Wearing Red: One Woman's Journey To Sanity

By Eva Melissa Roshan

Wearing Red is a powerful, deeply moving and life-affirming story about one woman's quest to discover how to live with bi-poplar mood swings and reclaim her sanity. In this book Eva Roshan bears witness to the sexual abuse that happened in her father's house ad how this traumatic experience became the origin of a life living with dizzying mood swings. Her story is told in fragments of defining moments stitched together into a tapestry that reveals her path into addition, depression and self-abuse, until she found the wisdom and courage to forge a new path of discovery, freedom and overcoming shame. With an exuberant mix of passion, wry humour and sadness, Eva reveals why she chooses to wear red and how she healed herself by creating a beneficial relationship with her demons. This book is testimony to the power of releasing secrets, speaking out and being heard. A raw, courageous, remarkable and uplifting story from the agonies of mental challenges to the path of forgiveness, survival and transformation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brown Dog Books
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781839520433

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It’s official. Wearing bright colours is a symptom of mental illness. The "depression-guide.com" website declares in the ‘bipolar disorder symptoms’ section:

"The patient’s activities may have a bizarre quality such as dressing in colourful garments."

Never thought it was a problem having a passion for wearing red, yellow or blue outfits. Who needs a psychiatrist to diagnose my mood swings when all that matters is which colour outfits I choose?

According to common vernacular, I am also entitled to be described as:

"Bananas. Barking mad. Bonkers. Batty.

Crazy as a box of frogs. Crackpot. Cuckoo. Crackers.

Delirious. Demented. Deranged. Doolally.

Few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Insane.

Lunatic. Loony.

Mad as a hatter.

Nutter. Not the full shilling.

Non-compos mentis.

Off my trolley. Off with the fairies.

Unstable. Unhinged. Paranoid.

A round peg in a square hole."

The language we use around ‘madness’ exacerbates the stigma and shame of living with mental challenges, which in turn results in us feeling ‘different’ or ‘odd.’ To help improve awareness around mental health, we who belong to the ‘crazy tribe’ need to tell our stories.

Be heard. Speak out.

There is power in the stories we tell. This is my story. My truth. Truth has many sides.

If I am the story, I can change that story, to find some order in my particular version of chaos.

INTRODUCTION

My original intention in writing this book was to provide insight into what a year of my life was like, living with the ‘lindy-hop’ of mood swings. 365 days recording the bi-polarity of my experience. Since then, I’ve made many detours from my original plan.

The ghosts of the past had a way of intruding into my present as the pages grew, compelling me to take a different direction. As Natalie Goldberg said: Whatever is hidden or secretive will look for a way out. I began to realise that in the process of coming to terms with the vagaries of my mental health, by owning the parts that aren’t shiny, I had first to explore my past in the context of my present. To investigate and accept my family history.

Our backstories can have huge negative power over us if they remain hidden. To understand the ‘how it is’ of my life, there had to be a ‘how it was.’. My back story. Layer after layer that had created the palimpsest of me and helped form my present.

As the book took shape, people would ask what it was about. When I gave a brief summary, they often queried:

"Why?

Why did I want to dredge up the past in this way?

Hadn’t this created more mental suffering and uncertainty in my life?"

My response was that this writing had become a link with the past, a way of understanding the world I had emerged from. A way of identifying the part this environment had played in creating my polarised mood swings, along with the desire I had known most of my life to establish opposites in order to feel safe.

This story is about the possibility for change. Whilst there are uncompromising revelations about the sexual abuse that happened in my father’s house, it is also a life-affirming story. A tale about the journey that took me into addiction, depression, and self-abuse, until I found the wisdom and courage to forge a new path of recovery, freedom and overcoming shame. Reclaiming my sanity in the process.

My intention is for the book to become a testimony to the power of releasing secrets, speaking out and being heard. Part of the ‘time to change’ movement to prevent the abuse of children and adults by those in positions of authority. My aim is to become an ambassador working with others to end mental health discrimination and stigma.

I am a capable, powerful woman who has transcended my past, regardless of the odds stacked against me. With a first-class honours degree and an MSc. in Communications, I worked for 20 years as an Organisational Development Consultant and Personal Development Workshop facilitator, running programmes for teams and individuals throughout the world. Top of my game. I also spent four years as Director of the Addiction Recovery Centre in Bristol and a further two years as European Programme Consultant for Eric Clapton’s addiction treatment facility in Antigua.

Yet no matter what I’d achieved in my life, I never felt good enough. Continually pressurised myself to do more, try harder. Challenged myself to move in different directions and experiment with new careers. All of which took a toll on my emotional well-being. As if I was searching for something that eluded me despite my best efforts. My past was always there, lurking in the shadows.

