PICTURE
(I may have accidentally
deleted MS Paint. You
go ahead and imagine
whatever picture you like.)
It’s hard to make jokes about mental illness. D’you hear the one about the schizophrenic who had a psychotic episode at the circus? He knifed two clowns and got mauled by a bear.
See? What kind of a punch line is that? Plus, I hate clowns, so it seems more like a really short story with a happy ending.
According to a report published by the World Health Organization in 2000, approximately one third of people polled reported experiencing a mental disorder that met DSM-IV criteria. The WHO surveyed citizens in the United States, Canada, Brazil, Mexico, Germany, the Netherlands, and Turkey. There were 29,644 respondents at or over the age of eighteen.
Thus, it’s mathematically safe to say that there are about 100,000,000 people in the United States who were or are mentally ill.
Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone.
It took ages for me to become comfortable with having an anxiety disorder. With the exception of celebrities, who seem to find joy in sharing their diagnoses, most people feel stigmatized in society if they have psychiatric problems. Rarely will you encounter two guys in the street and hear:
Jim: Dick! It’s been ages! How are you?
Dick: I’m great! I managed to kick that underage-Thai-hooker habit. How about you?
Jim: Better than ever. I made regional sub-vice president and started taking an atypical antipsychotic for off-label treatment of my treatment-resistant depression. How’re Jill and the kids?
But the problem exists for large segments of society, so I don’t understand why I should be ashamed. It’s not a sign of weakness to have a mental disorder. Don’t get me wrong, there are many signs of weakness. Crying in front of others, for example, or begging for sex. But it is fairly difficult to self-regulate brain chemicals. Those are involuntary bodily functions (unless you have a high threshold for pain, a drill, and an exceptionally good working knowledge of the brain).
I came to realize I had a problem during my sophomore year of high school, when I couldn’t sleep, eat, or leave the house. Constant panic attacks dominated my life until I sought treatment. Interestingly, Hugh Laurie’s experiences mirror mine, except for the torment.
I was a fan of Hugh Laurie before I ever saw House. In fact, I own all four series of Blackadder and the whole Jeeves & Wooster collection. But I’m a little annoyed that he claims to have realized he had depression when he felt bored at a charity stock car race. Geez, Hugh, are you sure it wasn’t when you felt pensive at an awards ceremony? How about that time you got frustrated when you couldn’t remember Stephen Fry’s phone number?
It’s not that I doubt the validity of his diagnosis or the seriousness of the problem. I just think that boredom at a stock car race is the most pleasant incidence of depression I’ve ever heard of. Most people cry for no reason and can’t get out of bed. How Hugh must suffer.
After ten years, I feel like an old pro. I want to offer advice to the recently diagnosed. I want to wear “I ♥ Paxil” T-shirts and hand out Xanax to people on the street. The only problem (besides occasional flare-ups and a lifetime of prescription drugs—thanks GlaxoSmithKline!) is the name of my diagnosis. The “generalized” in “generalized anxiety disorder” gives the impression of being a no-name brand product. Can’t afford a real anxiety disorder? Wal-Mart brand Generalized Anxiety Disorder is one third cheaper and just as effective! Now available with mild OCD!
I feel assured that psychiatric problems will eventually lose their stigma (except for pederasty; sorry, NAMBLA). As the economy continues to suck/fails to thrive, more and more people will want drugs. I foresee a day in the near future when the government will put Prozac and Valium in our water the same way they put fluoride.
It’d save me a lot of time and money.
Tags: anxiety, hugh laurie, insane, mental
