The Stigma is deadly.
The last time I visited my parents my mom and I talked about something I had completely forgotten: When I was 20 a doctor tried to diagnose me with depression (this was 5 years before I started being treated) and we all freaked out and left his office pissed off. Why? Because we were outraged that he would suggest there was something mentally wrong with me– I wasn’t crazy. See, the stigma got me too. People avoid the treatment they need because of what the world tells them the diagnosis means and every time you casually refer to a murderer as “crazy” or say “mental illness” like it explains horrific violence you are reinforcing that impulse.
What Mentally Ill Looks Like by JoEllen Notte…
What is your most vivid childhood memory?
This is one of the few questions about my childhood that I can quickly answer. My most vivid childhood memory is sitting in a Doctor’s office, sobbing hysterically on my Mother in gut wrenching terror. I’m Nine and have just been told that it was in my best interests to go on an antidepressant. When my Mom can calm me down enough to speak, I tell her that I don’t want to go on meds because I don’t want to kill people. My nine-year-old self had already deeply internalized that mentally ill people, especially mentally ill people who are on medication, are dangerous killers. I don’t want to kill anyone. I know that how I feel isn’t how the kids around me feel, I want to be better, but I’m positive that if I take prozac I’ll become a murderer.
I know that I started taking prozac shortly after, but have no memory of how I was talked into taking the meds. Memory gets foggy again, though I remember often faking my caretakers out – putting the pill in a pocket or flushing it. Again, because I was positive that being on medication would make me kill people. Of course, skipping medication like that is dangerous, but the stigma was so deeply ingrained that I didn’t care. Missing doses made my suicidal ideation worse, but my brain said that was better than taking them as prescribed and turning into one of those “crazy” people on the news.
That nagging fear stayed in my brain well into adulthood when I finally saw studies that showed how mentally ill people were more likely to be victims of violence than commit these acts themselves. Even then, even now, that fear will pop up – even though I know that is wrong.
As soon as I saw the news about the Umpqua Community College mass shooting, I got the fuck offline. The weeks after the custody trial were some of the hardest, darkest days I’ve known as an adult, only in the last week and a half have I felt like life was real and that we would be okay again eventually. Darkness compounded by the knowledge that my mental illness, specifically words I have written here, were used against us as “proof” I am a lesser parent. I felt too fragile to deal with the bombardment of voices placing the blame for this tragedy on the mentally ill.
On me.
No matter how hard I try, those headlines, those memes, those clueless social media updates demanding we keep guns out of those “crazy” people’s hands hit me like personal attacks. They bring back that terrified child. They rip me open. I intellectually know how wrong they are, but the pain of seeing people I trust repeat those lies uncritically…It rips me open.
“Then it happened, the thing that always happens when folks want to ignore the gun conversation, the racism conversation, the misogyny conversation, hell, whateverconversations we really need to be having and when the shooter is sufficiently light-skinned (because, let’s not bullshit here) – the conversation turned to mental illness.
Suddenly there’s an explanation! Guns are safe you see, it’s just those unsafe mentally ill people that are the problem. Suddenly the term “mentally ill” is being flung around as a slur. Why? Because it’s the bad guy. Mental illness is the scapegoat. Then even the anti-gun people start doing it. Arguments like “Well gun control would keep guns out of the hands of crazy people!” happen. People talk about making registries where we track everyone with a mental illness, like mental illness = dangerous criminal. Pictures of wild-eyed shooters get trotted out (I’m not posting any of them, because fuck those guys) and everyone feels safer because this was an isolated crazy person.”
Everyone feels safer except us “crazies”. You know, some of the most vulnerable of our population.
My name is Crista Anne, and I have mental illness. I came out of the womb with mental illness, I will always have mental illness. In my 33 years, I’ve not been a danger to anyone but myself. I have been the victim of violent crime, repeatedly.
This is also #WhatMentallyIllLooksLike. I have Major Depressive Disorder & PTSD. I am Mighty.
I have no illusions that this scapegoating of the mentally ill will end anytime soon. At the same time, I can safely navigate myself to the wonderful #MedicatedandMighty hashtag on twitter now and see the thousands of astonishingly brave people sharing bits of their stories. Since #MedicatedandMighty overall does not have the sexual aspect to it that #OrgasmQuest does, this hashtag has been covered in many places Quest was not. The expansive positive coverage of life with mental illness thrills and touches me. It helps.
I choose to focus on the bravery displayed by those posting, the lives lost in the latest mass shooting to garner worldwide attention, and do what I can to push back on the intellectually dishonest bullshit that is ignoring our deeper societal problems and laying blame at the feet of those who are already fighting every single minute to survive.
This post has been incredibly hard to write. While I want to say more, much more, I am going to practice self-care and step away until I feel less raw. I’ll leave you with this segment from Last Week Tonight with John Oliver on the topic. ::Warning, you may want to have tissues within reach::
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