"Inaccurate Portrayal of Mental Illness" - Debunking the Myth | Olivia J

"An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all," -Oscar Wilde

"(in)accurate portrayal of mental illness"

That phrase gets thrown around a hell of a lot these days. 

And I'm sick of people abusing it. 

Phrases like this get thrown around concerning shows like 13 Reasons Why, and basically any other form of art that involves a story. However, it is grossly and inherently problematic because it assumes something extraordinarily harmful about mental illness itself:  that mental illness is homogenous. 

I think that most of us can agree that 13 Reasons Why is not a good show. The writing is poor, the characters are inconsistent, and the depiction of suicide is harmful. 

Now before you all light your torches and call me a hypocrite, let me establish:  there is a wrong way to portray mental illness, but there is not one single way to portray mental illness. 

Let me explain. Portraying mental illness incorrectly involves assigning inaccurate or inconsistent symptoms to a mental illness, perpetuating harmful or incorrect stereotypes and stigma around mental illness, and not portraying mental illness as something that is treatable. Basically, the wrong way of portraying mental illness is spreading inaccurate information. Most other things are up for debate.

The tricky part is that many people - including myself - found 13 Reasons Why as a very harmful and inaccurate portrayal of mental illness (I'm looking at you, producers-entirely-ignoring-the-advice-from-a-psychiatric-board). It idealizes the fallout from suicide, spinning it out to be revenge instead of untreated mental illness. It blames suicide on everyone else instead of Hannah Baker. It never puts a quantifier on mental illness, and paints an utterly hopeless picture of the topics it explores. 

However, I've spoken with many people who have identified with the bullying and social aspects of 13 Reasons Why. And who am I to invalidate their feelings and experiences? Despite that the myrad of reasons why 13 Reasons Why falls flat on its face, bullying can contribute to mental illness, and if 13 Reasons Why resonated with someone - if someone saw themselves in 13 Reasons Why and they felt it was an accurate portrayal of their struggles with bullying and mental illness - then I have no right to tell them any differently. Because guess what?

There's no one single way to have a mental illness. 

From depression, anxiety, and trauma, to schizophrenia, disassociative identity disorder, and eating/substance abuse disorders, everyone experiences mental illness differently. My PTSD doesn't look like your PTSD. My friend's depression doesn't look like my family member's depression. Portrayals and/or content that one person finds harmful or triggering may not bother or affect another. 

To claim that your experience of mental illness is the correct or only experience and that your experience of mental illness ought to be the only one portrayed in media is unbelievably selfish and insensitive to the millions of other people who experience mental illness differently than you.

Truthfully, this is partially a call-out post to myself, because I've claimed that 13 Reasons Why isn't an accurate portrayal of mental illness, because it's not. For me. However, I'm retracting that statement to some degree because I know it resonates with some people, and I don't want to invalidate them. I'm not perfect, and I continue to evolve and grow as an artist, a consumer, and a critic. 

However, next time you're tempted to call a piece of media an 'inaccurate portrayal of mental illness', consider whether it is literally a factually incorrect and harmful portrayal, or whether it just doesn't align with your experiences and therefore you personally can't relate to it. 

Because nine times out of ten, there's someone out there who can relate to it, and they shouldn't be robbed of the experience of being profoundly impacted and deeply understood by storytelling. Nobody should. 

~The WordShaker

My Anxiety | A Short Story

"To survive, you must tell stories," -Umberto Eco

The pounding of my heart jolts me out of sleep. Breathing in and out, the sheets stick to my clammy body, my pajamas cooking me in the heat of the summer night.

The popcorn ceiling looks black and white. Sleep still tugs at my vision, at my consciousness.

Silence. The air conditioner hums deep within the house. The faint whine of crickets in the bushes outside my window.

Something rustles in the corner. Left. Clawing at the sheets, billowing them in and out to get the stale air circulating, I sit up.

Nothing.

I lay back down, my entire body heaving and pulsing. A flutter burns in my gut.

