Please Stop Equating Mental Illness With Mass Murderers

Mental illness.  When you hear those words, what do you think?  Who do you picture? Do you think of the news stories in which those who may or may not have a mental illness do horrific things?  Or, do you think about your neighbor, friend, and/or family member?  Because, odds are, someone very close to you has or will have some form of mental illness.

What is mental illness, then?  According to the National Association of Mental Illness (NAMI), "Mental illnesses are medical conditions that disrupt a person's thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning. Just as diabetes is a disorder of the pancreas, mental illnesses are medical conditions that often result in a diminished capacity for coping with the ordinary demands of life." 

The prevalence rate (or the rate at which people are diagnosed) currently resides at 5-6% for those diagnosed with a clinical (as in, long-term) mental disorder (source: NAMI). Despite the high prevalence rate,  negative perceptions of people who have mental illness still exists, including: violent and in need of regulation (per the NRA) and faking it to get attention (something that we often hear, unfortunately).

It's distressing to go through a period of high anxiety and/or depression only to have those around you - who should be your support group - run away in fear/confusion or tell you that what you're feeling doesn't exist. Allie at Hyperbole and a Half does a great job of showing this in her most recent post on depression.

*****

When I was pregnant with my first child, I got very sick.  So sick that I lost weight and had to have several rounds of IV's in order to have some nutrition running through my veins.  When people heard about my so-called morning sickness their reactions ranged from, "Try this, it will help!" (it didn't) to "if you just tried to think positively..." (which, SURPRISE, also didn't help).  It was painful to be puking all day long and know that people thought I was faking it.  But when I went to my physician, they didn't question my condition - later diagnosed as hyperemesis gravidarum - and, in fact, gave me great information regarding how to survive the however many weeks I'd feel like crap.

The internet has helped disseminate information about the condition I suffered through. In my other pregnancies I felt much more supported by those around me.  Rather than distrust for what I was experiencing, people expressed sympathy.  It was great.

Sadly, my experience with mental illness has been vastly different.

Talking to a physician about what I'm feeling is awful.  Typically it involves convincing them that I'm not lying, that I do indeed have massive anxiety all the time and that I'm not just trying to get drugs.  Or that I really do feel down and like I want to just disappear all the freaking time.

When I've shared with people that I am mentally ill, they react in ways that lead me to believe I am doing something wrong.  The self-shaming on top of what I'm already feeling is too much.  I've learned to just hide my illness from people because hiding it is easier than having people look at me odd or act differently around me when they discover what should be an innocuous fact.

I feel the stigma of mental illness quite profoundly.  I feel it when I hear the NRA and/or people in the US Congress suggest a registry for mentally ill (top of page 3).  I feel it when I hear of another news story in which a mentally ill person committed a violent crime, despite the fact that people without mental illness commit violent crimes more often than those with mental illness. I feel it when people around me casually misuse mentally ill to describe those with whom they disagree and/or don't understand.  It's hard to exist in a society that thinks you should be locked up just because your brain is wired differently (not wrongly) than those around you.  It's even harder when you know your job, your relationships, your well-being are in jeopardy when people discover your secret.

And how do we stop it? I don't know.  Bravery is great until you face hatred for disclosing an uncomfortable fact about yourself.

An Open Letter to Anxiety

Dear Anxiety,

Thank you for all you've done for me in my life.

Because of you, I've led a very successful life. Your wonderful messages of, "you suck, work harder," have led to hours of constant worry that I would live my life out of a paper bag if I didn't do this project just right. So I would work and work and work throughout my long school career, often choosing work over play because, you know, FAILURE was not an option. I would spend my breaks in constant fear that I had messed something up and would inevitably not graduate elementary school, middle school, high school, and college.  

The obsessive nature of your illness has helped greatly in my life.  As I've obsessed about germs and clean dishes and washing my hands and perfect papers and characteristics like honesty and modesty and other things that society and my family taught me, I led a very straightforward life.  I would stay the course because Hell and/or disease would overcome me otherwise.  And then I would obsess that I had done everything wrong so would subsequently repeatedly repent and punish myself in various ways (can't eat this or can't read that) in response.  You have ensured that I will live my life as straight as an arrow.  

Alright.  So, maybe, I couldn't relax and enjoy life, but life isn't about enjoyment! It's about rules. That's what you taught me. Rules were the only way to live life and I should follow them exactly.  Rules like how much time I must spend doing homework, how much TV I could watch, how many pieces of chocolate I could eat, the thoughts I could have, and the hours I could and couldn't sleep.  Those rules kept me in line.

And, finally, your helpful social suggestions were essential for my social well being.  I mean, there is nothing quite like staying up for hours after social engagements worried about whether I had said the wrong thing, offended this person, wore the right clothes, etc. You taught me that limiting my interactions with other people was the best and only way to get through life. Well done.

Sincerely,
The Constant Worrier