I call BS

I call bullshit. Repeatedly. 

I’ve wanted to throw the last three books I’ve purchased into a woodchipper. That’s what I get for not just going to the library like a person who makes good choices. Now I’m stuck with three books I hate, but for which I can’t get my money back. 

The first was a hybrid of graphic novel/DSM diagnostic descriptions. In it, dark illustrations accompanied reader-friendly clinical descriptions to capture the essence of mental disorders, helping people understand and connect with them. 

Sounds fantastic, no? Right up my alley! That’s why I bought it. It should’ve been amazing. It sounded amazing. I was stoked. 

But halfway in, I found myself wanting to send it back because it was bullshit. I emailed the company, but they said they only issue refunds for the hoodies, hats, and swag they sell. That should tell you something right there.

The dude who wrote it very generously shared his personal experiences with mental illness to connect with others and spread empathy. Yeah, that’s nice. But he managed to make himself sound tragically glamorous—while there was a diagnosis in there that he assigned to his ex, who he painted in a “she was obsessed with me, but I’m so glad she got the help she needed” kinda light. You know, the whole “crazy ex” angle. Dick. 

Also, he included one inspired by a child of someone he knows who has a mental condition. Apparently, the Momma very clearly told him she didn’t appreciate the illustration, but he included it anyway. Dick. 

Either way, he really tried to come off as a cool guy who draws edgy pictures and knows a lot about mental illness. Again, I call bullshit. 

The second book was a self-help nugget on how to eat to support your mental health. I saw this one coming a mile away—don’t know what the hell I was thinking—insulting, pop-culture bullshit. That’s all I’ve got on that one. Again, bullshit. 

The third was a memoir written by someone who had (has?) sociopathy. I bought this one because I wanted something genuine, authentic, and unpolished. I wanted someone to be honest, ugly, and real for a change. No dice. 

The gist: “As a child, I did shitty, violent things to people who kinda deserved it anyway. Because I’m a sociopath. But only against people for whom you’d cheer me on for doing hateful things. Because Wednesday Addams is super popular and everyone wants to be her.” 

Get it? Fuck that stupid book. 

“What is your point?” you may be asking. “And why the hot take on that last book? Lots of people thought it was a revelation!” 

My point is, we’ve gone from stigmatizing mental illness to romanticizing it, which is kowtowing to stigmatization. Does that make sense? Lemme explain.

I have a couple of diagnoses that aren’t pretty, and honestly, there’s no way in hell I would tell anyone but my therapist about my experiences. The shame is real, but I’m learning to put it in its place and love myself anyway. I’m 100% sure I’m not alone—but will I share the dirty deets with you? Fuck no. Because they’re ugly and I’m not that brave. Or irresponsible.  

It seems that these people (not every person, of course) who’ve written books about their experiences say they want to help and connect and blahbeddyblahblah but are still hung up on making themselves look cool. That’s not real vulnerability in the name of connection; it’s just masturbating your ego, which folds to the stigma that comes with mental illness. 

You can’t get rid of the stigma and make a dramatic impact unless you make it okay to be dirty, unattractive, and raw. And that, my friends, comes at a really high personal price for those who would expose themselves. So, the next time someone tries to sell their story of mental illness on Amazon, take it with a grain of salt; their struggles are probably much cooler than yours. But keep on truckin’ and don’t skip therapy. I’m rooting for you. 

Laura 🫡