During the writing, as I reflected on my life, I realised that the purpose of this book was to bear witness to what happened in my father’s house, 40 Clark Street, and explore how this had impacted on my existence. Writing to own my story. My personal myth.

Digging through journals, as part of my research, I found a card I’d been given on a Hoffman personal development course in 1997 and was shocked to realise I’d disregarded a crucial piece of feedback, from 21 years ago. On the card, my course peer group had written their perception of my strengths and limitations, they called ‘my learning edge’.

My strengths were: loving; radiating warmth; magnetic; empathic; compassionate.

My learning edge issues were: learn more joy; love myself more; don’t have to be there for everyone else; and the very last one was - ACCEPT YOUR DARK SIDE.

I’m not sure I even registered this comment. Probably thought, ‘now why on earth would I want to do that and make myself miserable in the process?’ Instead I tossed the most significant insight of the whole week into the delete bin of my mind.

Owning the rusty bits of a life, the shadow side, is easy to say but more difficult to achieve.

This story is an act of hope, with all its imperfections of memory. Fragments of defining moments stitched together piece by piece, as I have remembered them, and how I have made sense of them; an applique of the life of Eva Melissa Roshan, the great-great-granddaughter of a Chippewa Chief’s daughter.

There is no such thing as ‘the truth’. Everyone has their own version of the truth, depending on the way they perceive the world. Memory is fragile.

In some cases, I’ve changed names, appearances and locations to protect the identities of those who may not want to be written about in a book.

Reminding myself of Homer’s stories about Persephone and Sisyphus assisted me in writing this book, because I found so many similarities. These mythical tales helped me make meaning of my own life, view my history from a different perspective and create a new present in the process. That is what myths do for us.

As Louise de Salvo said so well in her book ‘Vertigo’, I invite you in to step across the threshold of the story behind my story.

REALITY

A Snapshot Of HOW LIFE IS

LIVING with MOOD SWINGS

I MUST GO ON

WHAT ARE MOOD SWINGS?

Cassell Dictionary definition: ‘temporary state of mind or feeling; a disposition; favourable state of mind; morbid state of mind; the pervading tone of something’.

The old English origin is ‘fierce courage’.

We all experience mood variations in reaction to life events, but some of us experience such extreme swings that make it difficult to sustain a good quality of life. We do indeed need ‘fierce courage’ to live with our excessive mood swings.

Our moods influence the way we think and behave, and so play a significant role in the way we live our lives.

Mood swings become challenging when they are Problematic, Pervasive, Persistent (the 3 ‘P’s)

This means that they are often:

•unpredictable

•uncontrollable

•extreme

•excessive

•extensive

•accompanied by associated changes in thoughts and behaviour

•disruptive to our lives.

(from ‘Overcoming Mood Swings’, Jan Scott)

EMOTIONAL WEATHER BAROMETER

My Emotional Weather Barometer.

On the kitchen wall I have my ‘emotional weather barometer’. Shaped in a circle, one half is red. The other blue. Segments named according to my various moods:

Red: Mellow. Contented. Excited. Happy.

Blue: Anxious. Scared. Angry. Sad.

The clock hand arrow allows me to move around the board to suit the mood of the day.

Before the arrival of my barometer, my husband Jonny would search my face each morning for signs of my mood, asking:

How do you feel today?

Living with me is challenging and he is only trying to be supportive. The problem is that I cannot always find the words to describe my emotional state, and his question reinforces my belief that being smiley is good and being sad is bad!

One of the things that keeps us together is that we’ve learned how to talk through the difficult stuff. I explain to him my reaction to the question and how I find it unhelpful trying to find words, when all I want to do is withdraw into silence.

Ever the practical one, he went off to his workshop and designed this wooden gadget that is now my EWB. I mention my barometer on the courses I facilitate in the mental health field and, judging from the replies: Where can we get one? we could make our fortune if we manufactured them. Perhaps we should go on Dragons’ Den!

Now I come down each morning and can match the arrow to my mood. He no longer has to keep enquiring, and my frame of mind is identified without a struggle for descriptions. It also helps me with the slow process of accepting that however I’m feeling is OK. Nothing more. Nothing less. Red side. Blue side. That’s how life is for me this day. Simple. Colourful. Effective.

However, not so easy to explain to my 8-year-old granddaughter, who wants to know the purpose of the board:

What’s that for?

Well, when I’m feeling sad or contented, I can move the arrow to that section.

Yes, but why do you need to do that?

