Hey, y’all! It has been brought to my attention that May is National Mental Health month, so I’m going to break from my 30 day writing challenge to dispense timeless #NikWisdom.
Today’s assignment is to name four weird traits about myself, and really, what’s not weird about me? I’ll wait…
I’ve written on this subject before, and I can’t believe it’s even necessary for me to address this fuckery AGAIN, yet, here I am.
This should be common fucking sense, but if someone is kind enough to tell you about their mental illness, it’s because they care enough to want you to know you have nothing to do with why they’re having a meltdown, that they’re late for work every Wednesday because they see a shrink, that when they’re shaky and jittery, it’s because their meds are being adjusted, and not because they’re having withdrawals of some sort (also not a reason to be a dick).
So if you’ve been trusted with the health status of another, keep it the fuck to yourself. It’s not that hard, just follow these simple steps:
- Shut the fuck up.
If you’re still confused, you’re too stupid to leave the house. Don’t reproduce.
On that note, don’t come here crying ableism. I don’t know anyone who’s mentally ill and/or has a learning disability who’s offended by the words “stupid”, “idiot”, or “crazy”, but deciding for us what we’re offended by is actually ableist as fuck.
“But wait! I’m totes kidding with you when I say ignorant dumb fuck shit like ‘you’re very productive today, you must be on a bipolar high’ ”
-Fuckwit who’s desperate for an assful of foot.
By definition, jokes are funny. Disclosing your coworkers health issues to clients and friends is the opposite of funny; it’s just plain sad and pathetic on your part. It says everything about you, and nothing about the person you’re gossiping about.
“But you’re already open about it! You write about your depression all the time!”
*I* write about MY depression, you’re free to write about yours, but you don’t speak for me. Also, being that I blog about my various health issues, if you’re gonna talk about me, the least you could do is direct folks to my blog, like my page, and subscribe to my YouTube channel.
Also, I’m open about it because I want folks to understand that chemical imbalances don’t discriminate. I was raised by both my parents, (who are still together) I had a large support system of family, and plenty of structure and discipline. My parents never burdened me with grown-up issues, we never went without anything, we ate supper at the table together every night, they made abundantly clear I was/am loved, and our house was the safe haven of my friends who mostly had horrible childhoods. I’m in my 30s now, and my childhood friends still call my parents mom and dad, and my grandparents Big Mama and Big Daddy. Yet, I still have depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and ADD.
“Okay, but you like *define* yourself by your mental illness. You’re not even trying to be happy!”
-Soon to be dead fuckwit
Again, you don’t speak for me. Lifelong depression, anxiety, and ADD have shaped my personality, and I own that shit. I didn’t ask for any of it, but as I’ve mentioned before, the Universe hates me, so I use it to my advantage to be a better writer. You know what writers who aren’t depressed write about? Glittery vampires, charming rapists based on the shitty writing of glittery vampire chick, and fucking chicken soup for the soul. My mental issues make me write like the bad bitch I am.
“I get it, I have OCD, which is why I’m always moving stuff at your station and throwing away food you’re still eating. I just can’t deal! I’m literally dying from your messiness!”
Firstly, stop claiming you’re “OCD” when you’re really just anal retentive.
For people who have legitimate OCD, diagnosed by actually doctors, it’s not a convenient way to stay organized, or an interesting icebreaker, it’s hell.
For many, OCD developed as a coping mechanism in response to surviving trauma and abuse, so pardon me if I lack sympathy because you’re dissatisfied with the arrangement at MY station.
I have ADD, but you don’t see me dumping glitter everywhere because “your station is like, totally organized, and I literally can’t”.
If you do not have managerial authority, your boss is happy with your coworker’s performance, and you are in no way affected by what you perceive as inferior, shut the fuck up, grow the fuck up, and deal. Some of us have real problems and your bullshit is further stigmatizing and undermining the hardships faced by those with mental illness.
Before I go, let’s recap what we’ve learned today:
☆ Don’t be a dick.
☆ Mind your own fucking business.
☆ Don’t talk shit about people for things they can’t help.
☆ Don’t speak for others.
☆ Get over yourself.
As always, thanks for reading, and if I’ve missed anything, please add a comment 🙂