There is a false assumption that someone suffering this, or again any mental health issue, will show it on their face like a rash (that spells “nutbar” across their forehead, maybe?) or in their general, casually observed behaviour.
We carry our own stigmas with us and apply them even as we feel their sting and reel away from it. We are our own, sharpest, pointy sticks of doom.
Some examples I’ve mentioned here have been explored and will be again I’m sure, as I think more on them or find myself learning from others. Right now, though, I think I might put on some Pharrell Williams and start dancing in my living room like a crazy person because I’m happy.
Some months ago I made a conscious choice to avoid being negative on Facebook, something I hoped would extend on its own into other parts of my life, and it has. No angel here, though, I still occasionally take the piss out of racists and bigots, but then I move on to more puppies and poetry.
After my mother had passed, and already struggling with my injury worse than I ever had before, I remember sitting right here, at this very desk, and, wracked with big, heaving, sobs while the sun still shone outside my window, Googling “if I kill myself will I still go to heaven?”
Self-pity is not a mental illness. It can be totally destabilising, inspiring, or have no more effect on you other than a heavier step as you go about your regular day, and it’s both the level and duration of these things that make the difference between it becoming a real concern or just a bothersome moment of self-reflection
Bad things happen to good people. Bad people get away with shit they shouldn’t. Life isn’t fair, and we want to tear our hair out at it sometimes (and sometimes we do), but as a society, a generally even-minded culture of good people, we try our best to mitigate this and our failures are often pretty spectacular.
Threats come in all shapes and sizes, I’ve said that before. I’ve also made the distinction between real and perceived threats, but what does that really mean?
Nobody ever taught us much about panic attacks in paramedic school, or at least to the degree that I remember. It may well have been a module in the wee psychology course we took, but the only thing I can really recall from that was giving a presentation on kleptomania and as I did, walking between the desks and casually nicking pens, lighters, and coffee cups. I thought I was being terribly clever.
In a chat with a friend prior to starting yesterday's piece, bouncing some ideas off of each other and digging a wee bit deeper into others, I had said I could write an entire book on just the nature of hate. She said, “What a great idea!” and I told her to get fecked.