“Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.” – Albert Camus
In the midst of standing in an absurdly long line last weekend - I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and consciously took note. I looked fairly decent for an errand filled Sunday afternoon: jeans, boots, a nice T; an oversized hobo bag slung over my shoulder. I was freshly showered, hair combed, had utilized toothpaste, lotion, and deodorant; the whole nine. To an outsider, I realized that I looked, well... normal.
No one would suspect I was there to pick up a bevy of mood stabilizers and other anxiolytic psychoactive drugs which most days, help keep my faulty brain wiring in check.
Or that this medically prescribed cocktail also gives me the ability to get out of bed and live a quality life, without being obliterated by chronic insomnia, obsessions, intrusive thoughts, crippling anxiety, and depressive breakdowns.
And (much to the delight of the general public) also gives me the ability to wait in line like a regular person, curbing my claustrophobic anxiety long enough to prevent me from losing my shit.
*******
As a society, we pride ourselves on knowing what crazy (mental illness) looks like. Our go-to visual is the homeless dude pacing back and forth in front of the 7-11 quoting scripture and blurting obscenities. Crazy looks like those lunatics we see in the movies - psych wards and straight jackets; patients wandering institutionalized halls like the walking dead. We pity them, the unfortunate who appear to have gone mad. Or even worse - we condemn them for being weak, for not being able to buck up like the rest of us and function out in the real world. We can point them out: they are the druggies and alcoholics, those who make spectacles of themselves, gouge out their eyes; or kill themselves.
Or sometimes they walk among you; even appearing to stand patiently in front of you at the drugstore. We use mindfulness exercises, therapy, and pharmaceuticals to help battle the demons slithering within our thoughts.
When people ask about my next literary project, I brace myself for the reaction. To tell someone you're writing about depression sounds, well....fucking depressing. After revealing that I'm working on a memoir based on my experience with mental illness, and the importance of mental health in the black community - I'm met with laughter, disbelief, surprise, disdain, confusion, side-eye, or even scorn. Folks confuse mental conditions with being psychotic, having a personality disorder, or being weak and self-indulgent. Comments like "There's nothing wrong with you," to "All you creative types are crazy," to "You really take medication?" to "Black people don't go to therapy," remind me why most of us are successfully shamed into silence.
It's much easier to shut up about it, quietly unravel, and hope no one notices. It's more palatable to lie and claim "I've got the flu" or "My head's hurting again" instead of saying, "I'm doing my damndest to pull myself out of this shitty depressive episode." When you articulate that type of thing, people look at you as if you've laid an egg. People trying hard to manage their symptoms on the daily just don't need that kind of stress.
Which is why I feel a certain a sense of accomplishment these days. Mostly due to how far I've come, how vehemently I've fought to have a life despite my conditions. Many of my difficulties surfaced as a small girl, slowly progressed, and did not become full blown until much later. At my worst, I did not imagine that I would ever recover or become productive again. Now, it's a relief to know that despite the genetic and biological quirks, I actually can feel normal (well, normal for me) vs. feeling ultimately doomed and untreatable.
******
To expose one's self in this way is daunting, but I believe it's a part of the solution. Those who have experienced, or live with mental illness, need to speak about it. I've got enough guts now to be able to talk about it, without fearing the men in white suits will overhear and haul me away. There is a Chinese saying that "before you can conquer the beast, you must first make it beautiful." Once you face the monsters inside, they can no longer own or haunt you. Look them in the eye and embrace them, and you will be free.
So hey, I'll be a posterchild for crazy (so to speak) - at the very least, be a cheerleader (and/or comedianne) of sorts, for folks who are hiding, struggling, and suffering in the dark. To let them know that these matters of the mind do exist, must be addressed, can be conquered, and there's no reaon for shame. There are more of us out here, battling the same demons, regardless of how easily we may blend in with the others.
And for the rest of you, just a friendly reminder: Don't point your finger at crazy people.
