Note: This story contains references to suicidal ideation and self-harm
By Noora //
I was a quiet child with quiet dreams; I yearned for a sense of peace that a child should never have had to think about.
I was eleven when I had my first brush with what might have been the symptoms of a mental health condition. I remember sitting at the back of a feeder bus with a classmate of mine, quietly looking out the window when she turned to me and said: “Y’know, sometimes I find you scary.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes you’re really happy and smile a lot, but other times you look really sad or angry and it’s really hard to talk to you.”
That was probably the first time anyone had ever called me out for the dramatic shifts in my moods, and it would be far from the last. You see, I had always assumed my mood swings were just that—mood swings from someone who was a bit of a crybaby, someone who didn’t know how to regulate their own emotions. I was brought up on the narrative that I was a difficult child because I never knew how to talk my feelings out, and it wasn’t until much later that I realised why that was.
My childhood was turbulent. I was raised as the third child among four siblings by parents who were always fighting, physically and verbally. My late mother had what I then thought was a strange personality. She would regularly talk to herself and mention people no one knew, as if she’d conjured them out of her memory or entirely made them up. And that , I realised later, often set my father off.
Witnessing the violence between my parents and sometimes getting involved, either trying to intervene or being a traumatised bystander, groomed me to become someone who walked on eggshells around my parents. I often internalised all of my emotions, only learning angry words by observing what went on between my parents, and never actually learning how to properly express my emotions.
For a long time, my inability to express myself presented itself as a false sense of resilience. I convinced myself that not speaking out about how I felt meant that I was strong and could handle the weight of the world when, in reality, I was only doing a disservice to myself.
The longer I went on internalising my emotions, the harder it felt to connect with anyone on an emotional level. I was digging myself deeper and deeper into a grave of non-communication.
Without feeling any form of love at home and feeling a strange disconnect within myself, I entered my adolescent years in search of something, anything, that could fill the void.
I was desperate.
I wanted love.
And as the saying goes, like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to what was familiar, regardless of its impact on my well-being, and that meant being drawn to a series of romantic partners who very closely resembled my father, temper-wise.
Between the years of 2014 and 2017, I found myself in a repetitive cycle of dating men who would regularly physically and sexually assault me, and I didn’t know how to get away from it all. In fact, I would get out of one relationship only to end up in another similar one, basking in the familiarity and taking what little affection anyone would give me. Rinse and repeat. The cycle lasted years and I just couldn’t snap out of it. For me, at the time, any form of affection was good enough, even if it meant I had to put up with a lot of harmful behaviours on top of it. I was constantly love bombed and gaslit so often I couldn’t even make sense of my own reality, and looking back now those years seem hazy.
But they were real. Everything was real.
I kept putting up with all the harmful behaviours, tolerating them to the best of my ability because I thought that was what I deserved.
Until, at some point, I physically and mentally couldn’t take it any more.
My life, and especially my health, was beginning to crack and crumble. I like to picture that period of my life as an avalanche, or one of those humongous icebergs melting and submerging itself into the icy cold ocean waters after years of enduring and eventually losing the battle against climate change.
When everything became too much to endure, I started engaging in a series of very harmful practices to cope with the pain. I would self-mutilate, thinking the physical pain could distract me and was more tolerable than the emotional pain of enduring everything I was going through. My mental health eventually deteriorated to a point where I became suicidal, entertaining dark thoughts of a life without a life. Eventually, the emotional distress pushed me past my breaking point, and a failed suicide attempt landed me in a ward at the Institute of Mental Health.
Yet IMH was the start of my turning point, a beacon of hope. While I was admitted, I met a lot of lovely individuals—people who were unwell, whose light shone through even in their state of unwellness. I met gentle individuals—people whose circumstances could’ve turned them cruel, yet who had chosen to be kind—and people who had been roughed up by what they had been experiencing in their personal lives, but who continued fighting regardless.
I got to see the sides of people that society often shunned or swept under the rug, and it really made me think about why society is so cruel to people with mental health conditions, when we’re only trying to survive as everyone else is.
After I was discharged, I experienced a shift in perspective. Everywhere I went, I would look at people differently, wondering if they, too, had an invisible illness, or were going through something so difficult no one but them could fathom their pain. I learnt to become more open-minded and non-judgmental, wanting to give people the grace I hadn’t allowed myself to have for years.
And most of all, I wanted to become a voice in the sea of people with mental health conditions, someone brave enough to speak out and advocate for us in a society that still stigmatises mental health. I signed up for a course with the National Council of Social Service for a Certification in Peer Support and became more proactive in my healing, going for regular follow-ups at IMH and seeing a therapist. I’m extremely grateful to my doctor and therapist for providing me a safe space to navigate my illness and learn how to manage it.
It wasn’t easy. I had a lot of unlearning and relearning to do, and had to fight the shame of stigma on my own. Luckily, my siblings were supportive during my recovery, and I had friends who would check-in with me from time to time. It may not seem like much, but having a community of support gave me the strength to keep fighting and advocating for myself and others. I worked briefly in IMH as a Peer Support Specialist and got to meet peers from all walks of life, supporting them through their journeys. I mustered up the courage and allowed myself to be featured in some of IMH’s videos and podcasts, amplifying my voice and learning not to be ashamed of myself of my mental health condition.
At present, I work with The Tapestry Project, and I continue to work with youths and corporations who are also passionate about learning soft skills that can empower their mental wellbeing. I’m still learning—I’m far from perfect—and I still experience bouts of anxiety and episodic mood swings, but I continue to do what it takes to overcome my mental health challenges, following-up with appointments and being on medication for my bipolar disorder.
I’ve met more like-minded individuals who are also passionate about mental health, and bear witness to how society is slowly shifting its paradigm of viewing mental health as an important aspect of health. After all, I believe mental health is just as important as physical health, and that everybody should take good care of it, whether you have a mental health condition or not.
In 2021, I also met my current fiancé, who has been very supportive and accepting towards me, and through a lot of reflecting and deep conversations, has helped me to undo the pain I experienced in my younger years.
I am a work in progress, and I share my story so that others who may be going through similar struggles know they are not alone. I also want to remind everyone that it is okay to struggle, and that there shouldn’t be shame in being who you are and doing what it takes to keep mentally healthy. The journey can be rough. It can be hell in fact — trust me, I know—but I hope we all find the strength to keep going, even in times of hardship.
If you’ve made it this far in my story, then I hope that you, whoever you may be, find peace and live to your fullest. Just know that in a world full of drudgery, uncertainty and heartache, there is at least one person who believes in you. I believe in you. I’m glad you’re here.
Noora is a person living with bipolar disorder, currently working in a non-profit organisation that serves to equip people with self-help skills that can support their mental wellbeing. In her free time, she is an avid writer and colour pencil artist. She is passionate about advocating for mental health and envisions a day where stigma has been eradicated for good.
Read more of our Tapestry Stories here.
Image Credit: Microsoft Designer
One response to “The Tale of a Traumatised Child: Noora’s Story”
😔💜