What does it feel like to perform during an episode of mental illness?
By Hattie Butterworth
TW: OCD, mentions of disordered eating and depression
I would estimate around 1/4 of all performances I have ever given have been during an episode of mental illness. I regret only that many of them should never have happened. I was scared to sacrifice the supposed ‘privilege’ of performance and would push through at all costs, often in denial about my mental state.
To perform during a time of mental illness is painful. It’s a rollercoaster and the emotions are confusing. I certainly acquired a new level of self-respect following performances, realising how impossible it had felt and how much strength it had taken to push through. Still, I thought in this way because I didn’t realise mental illness was a legitimate reason to take time away.
We spoke to pianist Clare Hammond on the podcast about her experience performing during her terrifying period of post-natal depression. We listened to how, although it did provide an escape, it felt like she had no choice internally but to continue performing concerts despite her illness. I can understand why this might be, as mental illness gives the added fear of judgment, stigma and self-denial. It is largely because of Clare that I want to share this now.
The day of a performance when I am mentally ill
I get up later than usual. There’s a half-awakened dread that halts most mornings at the moment, but dread upon dread adds some extra hours and it’s early afternoon. I am already dreaming of the of a post-concert tomorrow, how it feels simultaneously threatening and comforting. Thoughts of a dark nature are happening more than usual as I fumble around with trying to turn on the shower as my sister is making lunch.
I am struggling with my memory, I feel very weird and everything I touch feels different. When I speak it doesn’t sound like me and my cello playing sounds like a viola. It always sounds like a viola when I’m mentally ill. I’m not thinking about the performance very much, but mostly about my intrusive thoughts and how I can try and avoid them. I plan out the least ‘triggering’ route to the venue and am thinking about how on earth I am going to cope with seeing or speaking to anyone.
I am warming up but keep stopping because my intrusive thoughts are so overwhelming. I call my mum and cry about how bad everything has become again. I tell her I just want to go into a coma and wake up when it’s over. I go through my plans for afterwards with her and that makes me feel a bit better. I am looking forward to my mental illness routine not being disrupted by a ‘stress fest of people mush’. I tell myself I’m doing this because I want to be a great cellist when my illness is over and there can’t possibly be a hole in my CV with months with no work.
It’s too late to cancel. My intrusive thoughts tell me that I will feel better if I push through and that my illness will get worse if I am ‘lazy’ and don’t persevere. I leave the house and my racing thoughts appear. I can’t even remember what I’m playing and when I remember it’s Shostakovich, I find it all quite morbidly funny. ‘How the fuck can you expect my depressed ass to play that!?’ I decide to take it lightly.
Two minutes later I am back in despair pit and crying again, pretending to sleep on the train as I cry. I am having intrusive thoughts about a man on the train and whether he’s going to follow me. I arrive at the station and slowly walk to the venue. I am depressed by the sight of any businesses that have closed down and almost feel like it’s my fault.
“I tell myself I’m doing this because I want to be a great cellist when my illness is over and there can’t possibly be a hole in my CV of months with no work.”
I arrive at the venue and realise that I will have to pretend to be ok for about five hours now. The thought of that is excruciating and so I find a loo to cry in before I have to see anyone. I can’t remember much then, all I know is that I wish everything was over. I start to think about how interesting it is that I’m not worrying as much about the performance. I wish my only worry was performance anxiety. I can’t believe I used to worry only about other people’s opinions, not whether everything I eat is somehow poisoned. I want my simple anxiety back.
Maybe I’ll play better in this state because I’m basically drunk. I think that a lot, then I wonder whether my mental illness is all I’ll ever know. I start to think about everyone else in the room and whether they have ever been this excruciatingly on the verge of breakdown. I decide they haven’t and that makes me feel hollow.
I take my cello out and begin to rehearse and suddenly I realise how many hours I have left. I fall apart mentally and stop the rehearsal early. I remember that I haven’t eaten all day and chug down a banana which makes me feel more sick. I don’t know if you can chug bananas, but that’s my mental illness banana-eating technique. I can’t eat the sandwiches they’ve prepared incase they’re poisoned and that’s fine because I’m not hungry. I think about how little I want to eat anymore and this is the only thing that has made me happy today. My mental illness means I get a bit skinny which I think is ok.
Back in the reality of this illness and I realise I can’t communicate with anyone at the concert. I try so hard to be friendly but all I can think about is the next moment I can have alone to feel marginally less trampled. When I’m alone, my OCD feels more ordered and controlled. I can react to my thoughts methodically. In public I feel embarrassed and swarmed, unable to keep hold of a thought or mitigate its power. I spend a lot of time alone when it’s bad.
People really want to talk now and I get annoyed when they ask me about my life or plans for the future. I can’t believe a future exists really. I can’t believe anyone could ever be positive about anything much. I’m thinking about the depression pit of tomorrow and can’t wait to be alone in it.
I go on stage and feel awful that I’ve said so little to anyone and now I am expecting to receive applause. The performance is actually fine and my mind is strangely calm as it dissociates to the furthest corner of my brain. I barely know who I am and that is ok because it’s different from incessant mind noise. I do get quite tired and in the interval can’t believe that I have to get through more. I go out and make some bad mistakes in the second half as my panic for it to end intensifies. My brain screams at me some very nasty things and then goes back into its comfortable dissociative state for the rest of the concert.
I run off stage and thank everyone and come across really quite happy because I know that there are less than 10 minutes left of this hell. But soon I’m out. I walk to the train station and go into Morrisons to find some food. I get melon and pink lemonade. I am so grateful for something that doesn’t make me sick so I swallow it and stare vacantly. I go to the platform and get the train home. I listen to a podcast about someone else’s breakdown to make mine feel both more manageable and less real.
The next day things are somehow much worse . I cancel seeing anyone and only leave bed to go to the loo and eat more melon. I know I need help now because I’ve pushed myself too far. I feel like a failure for being unable to hold it together and know this episode holds no clear end. The recovery is going to be painful. I look at photos and a video of the concert and that makes me feel better because there is something to show for this awful experience.
I explain all this to my therapist a week later and say I was proud I went through with it because it means I can still be a musician in spite of my illness. I can’t tell what she’s feeling, but I sense she knows my inability to see out of my deep fog.
Some people react to musicians with mental illness in a seemingly supportive and encouraging way, urging us to play as a means of healing and expressing emotions. But deep emotional illness doesn’t work like that. I have tried it so many times to overcome it ‘artistically’ that I’ve lost count. I knew I was too ill to play but I felt like it was more important to be a martyr- what a wonderful thing to do to prove this illness means nothing to you.
The greatest way to prove that would have been to seek help and find recovery. You don’t have to face it alone.
Seeking help
Resources for anyone dealing with mental illness
BAPAM (British Association for Performing Arts Medicine)