The S between us

Even if normally I tend to write differently, this week’s article will be centered more on the story, as it feels so important to be shared, to gain a better understanding.

Not that long ago, a guy asked me if depression ever cures. I told him that, no, it doesn’t. Not in the same way a cold would. But there are remission periods that, in a best-case scenario supported by the right amounts of psychotherapy and medication, last for years. He told me that he asked me that particular question because he has met a woman. And she is depressed. Diagnosed by a professional, not by Dr. Google.

I’ve asked him what’s the thing about it, and he told me that he has second thoughts about dating her, now that he’s aware of the fact that depression is a lifetime-lasting condition. He told me that it sucks, but it didn’t really hit me until he said to me I won’t have a relationship with her based on my empathy for her condition, I want someone normal by my side.

And then, it hit me. It wasn’t about that woman, she surely is a wonderful person. It was about him, and the way he’s seeing the world. About the chameleon always around us called stigma.

To keep the definition short, any label that favors discrimination is a stigma. There’s stigma everywhere: attached by your professional status, relationship status, financial status, and, of course, medical status.

More often then not, we tend to overlook the stigma and its presence in our lives. I have this tendency myself. But, at that moment, I thought She is, probably, awesome. A real, imperfect, yet strong and inspiring woman. She certainly didn’t have it easy. But every single good thing about her will be undermined by the fact that she is not normal. And that’s a shameful thing, indeed.

Of course, there is a man’s right to choose his significant other as he feels. But rejecting someone based on diagnosis will never be an actual choice. It is, usually, a proof of lacking empathy. Labeling someone before you even get to have a coffee with that person, to actually know it, is stigma. A harmful behavior, as it often brings up feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness. And even if we know that we hate feeling like that ourselves, truth is that things are even worse if you face a chronic illness.

As a chronic illness person, you constantly tend to try and see yourself through other people’s eyes. To understand what could make them stay around you despite your illness. It could be your charisma, your sense of style, your intelligence, determination, the fact that they feel safe and empowered around you… a lot of things, basically, that don’t depend on a diagnosis or the lack of it.

But what about those facing a mental condition? For them, every new day brings a new battle. Their illness affects their mood, determination, their personality as well in some cases. They tend to be unstable, not because they want to, but because that’s part of their illness. Even so, some of them are wonderful people. Caring, genuinely interested in other people, open to be known better, to know you better. Some of them are artists or volunteering for NGOs, trying to offer to other people the support they needed at some point in their lives. Some tend to focus on more practical stuff. They all are worth knowing better. Being seen as they are, respected, helped, cared for, loved. Just like any other human being.

Yet, some of them never get to experience this part of their lives, because of the judgmental people that use their diagnosis as a sentence. As an excuse for giving up in the very beginning. And if for some people facing another kind of medical issue this can be more bearable, for them is not. A person facing a mental health issue will meet rejection frequently, in every aspect of her life, but the thing is how that person is rejected.

Being rejected for not being the right person for the one you’re into, or for that one job you would’ve wanted so bad to get, is one thing, and it happens to all of us. But being rejected with the underlying message that it’s not you, it’s that thing… That’s hard to bear, as it cancels everything good about yourself. It tells you that nothing could make up for that. Where that isn’t something that you could, as an individual, be blamed for.

 If there’s something that could only be accomplished with constant education and documentation, that’s more likely a better understanding of how mental health issues are functioning like. Because they’re not just a phase. Won’t just pass either. They’re affecting that person’s brain, balance, and lifestyle. And no one wants to have that kind of life, where you’re constantly between highs and lows, without any grey area to breathe in.

Stigma is fueled by stereotypes and misunderstandings that became popular. That’s why reading and asking about sensitive topics, like mental health illnesses, is the only way of getting rid of it. And if you’re feeling ashamed to ask a professional, you can always ask a person that you know suffering from depression, or any other chronic condition. They will answer all of your concerns and misunderstanding, even sharing documentation resources with you.

Because, at the end of the day, there are a few things that will remain unchanged. Like the fact that the easy way won’t be fulfilling, and the fulfilling way won’t be easy. Also, it is worth questioning our beliefs every now and then, especially when they can have an impact over the vulnerable categories, like the disabled, the mental illness patients, the poor people, the sexual minorities, and see what harm could bring them our attachment to our toxic, outdated beliefs. Keep always in mind that ignorance is like a walnut’s shadow: nothing ever grows underneath. Especially not meaningful relationships with other people. So the next time when you tend to avoid someone because of a stigmatizing label, sit a little and ask yourself is it really worth it, a reason good enough for me not getting to know this person? and you’ll have a surprise. More often than not, the answer is no.