A crash bursts out of the same corner, like a shelf fell right off of it's post. Jolted with panic, I sit up, gnarling the sheets around my legs.

Nothing. Just black shadows, stagnant, diffused, created only by the light of the moon from behind my curtains.

I lay back down.

I close my eyes, try to sleep. Air conditioning, crickets, everything natural, everything normal.

The flutter burns, grows until it scales up and down my back. Arching, I itch my spine. There's nothing there, I tell myself, my back is pressed up against the mattress, there's nothing there.

I roll over, facing away from the site of the crash. Rustling, unnatural movements come from the endless labyrinths of shadows.

It's a rat. It's a spider. It's a rabid dog.

In a solid moment of panic, I sit up again, only to find the bitter relief of nothing.

Nothing.

Crawling, hissing, jittering around like a solid ball of energy, waiting to explode in the darkness.

It's a ghost. It's a demon. It's everything I fear.

Tearing the sheets off, I claw at my light switch. Light explodes out of the fixture on my ceiling, chasing away every shadow with ravenous delight.

I peer into the corner, trying to push past the piles of clothes and clutter and dust, to find something, something of what I was seeing, hearing, feeling.

But there's nothing. Not a speck out of place.

Padding along the floor, I near the corner. Seemingly normal, seemingly okay.

My heartbeat screams in my ears, my blood races under my fingernails, my breathing ragged like grasping at threads.

I kick at the pile of dirty clothes, and they rocket forward, slamming against the wall with a slap. I push over my art table, pens breaking, bottles of paint splattering, paper crumpling. I throw books over my shoulder, banging, crashing against my own safe haven.

Heaving, trembling, staring at the mass destruction I raged on nothing, I walk back over, turn off the light, and crawl back into bed.

But I know, tomorrow night, it will be back. The thing, the tightness in my jaw, the single candle of nervousness under my diaphragm.

My anxiety.

~The WordShaker

Death Begs Existential Questions

"Three words for a writer: Make Me Care," -Buffy Andrews

The trees are bare, and the flush of life on earth is at it's end.

And so was my Uncle Tim.

No one knew he was feeling this pain.  I saw him less than two weeks ago, and we never knew.  I never would have had the slightest inkling that he was depressed much less that he would kill himself with the weapon he used to gather his own food.

It would have been different if he died in a car accident.  No less tragic, but different.  It would have been different if he died of a heart attack.  No less tragic, but different.

Because instead of dying from the outside in, he died from the inside out.

Except the decay was not visible.

Until it was too late.

Now all that's left is the past.  All that's left is the memories and the words left unsaid.

~

I remember our last conversation about what praying mantis egg cases look like. He lead me around the back of the house, narrating the first time he found out that these pine-cone like structures were actually the nurseries for little baby praying mantises.

You never know which conversation will be your last.

I never knew him that well. I never thought he much liked me, being creative and sporadic and pensive.  I remember spending holidays where we barely spoke a word to each other - mostly because we never had much to discuss.

He was always one of my hardest relatives, a tough nut to crack - at least, in my book. I could never find much to connect with him, but it seemed I was getting over that hump, and, occasionally, we'd have good conversations.

But now those are lost words and lost causes.

And I regret it with my whole being.

~

The known haunts my past, but the uncertain terrifies my future. What will change? How will my family make it through each grueling day?

Funerals and pain mark what I forsee to be the future of my family. Black umbrellas and rainy eyes.

~

I can't - won't -  believe it until I see it.

But why.  I don't understand.  Why did he die?  Physically, what caused his heart to stop and for you to take the last breath from his lungs.  Why did he die?  Spiritually, what was your purpose for plucking his life back into your hands.

What is death?  Where do we really go?  Does any of this matter? Heaven, Hell, everything in between. Death begs existential questions, that, quite frankly, toy and spear through my feeble mind.

What really is any of this?

My mind floods with many thoughts that can never be translated on paper.  My heart bursts with many emotions that can never be expressed in words.

And what am I to do with them?

I just hope that Uncle Tim is up there with you, God.

USA Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

~The WordShaker