[Don't] Call Me Crazy

I define “depression,” but depression does not define me because you cannot define a person. Not with a single word, not with an entire book. Human beings defy definition. Yet the stigma surrounding mental illness makes some believe we can use it to define others, and it often deceives us into believing we must use it to define ourselves.

That “teaching myself social behaviors” thing, for example, was a window into my entire childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood. There were things I needed to learn differently from most of the people around me, and the amount of useful, appropriate support I received back then was exactly zero. At the same time, the criticism I received felt infinite, especially when I tried to articulate my struggles. A person who I probably shouldn’t have been friends with once told me I needed to stop “thinking things through” in social situations and just “let my instincts take over.” In retrospect, I wish I’d replied, “What the hell are you talking about, ‘let my instincts take over’?” He might as well have said, “Just try really hard to grow a third arm between your shoulder blades and eventually it’ll happen!” Nothing about those situations felt instinctive; I had to learn how to navigate them in other ways

I wonder ... if people think of suicidal ideation as thoughts that are obviously sinister. If they assume the voice comes in a snake hiss or a demon's warped bass. Does it occur to them that it could sound like the friend who nudges you at a bad, crowded party and whispers, conspiratorially, "Hey, lets get out of here". Do [they] consider how well you have to know yourself to see that moment for what it is and whisper back, "You are not my real friend".

Don't let the Muggle-like thoughts dim your magic, dear!

I was trying to be brave. I was trying to let people in. I was trying. I am who I am today because of my messes. Because I’ve survived them. Because I’ve written about them. Because I’ve learned from them, because I keep searching for new tools to clean them up, because I keep trying to heal.

Eye contact is not a harbinger of decency.

When I had my gallbladder removed in 2010, no one dismissed me because a part of my digestive system was faulty. No one listened to something I had to say and responded, “He can’t be trusted—he doesn’t have a gallbladder.” Yet this happens all too frequently with those who live with mental illness. We are dismissed, distrusted, told our thoughts are not our own.

To avoid reproach, I learned how to pose as a Good Girl, but even that persona couldn't completely shield me. It seemed that, for girls, there was no such thing as "good" enough.

When there are things about yourself you can’t change—no matter how much you might want to and no matter how hard you try—it sort of throws your ideas about free will and agency into chaos. Not being able to control oneself is a far different experience than bumping up against outside obstacles that aren’t in one’s power to change. But our own thoughts, our feelings, our actions—those are the things that make up our internal existence and fundamentally define who we are. If we can’t control what makes us us, what hope is there for finding agency anywhere else in our lives

Nothing is as powerful as a woman who embraces herself, without apology.

And that when we say “It Gets Better,” it doesn’t mean “Everything Gets Solved.” It means you will still carry the weight from when things weren’t good, but you will be stronger for it the next time you’re unhappy—and that time will come.

Our bodies and minds are always working together, but we don’t always treat them as two equally important parts of who we are. It is far easier, for example, to take a day off from life because of the flu than it is to take one off because of having a case of the sads. But both of these things are valid and have a tremendous impact on how we move through the world.

Those who have known me accept that they do not guide the kite, for I fly where the winds take me. The ones who hold my string keep me safe, but free. We dance, a delicate balance that is both holding on and letting go.

We all have things - and sometimes people - we are unable to look in the eye.

good, but you will be stronger for it the next time you’re unhappy—and that time will come.

I’m so mad that my fingertips tingle; I feel like I could zap this man with the pent-up energy like a ragey adult Matilda. “Van Gogh was really sick!” I want to yell at him. “Tell your kid that mental illness can be very hard, and how important health care and access are, how we have to talk about it.

It’s strange to realize that, despite having an innate ability for it, I am actually terrible at being crazy. How can one be so bad at something one is meant to be? Bipolar disorder is, after all, some combination of genes and their expression. Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s dopamine.

Write what you know,” the old saying goes. To which I say, “Bullshit.” I don’t know any Goblin Kings, I’ve never lived in eighteenth-century Bavaria, nor do I compose music, all of which my protagonist knows intimately. My adage is this: “Write what you know to be true.” Write your lived experience into existence. Write your truth.

Don’t let the Muggle-like thoughts dim your magic, dear!