The Honest Mums' Club: Not all mental patients have chainsaws!

In 2006 Hannah Oakland was a drama student living in Central London - with a headful of dreams. Now she is a mother-of-two. In the third in a series of extracts from her inspirational new book she shares the ups and downs of parenthood ...

Here’s the thing.

I am a mental patient.

I take my tablets, as prescribed, every single day. I have fortnightly therapy sessions, and a computerised, robot-voiced CBT course to keep me company in between. ‘He-llo Ha-nnah.’

All of them trying to calm the chaos inside my head. To pull me back to a place where I can function properly. A place where I can be happy.

It’s taken me a long time to admit that I’m ill. Too long. Years. Partly because it doesn’t fit the image that I want to project. Partly because I always felt like I should be able to cope by myself. But mostly because it’s not something that people talk about.

No wonder.

This morning we went to the corner shop for a loaf of bread. In between six-point-turning the buggy through the only-just-wide-enough door, and stopping Elvie scootering into the cakes, I caught a glimpse of the newspapers. Just the top of the Sun’s headline. ‘1200 KILLED.’

I racked my brains. I lost most of my weekend to man flu, chocolate pudding and Strictly, but I’m sure I would have noticed a natural disaster or an act of terrorism. If only because there was a link to it on Facebook. I bought the bread, avoided any further cake-related carnage and eventually succumbed to my curiosity. I read the front page, and regretted it immediately.

‘1200 KILLED BY MENTAL PATIENTS.’ Bright red numbers. Capital letters.

Angry doesn’t quite cover it. My blood was boiling. No wonder we keep our conditions to ourselves. No wonder we hide away. Convinced that we’re monsters. No wonder Asda thought it appropriate to sell ‘mental patient’ outfits for Halloween. We’re an easy target.

It doesn’t take much courage to go after the quiet ones. The ones who don’t stand up for themselves. Because they have been shamed into silence. It’s weak. It’s cowardly. And it’s really unfair.

There is some truth behind the headline. A friend who works in the NHS sent me a copy of the report that they’re quoting. The National Confidential Inquiry into Suicide and Homicide by People with Mental Illness, published by the University of Manchester, in July 2013. And they’re right. Over the last decade 1200 people have been killed by individuals who were receiving treatment for mental illness. Which is horrendous. 1200 families ripped apart. 1200 tragedies that could possibly have been avoided. Horrible. Heartbreaking. Tragic.

My issue is with the reporting. The generalising and the scaremongering. The fact that they took a study intended to improve the care and safety of mental patients, and used it to turn those same individuals into objects of fear. The fact is that, as a percentage, the number of mentally ill people committing homicide is no higher than that of any other randomly selected focus group. There are statistics for that as well. They neglected to mention those. Because they won’t sell papers.

‘Mental patients.’ That sells. Cuckoos’ nests. Jekyll and Hyde. Uncontrollable. High on prescription drugs. Dealing with our multiple personalities or schizophrenia or depression, whilst living on your street. Hiding in amongst the ‘normal people’. Just waiting to whip out our chainsaws at the first hint of a full moon.

Has anyone counted the number of homicides committed by cancer patients in the last decade? What about asthmatics? I doubt whether the Sun would be so fascinated by a report on crime rates amongst the diabetic community. Mental illness doesn’t attract the same sympathy. Because we’re scary. Different. Broken. Dangerous.

It’s true. 1200 people is an awful total. But over the same period of time, according to exactly the same report, over 13,000 mental patients have taken their own lives. More than ten times as many. Unable to deal with the stigma. The shame. The fear. The overwhelming, exhausting brutality of fighting your own mind. Day in, day out.

The Sun decided to ignore that. And they’re paying for it already. Outrage. Finally. On our behalf. Because the simple truth is this: we’re no more broken or dangerous than anybody else. No matter what the tabloids would have you believe.

I am a mental patient. But I’m also a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister and a friend. I collect recipe books, and buttons. I make incredible roast potatoes. I had a very brief career as a stiltwalker. I could happily spend days on end curled up under a blanket watching Strictly. I can’t wait for the cold weather so that I can wear my boots again. I sincerely believe that most of the world’s problems could be solved by a nice cup of tea and a chat. I adore vintage fairground rides. Just the thought of Christmas makes me smile.

Nobody can be summed up in one paragraph. Certainly not in one sentence, and absolutely not in two words. ‘Mental patients’ are people too. Real people. I promise.

We already face huge challenges. We’re already being as brave as we possibly can. Too many of us are disappearing. Unable to face our friends and family. Unable to face ourselves.

It’s time to start telling our stories. Stories that draw on trust and hope and empathy. Rather than cementing our fears and prejudices. Focusing on the things that bring communities together. Not what pulls us apart. That’s the only way things will get better.

It might not sell many papers. That’s fine by me.

Then again, I am mental.

This is an extract from The Honest Mums’ Club by Hannah Oakland, available now in paperback, priced £9.99.