I’ve been reading a lot about mental health in the last week and it’s no one’s fault but mine. Nothing has recently happened in my life to jump-start me, no scandal, no man drama, no work blow up. It started when I read a book about a character trying to cope with her own shit, and it ended with me crying at work over a Christmas song and scheduling an appointment with a therapist. And like mental health itself, I can’t explain the A to B very well, but I will explain this:
I’ve always been terrified to talk about it. Always. As much as I am terrified to talk about my feelings about…anything. I’m down with derision, I’m peachy with pessimism, and I’m solid with sarcasm. But ask me how I feel about my family or a person or a heartwarming idyl and I’ll spew a bunch of jokey bullshit and be on my way.
And while that’s part of my charm (if I have any at all, honestly), that’s not like, a super kosher way to live long term? And I’ve been living that way a solid…oh, four years or so and it’s getting a little stale.
While reading again today (DAMN THESE BOOKS), I ran across this line in Stand-Off by Andrew Smith: “What O-Hall did do to me, though, was make me realize how human we all are, how we all have weaknesses and little empty spots that are almost impossible to fill.” (FYI probably going to review this book once I’m done.)
If you’re unfamiliar with Young Adult fiction, you shouldn’t be. You should jump at the chance to read more in your life; it’s the most honest, unassuming, unaffected category of writing (yes, category, not genre: if I explained the difference I’d go on a whole tangent and I’m not about to start that shit now). There are no pompously drawn-out metaphors for how big the author thinks his dick is, or flowery prose describing the truest love. YA is honest and frank and gets to the point because kids and young people need a direct route to how they feel, to the truth. Hiding it in language is great and all, but if a teenager gets bored halfway through your thematic undertaking, are you really gonna teach them anything other than “Wow, this guy totally blows”?
Anyway, that line struck me, coming from the brain of a 15-year-old character. And it struck me because I honestly hadn’t thought like that in years. And thinking that way is difficult – thinking about loneliness, weakness, something being wrong with you – is scary as fuck. Because who wants to admit they aren’t as bad-ass as they pretend to be? Who wants to cry in front of people, spew everything they’re thinking out of their mouths and instantly wish to reel them back in?
There’s a stigma about mental illness – you keep it to yourself and you get on with it. At least that’s what I’ve always been taught. You can tell a doctor about it if you need drugs, that’s fine. But don’t bring it up over dinner, don’t mention it in passing when someone says “How are you? What’d you do today?” Basically, don’t share this facet of your life because sharing that facet makes others think about their own mental health. And if there’s something wrong with you, it might be catching. You might be the defective cog that stops the smoothly whurring clock.
And that’s complete bullshit. We shouldn’t be afraid of telling people what’s happening. We shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help. And when I say “we”, I mean I. And when I say that’s bullshit, I’m still going to keep these bits of the blog to Twitter rather than Facebook because a) I don’t give a shit about the opinions of half my Facebook friends b) I am not shouting into the void, pleading that people I haven’t talked to in years come out of the woodwork and give me advice and c) I can’t honestly bear the thought of people thinking I am weak. I can’t bear the thought of being a disappointment. Even if it’s in my own head.
So baby steps, eh? #TwitterOnly until further notice. Or until my therapist tells me to stop being a little bitch tomorrow. I hope she does. I hope she talks like Theon’s sister in Game of Thrones, Yara. And tells me to spill all my secrets and makes a Tom Jones “It’s not unusual” joke.
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