Theatre school is the ideal place for a mental illness to thrive. When I finished my studies, I
spent almost five years in bed, watching my peers create work, network, and advance their careers.
Three years into those five, I developed fibromyalgia. This meant that, not only was was my mental
health keeping me from working, I was now also physically disabled. I was forced to face the fact that
my career would necessarily look very different from what I had imagined.
In conversations around mental health and disability, we often talk of stigma, and the external
barriers to participation stigma can create. We recognize that stigma can construct environments that
are unaccommodating of the needs of disabled artists. This can mean fewer opportunities for
publishing, or an assumption that there isn’t an audience for writing that centres disability, or the
imposition of deadlines that are impossible to meet. In the theatre, a “leave-it-at-the-door” attitude
toward mental illness can make rehearsal spaces hostile and unwelcoming.
What we don’t often talk about is the shame that stigma embeds in the self-concept of artists.
In the time I found myself unable to create, I began to wonder if I could call myself an artist at all. If I
wasn’t out in the world producing art, how could I reasonably believe I was an actor and a writer? And if
I were not those things, what was I?
In mid November, I participated as a volunteer in Inkwell’s mini-literary festival, “InkFest”. As
part of that festival, a panel called “Books to Break Barriers” examined the barriers, both internal and
external, that face writers experiencing mental illness and disability. A major point of discussion was
how stigma and shame affect artists, and how we can keep ourselves moving in spite of them. But what
struck me most about this discussion was the shared sentiment that we’re all in conversation with each
other, and none of us are alone in the literary or artistic world. And in listening to these artists discuss
their own ways of breaking barriers, I felt an immediate sense of relief.
Stigma can be isolating, but conversations like the ones facilitated by Inkwell keep us in contact.
These artists reminded me that I face different barriers to artistic achievement than do my peers, and
that the limitations imposed by my disabilities do not make me less of an artist. What matters is how I
feel about the work I do, rather than how much I produce and how quickly. I was also reminded that
when we tell our stories, we build connection and community, and that we all have a responsibility to
participate in this conversation, so that we can work towards a world with less stigma, less shame, and
more support.
You can purchase the full recording of the panel at http://www.inkwellworkshops.com/shop.
Laurel Schell