We understand mental illness better than ever – so why is there still so much hatred around?

I remember the walk to the school sick bay vividly. To reach it you had to travel almost the full length of the college, from the front of the original 1930s building to the rear of the main block, where the sports hall was.

I normally started feeling ill during my French lesson. A knot would develop in my stomach and a lump would fill my throat: I didn’t feel sick exactly, more breathless. Helpless. I would hope desperately that the teacher would come and ask me if I was OK. If she didn’t, I would have to wait until the lesson finished before approaching her tearfully.

Then, either accompanied or alone, I would have to make my way out of the “new block”, where French, English and Maths were taught, through a door next to the sports hall, past the science labs, then down some steps just beyond the staff room into the gloomiest and oldest bit of the school, where dusty photographs of year groups gone by hung. On the right were the offices of the head and deputy heads, while on the left were the original toilets and changing rooms – first the boys, then the girls. The sick bay was next.

I would worry about meeting teachers on the way, especially the one I was trying to escape from. At the sick bay I would wait for the school nurse. Usually there was nobody else there, but from time to time another child would be in situ. I assumed they were “properly” ill; I tried to look poorly, even as the prospect of being collected by my mother began to relieve my symptoms.

Before all this I was already an anxious child. I had a phobia of slugs that could leave me nearly paralysed; I hated the dark; I was convinced my parents would die in a car accident any time they went out without me and my brother; I was a chronic hypochondriac. When I started secondary school, I quickly developed an all-encompassing fear of a particularly shouty art teacher: irrational, of course, and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but to a fairly cosseted 11-year-old her sudden outbursts were terrifying.

The only saving grace was that art lessons were only once a week. So, therefore, were my panic attacks, and my grateful trudges to the sick room.

Eventually, the family doctor (in the days when GPs genuinely got to know their patients) suggested to my parents that they take me to see a child psychologist. Meanwhile, the school agreed (remarkably it seems to me now) that I could miss art lessons and spend an hour in alternative study with the head of year.

The counselling was liberating; and effective at a practical level too. When I experienced similar bouts of anxiety as a young adult, I didn’t hesitate to seek help again.

When I reflect on those episodes now, I am struck by two things. The first is how lucky I was: that the issues I faced were, frankly, so minor; and that I was so well supported by my parents (who could afford to pay for psych services) and my school (which was astonishingly accepting of – and responsive to – an 11-year-old’s neurosis).

The second is how odd it is, amid current debates about mental health, to recall that not once was I bullied over my apparent frailties. Other kids were certainly aware of what was going on. As far as I remember, I was pretty open about it when anyone asked. Yet nobody called me names, there was no whispering behind my back, no shoving in the playground. I suspect that if anyone gave it another thought, which they probably didn’t, they were merely non-plussed about it.

Thirty years on, would that have been the case? The cloak of social media has given cover to those who would pick at the vulnerabilities of others (children and adults). Caroline Flack’s death may have highlighted an especially extreme example of a person having their mental health dismantled in public, but there are plenty of others for whom tough times are made utterly miserable by trolls, online or otherwise.

Yet there is a paradox here, because surely there has never been greater understanding about the effects of mental illness than there is today. Mental wellness weeks are practically de rigueur in schools and offices across the land; while any number of high-profile people have “gone public” about their personal experiences in an effort to break down myths surrounding poor mental health.

Why is it, when there is so much more openness and knowledge, that there should also be so much hatred directed at people who are struggling psychologically?

Some of it may be laid at the door of stupidity, I suppose, and a little more at simple nastiness. But I suspect a great deal more originates, inevitably perhaps, from the very vulnerability that is so often being targeted. The difference is that those who are dishing out the assaults have yet to face up to their own demons, and yet to make their own metaphorical walk to the school sick bay.

If you are experiencing feelings of distress and isolation, or are struggling to cope, The Samaritans offers support; you can speak to someone for free over the phone, in confidence, on 116 123 (UK and ROI), email jo@samaritans.org, or visit the Samaritans website to find details of your nearest branch

For services local to you, the national mental health database – Hub of Hope – allows you to enter your postcode to search for organisations and charities who offer mental health advice and support in your area