Mental illness isn't your aesthetic

I’ve wanted to throw the last few books I’ve purchased about mental health into a wood chipper. Not because they were poorly written or talked openly about mental illness — of course, we need more of that. I wanted to shred them because they seemed to turn it into an aesthetic: edgy, tragic, marketable. In a weird way, they even seemed self-serving. 

One was a hybrid graphic novel/DSM diagnostic-style guide in which dark illustrations are paired with reader-friendly descriptions of mental disorders. It should’ve been amazing. It was not. 

The person who wrote it shared their personal experiences with mental illness, which could've been impactful. But they managed to make those experiences sound... cool. 

One entry included a diagnosis attributed to an ex, framed in a “they were obsessed with me, but I’m glad they got the help they needed” kinda way. 

Another was inspired by an autistic child (or child with autism, depending on your preference) whose mother, according to the author, didn’t appreciate the illustration. It was included anyway. That choice told me more than the author probably intended. 

By the end, the whole thing felt less like advocacy and more like branding. The fact that they sell hoodies, hats, and swag should also tell you something right there.

I also purchased 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 crappy, violent things to people who kinda deserved it anyway. Because I’m a sociopath. But I'm a lovable sociopath, and you'd cheer me on. Like Wednesday Addams.” 

“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 this: I think we’ve gone from stigmatizing mental illness to romanticizing it, which is still kowtowing to stigmatization. To me, it says mental illness is only okay when it can be made interesting, brilliant, tragic, edgy... You get it. 

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 deets with you? Fuck no. Because they’re ugly and I’m not that brave. Or irresponsible.  

It seems that some people (not every person, of course) who’ve written books or posted about their experiences on social media 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 ego dressed up in an advocacy costume. 

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 🫡