“How lovely it must be to just focus on yourself…”, and: “I wish I had time for that too…!” The words, which at first glance seem cheerful and well-intentioned, fly through the air and land lightly and freely on my bent back. Because behind the bright melody murmurs a sour undertone of skepticism, jealousy and ill-concealed irritation. Yes, because how necessary is that therapy really? Is it just a kind of cover to escape life’s responsibilities and enjoy happy days on a state-supported silk pillow? I’m probably just lazy and selfish. Yet another modern Guffen, in search of an eternal navel-gazing waffle existence with monthly support from Grandma Nav. A self-care tea-drinker devoid of collective sense of duty and usual desire to work. This is so far from the truth that it makes me want to scream and chop all the words in half. Because how do you convince God and every man that everyday life in therapy is precisely that, and anything but a kind of self-chosen vacation from ordinary life everyone else reluctantly drags through? I did not choose any of the bad experiences I was affected by. Nor any of the ailments I was left with. The demanding situation I now find myself in is therefore neither willed, planned nor the slightest trace of desire. But I actually choose to go to therapy. And precisely that choice, I believe, we all too rarely applaud. “Doesn’t everyone have something or other that they struggle with, then?” Another well-intentioned comment flows my way from a friend. I know that it is difficult to interpret whether there is some kind of resignation or an attempt to build bridges in the nonchalant choice of words. The generalization is instead given a painful touch by something slightly trivializing. Because “everyone” is not stuck with equally strong and traumatizing experiences and ailments. But such intimate details are not thrown out in a normal group of friends either. Instead, one will have to adapt, appear normal and grateful. Press into the stiff gingerbread mold and peel off the strips with redundant and inappropriate feelings from the cold steel edges. Then you sit there again afterwards, in the private room, with the bad remains resting in your tired hands. Going to therapy and confronting your worst experiences is actually so painful that many choose not to. Only 13 percent of all those with symptoms of depression and 25 percent of those with symptoms of an anxiety disorder actually seek help for their problems. Many people with mental disorders are also never in contact with the health service. Some instead end up with addictions or other forms of self-destructive behaviour. So why don’t we applaud those who dare to step into the lion’s den? Because not only do you have to confront your innermost enemies, and perhaps end up on the outside of working life for a period of time, you also have to live with the fact that all the basket acts you carry out remain invisible to the world around you. Labor and Inclusion Minister Tonje Brenna and Health Minister Jan Christian Vestre recently said that “more mentally ill people should work”. But everyday life in therapy and rehabilitation is a full-time job. The only difference is that the work you do remains invisible and made suspect by people like Brenna and Vestre. There is no work collective or office community for those of us who go to therapy. We don’t have any toasting Friday games either. And none of us can boast of the processing we carried out on the CV. Despite the fact that the effort we put in required such enormous courage, a will to stand firm and an endurance that few can match. No, you have to settle nicely with skeptical looks, mistrust and awkward silence at the dinner party. Yes, for one reason or another, you, who are sitting there with a battered soul, should have a greater ability than others to recognize yourself and your tough efforts only with the help of some kind of inner applause. And it’s great, if you can do it. But don’t we also deserve something more? At least I’m not embarrassed to admit that I would like to have some kind of diploma or trophy for all the hard work. So to you who sit there in the stiff dinner and dread the round with the eternal “What are you doing, then?”, passed around like a kind of gilded drinking bowl from the Viking Age when people get to assert themselves and their careers against the private public: I see you. I know how you feel. And I applaud you. You are a knight of the highest order, a superhero, a master of arts. And you are more than anything else, neither lazy nor alone. Published 23.06.2024, at 14.43
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The fight no one sees – Speech