The poisoned thread

Today I’ve decided to write about one of the things with the biggest impact on our mental health: perfectionism. Defined by APA as the tendency to demand of others or of oneself an extremely high or even flawless level of performance, in excess of what is required by the situation.

It is a topic long discussed in the field of psychology and cognitive sciences. A personality feature with its own scales to be measured. But, most importantly, it is part of our everyday life, and it affects us all, aware of it or not.

I’ve been a perfectionist for literally all my life, asking a lot from the others, and even more from myself. Because it felt like the right thing to do, the way to evolve, to improve. I’ve been convinced that the only way to be a better person is to be more: to do more, to get involved more, to know more and more, about all things that make you curious. There was always room for improvement, and it still is.

But only when I have lost everything that felt important to me I got to discover that I was, for so long in my life, hanging on a poisoned thread. When everything left with me was the perfectionism screaming in the sleepless nights, telling me that I’m a complete failure.

That I’ve failed myself and everyone else who’s believed in me and my ability of making this life feel worth living. That I am a disappointment, and I have to work harder than ever to gain back all that I’ve lost. That only if I will become twice as good as I used to be before I failed and ruined everything, I will take back the things I’ve lost. That the guilt I was feeling for what happened is the only legitimate feeling, the only thing that I’m supposed to feel.

Easy to say that this whole speech was no good. That it only brought back issues that I have been feeling like I’ve overcome. That every little progress achieved in the past years felt like gone for good. That not the period when I’ve lost the main things that used to give me a feeling of meaning was the peak of the fall, but the period when the perfectionist inside me started to have its monologue over and over.

Obviously, I tried my best to diminish that: had numerous attempts of losing the weight I’ve gained in my depressive period, tried to dive into the freelance writing thing, and started to keep a diary where I was rating my weeks, in order to see how things go. It was supposed to be my recovery diary, but it was nothing like that. In fact, taking a look at what I’ve been writing there, I see no progress, but self-sabotage, self-doubt and guilt. A lot of self-blame, too.

One of the most relevant fragments about the way my perfectionism almost destroyed me sounds like this: I want to believe that everything will be alright, that I didn’t lose everything, but it sounds so fake. I know, sometimes I forget the fact that I’m really, really young, but do I really have enough time left to fix everything?

I’m sure that everyone had moments when it felt like this, but the thing is that, even so, being a perfectionist isn’t, till now, seen as a problematic trait. In fact, we’re encouraged by everything around us to give our best, day after day, caught up in a so-called successful thinking spiral.

You have to work more, to learn more, to achieve more, to do more. Day after day. Ain’t nothing wrong about a person trying to make every single aspect of its life to be close to perfection. In fact, it’s a model to be followed, as that person works hard to improve her life. And this is one of the most important things we should get rid of: the belief that perfectionism means improvement.

This is how you discover that there’s more to that definition. It is associated with depression, anxiety, eating disorders and other mental health problems. And it comes to a moment when you get to be fully aware about these things, usually when you get to experience them yourself.

At a certain point, it is just the logical aftermath: you try to make everything perfect, so you get frustrated when your attempts are failing. This, if it often happens enough, brings up the feeling of unworthiness, and we all try to cope with it in our own ways. And I had to become tired, completely tired, in order to understand that the way to progress is not perfectionism, but patience. That, actually, being a perfectionist is nothing to brag about, but rather a toxic personality trait that one should be aware of and try to manage.

Because my history with being a perfectionist girl is not only my story. It is a small fragment of a collective narrative telling us daily that, in order to be worthy- of appreciation, of respect, of love, we have to work hard in our attempt of becoming perfect beings.

That you’ll receive more as you’ll do more. That only the weak people have bad days or bad periods of time. That the second place is a loser and the first place is the only one worth considering. The all or nothing narrative, the toxic speech of a perfectionist generation, raising other perfectionists, which have, somehow, to address to other types of challenges.

This is how everything begins, by understanding that being a perfectionist can be a huge trigger for things that you’d never want to experience. That it is not the price you have to pay for a successful life. That you don’t have to glorify a toxic trait if you feel like it puts you in a bad place, mentally and emotionally.

Because, at the end of the day, that’s the trick: there’s a difference between trying to do your best in a situation, and trying to reach the perfection. And the difference comes from the fact that doing your best is human, natural, subjective and imperfect. Perfection is just an invention. It is a fiction, a very loved one, but with nothing human in it. We’re not born to be perfect, we’re born to be the best people we could be, and that’s something that changes day after day.

Sometimes your best means that you got out of bed and went to work, when you’ve cried all night before it and just wanted to end it. And there are times when your best makes you proud of yourself, and the whole life seems to glow. Life is not linear, and it is not made to be linear, and trying to make it perfect is the perfect recipe of giving up on the little joys that make it beautiful, human, and, at the end of the day, worth living.