An Argument for Mental Illness

Most people I know have some intimate knowledge of Mental Illness — even as I loathe to call it that — capital M, capital I. Either they struggle with it (a lot or sometimes), or they are connected (sometimes or a lot) to someone who does. I’m of both camps — I have it, and I know people who do, too. Depression and Anxiety (capital D, capital A) are the most significant issues I must keep in check and watch for triggers — like falling boulders in a canyon. I know they’re there and are dangerous, evident by rocks littering the side of the road and ones sitting precariously on the mountain peak. I observe them, understand how they got there, appreciate their power, and move on. Why? Because I refuse to be stuck in that canyon, and I have things to do, a life to live. One way I deal with my unique culmination of nature and nurture is I remain curious about it — not just my stuff, but other people’s too. Once I discover some aspect I’ve never known, I try to apply it to myself or some complex character in a multi-layered story. It helps me to understand humanity and makes life feel less scary. I am riveted by a moment I spent with my grandmother, who died many years ago but whom I still think about and treasure because of this one moment at the apex of her mental Illness. My favorite thing about my grandma growing up was that her initials spelled out DOPE — which, for a woman that always matched her purse, belt, and shoes, wore pink lipstick 24/7, and had weekly hair appointments and manicures — DOPE did not match her.She would also address me unapprovingly — telling me I would be more attractive as a boy, calling me fat, and making sure that any Christmas gift she bought me was useless, such as a fingernail manicure kit (same gift five years in a row), when she knew I bit my nails down to the quick — and it wasn’t to nurture me into growing out my nails. It was to stick it to me that I had a problem — Thanks, G-Ma (capital G, capital M). However, things changed when my grandmother began driving her car in the middle of the night with her trunk up, when she couldn’t quite figure out that shoes came in matching pairs, and when she didn’t recognize her son, my dad, thinking he was either a stranger at her house (actually his house) or that he was a potential suitor. Grandma was always boy-crazy, but now it seemed she’d dropped the boy part.

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