Difficult to explain that my mood swings are like being at the fairground, riding one of those colourful swing boats I loved as a child. A person sits at each end – thick plaited ropes to hold onto and pull down to make the boat swing, back and forth. Such fun. Only on my emotional swing boat, there’s no rope to control the movement and there’s no definable rhythm. No telling whether I’m going to be swinging up or down. Sometimes the swing is situational specific. Other times random.

Looking on the bright side – the ride hasn’t made me throw up yet. Such is the versatility of my volatility.

.

BOOT BLACK CROW

Outside my window

boot black crow perches on burnt tree.

Solemn. Still.

She twists her neck

to check for lurking threats

Enormous bird.

Colourless. Foreboding.

Want to look away.

Blot her out.

She’s too big.

Too black.

Want to replace her

with a colourful woodpecker,

flashing red streaks,

as she pecks bugs for breakfast.

Or a graceful, smooth-grey dove,

performing tantalising pirouettes,

as she practises

her mating call.

Look again.

Demon crow is

steadfast.

Stubborn.

Immovable.

Outside my window.

PLEASE DON’T TRY TO CHEER ME UP

Message to friends/ husband / family:

When (or if) I tell you that I’m low, in the black today, and have been for a few days, please, please avoid responding with crappy platitudes. The well-meaning phrases don’t help.

This too shall pass.

Fuck off. Knowing that does not magically improve my experience.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Go find yours and leave me with my cloud.

There’s light at the end of the tunnel.

Oh yeah?! Well it’s still pitch black in here.

Think happy. You’ll be happy.

Tried that one. No change. What is ‘happy’, anyway?

Life’s not that bad.

How do you know how bad this is?

We all get depressed.

So what? How does knowing that help me right now?

When I feel low, I do…

That’s your experience, not mine.

It’s all in the mind.

Well this feels pretty real to me. Do you have a bandage for my damaged mind?

Cheer up. It may never happen.

It already has.

Stop wallowing in your mess.

If I could stop ‘wallowing’, as you so neatly put it, don’t you think I would?

In the 2015 BBC drama-documentary about Lisa Lynch’s experience of cancer, based on her book: ‘The ‘C’ Word’ (Lisa is played by Sheridan Smith) she was telling her friend what happened during a counselling session (just after she’d learned that her cancer was terminal). The counsellor suggested a mindfulness technique - to imagine a stream with leaves gently floating along the surface. Every time a negative thought came into her mind, she could picture herself putting it on a leaf and letting it float away. Her friend says:

Did you do it?

Yes

How did you feel afterwards?

Felt like shit!

What might support me in feeling less ‘odd’ would be something like:

That sounds tough.

Yes, it is right now.

Do you want to talk about it?

No. But thanks for asking.

Is there anything I can do to help?

No. But thanks for asking.

At least then I’ll know that you’re not trying to fix me, and you’ve listened. And you’re there if I need you.

OUTSIDE THE BOX

Boxed in.

Controlled.

Stuffed inside

a common mould.

As daughter,

satisfy me.

As wife,

fulfil me.

As mother,

protect me.

Weight of labels

buried heart.

She searches for

a different start.

Soul awakens.

Screams aloud.

Lifts her shovel

Shifts the rubble.

Bell jar raised,

Box in tatters.

Free to breathe

a life that matters.

WHERE IS MY TRIBE?

I’ve always felt different. Like a dandelion in a bed of petunias. Uncomfortable in my skin. As if this life was some kind of trial run. At the end of it I’d be asked to decide if I wanted to stay. Or they (everyone else) would decide if they were prepared to accept me.

Life spent searching for some clue, to the question lurking in my head:

Where is my tribe?

Where do I hang my hat?

The first time I attended a twelve-step meeting, hoping that just maybe this would be my place of belonging, someone said to me:

‘Are you a real alcoholic? If so, then you’re in the right place’

Having no idea what he meant by that, I assumed there must be a list of criteria for becoming a ‘real alcoholic’. I knew that my ‘rock bottom’ was relatively high; hadn’t lost jobs because of my obsessive binge drinking; hadn’t gone to prison; hadn’t been admitted to a mental hospital. So, I reckoned I didn’t ‘cut the mustard’ here, either. Luckily, I did return to claim my seat.

A BBC drama called ‘River’, broadcast Oct 2015, written by the talented Abi Morgan, is one of my favourite programmes. I have the box set and never tire of watching it, especially when I’m having a dose of the ‘feeling odd’ syndrome. River is a Detective Inspector who is extremely good at his job, but he is not your average detective, as he hears the voices of dead victims. He sees them as if they were alive and holds conversations with them. After the death of his colleague, to whom he was very close, and because of his unusual behaviour of seemingly talking to himself, he has to see a psychiatrist.

