Sophie's Choice: Pushing Back Against Stigma

Labelled ‘too pretty’ to be mentally ill, journalist Sophie begs those working in crisis teams to look beyond a tidy house, and a made-up face.

When the darkness of the night crept up on me, so did the wicked grip of psychosis. But then it wasn’t just my body trembling, the house was starting to shake; there must be an earthquake.

Ever the diligent journalist, I checked my news app and social media feeds. Nothing. I must be on to a scoop. But suddenly the house shaking was the least of my worries. I could see a dark figure dressed in a balaclava standing outside my window, and he had a gun in his hand.

My fight or flight response rocketed. Someone was in the house. I began to blockade the door with whatever furniture and toys I could find.

In reality, I was having a psychotic episode. I was currently on maternity leave from the BBC, and under the care of the home-based treatment ‘crisis’ team, whose role was to keep me supported with regular checks within my home setting.

The reality was there were very few mother and baby beds available, so I could have been transferred to another city with my bump, but not my three-year-old.

I never knew who would be showing up from the crisis team, and I was exhausted from the constant fear that, if I didn't put on a show, I would be considered unfit to care for my child at home.

The day following the ‘earthquake’ and ‘sniper threat,’ I made sure I applied more makeup to try and cover some of the destruction my mind was having on my face and body.

I have always done this - the times I am happiest in life, I am barefaced. At bad times, makeup is my clown mask.

Whilst we’ve made strides towards recognising ‘invisible’ illnesses, we still opt for what is visible to be our main focus of judgement.

“But you're so pretty," said the crisis team member who was attempting to reassure me that I didn't want to die.

“You’ve got a lovely home, a beautiful daughter, and a good career.”

I smiled sweetly at her from behind my cup of coffee, clutching the fragile bone china hard in an effort to stay grounded.

Her positive perception of me - my makeup, my tidy lounge, my ability to smile - served as a stark and painful juxtaposition to the carnage I was covering up, upstairs in my head and my home.

I felt excruciating guilt that I now had ‘on paper’ what so many aspire to have, and yet I was in the depths of the darkest despair I have ever experienced. I didn’t just feel guilt at not coping, I didn’t feel that I deserved to live.

From being “too fat” to dance professionally, or “too common” to have my voice heard in the media, to more sinister assaults for being a dual heritage “poor” young woman, my invisible disabilities, having gay dads, and the tragic stigma of being an abuse survivor.

Even nowadays, whilst people tend to be more refrained in their open judgement of how someone presents physically, the pandemic has inspired transparent racism against those of us from a Chinese heritage.

As a woman I am still scrutinised on physical appearance whether it be size, disability, or the fact I am a single mother.

Nowadays, I don’t aspire to fit in. and I probably look more dishevelled fatigued, but this last year has been a the isolation defining time for me, forcing me to test out my own It’s true that, resilience.

In what feels like life’s lowest times, we truly find ourselves. I would never shy away from and am grateful professional support, to every person who has entered my home in an effort to help me and my family.

I would only ask that you remember that an immaculate home does not necessarily reveal the struggle within.

Please continue to try to connect with our hearts, and not just our tidy homes, or neat eyeliner.