My body had never felt like mine, not really. I realise that now, with age and lines and fat and the tiniest bit of wisdom. Does any young woman feel as if her body is hers, anyway?” Making herself throw up feels normal, yet it also must be hidden. On the surface it looks like she’s doing well. Later, when she recovers from this and stops taking cocaine, the weight gain is visibly disapproved of by various peers, even as she is healthier and happier. We don’t mind how unhappy women are if they’re thin, after all.
Then there are the bad relationships, the toxic liaisons that she’s particularly susceptible to in a quest for passion and excitement. While she takes responsibility for her commitment to these various problematic men, it’s also clear that they are the sort who seek out vulnerable women. And after all, she is ‘crazy’ – it’s so much easier to gaslight a girlfriend who already has a diagnosis.
“Relationships like this, they creep up on you slowly. They wouldn’t happen any other way. Like praying mantises, they dance seductively in front of you to lure you in before biting your head off. They work by stealth, and before you know it you are declaring undying love to a man who seems sometimes to hate you. Except what you’re feeling isn’t love, not really. It’s fear. It’s fear of him, fear of yourself, fear of being alone.”
There is a happy ending of sorts to all this – Gordon is now married with a small girl – but despite some of the coping mechanisms having been put in their place, she still has OCD, and is still prone to relapses. An epilogue reveals how writing the book triggered one of these, how difficult it is to write about mental illness without it tugging at you. The honesty here makes this a more, rather than less, optimistic read. Good things can happen to messed-up girls and women. But they also need to help themselves, to be open to it, to do what they can and seek help for the things they can’t. This is a book that’s both breezy and smart, funny and insightful. Gordon is the antithesis of self-pitying without being a Pollyanna, and is firm about the purpose of the book: not to lecture anyone else, but to share her story in the hope that others might speak up too.