During a session with her, River comments that he is a good officer, but in this world that is not enough. He says:

"In this world you have to be able to nod and smile, and drink a pint, and say ‘how was your day?’.

In this world no one can be different, or strange or damaged.

They lock you up.

So, what do I do now?"

You keep talking.

River and I would have been mates. Those of us who have layers of skin missing become drained of energy and confused by the requirements of social rules to conform.

EPIPHANY IN NEWPORT BIKE CAFÉ (28th June 2018)

Settled in the bike enthusiasts’ café, we order cake and coffee. Welcome respite from the searing heat.

I wolf down my slice of Bakewell tart before the coffee arrives.

Noticing my empty plate when he brought the drinks over, the owner laughed:

"My god. That disappeared fast."

I smile and say to Jonny afterwards:

"I don’t even notice that I’m eating so fast, especially when cake’s involved.

It’s habit.

As if I must devour the sweet bits as fast as I can,

before they’re taken away from me.

Maybe the subconscious belief is that I don’t deserve sweet pleasure."

MAKING A DIFFERENCE

I caught a breath of spring today.

Blew through the letterbox uninvited,

expanding the space inside

this house,

recycling

stale air lurking

in corners.

STRUGGLING WITH CONCEPT OF HAPPINESS

Our modern-day obsession with the pursuit of happiness disturbs me. Facebook is full of contributors professing their claim to the ‘H’ word. Laughing selfies. Pictures of exotic holidays. Messages of all the fun, exciting things people are doing. If this is not your reality, then you certainly don’t tell anyone on your page.

I am one of the odd ones. My experience of ‘happiness’ is elusive and transitory. There is a darker, melancholy side to life. Why is this chunk of life pushed aside, as if it’s untasteful and unacceptable? If, like me, you swing from high to low in a heartbeat, 50% at least of our daily experiences are being denied.

I’m searching for ways to own the parts that aren’t shiny. See where they fit into the pattern of life.

Like River, I need to ‘keep talking’ about the reality of mood swings.

THE COMPLETE PACKAGE

Taking the lift,

descend to lower ground floor.

Madness beckons me

as a welcome guest.

Enchanted by acceptance of my hosts,

becoming comfortable,

living with the unclean.

Building a version of sanity

that fits.

Am called to retrace my steps

above ground.

Proud scars pay tribute to

this journey of initiation,

cavorting in caverns.

Arriving back, I write my message

to the summer clan:

"I cannot be with you for long,

before my skin shrivels.

But when I’m able,

I want to show myself to you.

Not just the bits I suspect you’d like to see.

The complete package. The whole of me.

Bring the red passion and impish delight.

Friendship. Festivity. Fertilising fun.

The stuff you all admire.

But that’s not all.

There’s more in this Pandora’s box.

A deep well of sadness.

Tears to moisten all ingredients.

Please don’t ask of me to

be always in the pink.

This composition needs melancholic blues.

Poignant minor chords of Cohen

to constitute me as

the complete package."

TAKING MORE

This magpie is greedy

determined to feed.

Stocky. Steady.

Stuffed

with oversized

bread chunks.

Chest puffed

in pleasure.

Beak brimming

with elegant sufficiency.

Has room for more.

This magpie is greedy

wants more today.

She craves fulfilment.

Crams her beak.

Visceral pleasure

up for grabs.

Feast of Dionysus frenzy.

Divine ecstasy

dripping with honey.

Riding high on a

climactic epiphany.

LABELS

A box of black-frost labels, attached by others.

A WINTER DAY

Today I wake and don’t want to get out of bed. I can feel the greyness in my bones. One of those wintry days, despite the sunshine outside. I’ve made a commitment with myself to sit at the desk each day and write, no matter what the feeling. How is that going to happen?

Force myself out of bed. Do normal morning things. Teeth. Wash. Dress. Breakfast. Unable to find any more essential tasks that simply must be done or else the fire brigade will arrive, I sit here. Blankly.

The carping crow in my head is spitting her critical venom all over the blank page in front of me.

"What is this crap that you’re writing now?

You’ll never make any sense out of that jumble of words.

Face it Eva, you just can’t write.

You’ve been kidding yourself all these years that you had some kind of skill.

And all those people in writing groups who’ve said all those good things about what you’ve done... Well, guess what - they were all just being nice.

And who the hell is going to want to read this shit?

Stop kidding yourself and do us all a favour. Give up.

You’d much rather spend the day at the cinema. That would be a lot more productive.

Or read a book and see how the real writers do it.

You might learn something valuable about how you tell a story."

And on she relentlessly rambles:

"You’re just