An experience this week got me thinking a lot about distress and our reactions to it and I thought I’d share it here since it relates to disability and mental health and emotions and how these things are treated by society. So, here goes…

Earlier this week, I was walking along the Southbank in London when my hypermobile ankle collapsed under me – as it does semi-frequently – and I fell onto the concrete. I was with my parents and one of them turned just in time to see me go down; she said that I looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut because I fell so smoothly. That’s not a bad description, to be honest. Although I couldn’t see it, I have learned to fall in a way that avoids any serious injury. It still hurts, of course, but that feeling of my skeleton being shaken around inside my body just fades in a day or two. You can’t always control the way you fall but sometimes you can control the way you land.

I’m pretty sure I took this as I fell down…

Anyway, I went splat on the street and before I’d even done a full inventory to make sure I hadn’t seriously hurt myself, my parents were on either side of me. I assured them, and they reassured themselves, that I was fine and they pulled me up, making sure I was steady and unhurt before letting me stand on my own. This all took less than five minutes and in that time, at least five people stopped and asked if I was okay. It was really nice of them and I do really appreciate it – it also comforts me to know that, had I not had my parents with me, someone probably would’ve made sure I was alright, something that’s good to know as a chronically unstable person. But the experience got me thinking about how people react to different kinds of distress in public, in regards to strangers.

A while back, I almost had a meltdown at a bus stop, also in London. I was crying and shaking, my make up running down my face; I was clearly in serious distress and even though I was surrounded by at least fifteen people, no one asked if I was okay. Most of them got on the bus with me, keeping their heads down and their eyes averted. And it’s certainly not the first time that people have reacted that way. I honestly can’t say if I actually would’ve wanted to engage with someone when I was in that state but I did wonder afterwards why nobody did, why people are much more likely to help someone in physical distress rather than emotional distress. I don’t exclude myself from this: I feel much more confident helping someone with a physical issue – offering water to a coughing person, a helping hand to someone who’s tripped, chasing after dropped possessions – than I do approaching someone in tears. Maybe it’s the clear nature of a physical problem – the obvious problem and the obvious solution – and how easily solvable it is compared to whatever emotional turmoil has someone crying in public, something that we – in our culture – don’t like to do and so is likely serious if it’s reached that point. Maybe it’s the feeling that the asking crosses an implicit boundary, allowing a stranger into a space reserved for people we know. Wading into emotional distress is certainly more complicated than carrying out a practical solution.

I don’t have a clear explanation or solution. The experience – well, the two experiences – just got me thinking and I thought I’d share them, share the juxtaposition. If you have any thoughts, please feel free to leave a comment below.

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