On Being "Crazy"

As an addendum to my last post, I'm really sick of reading/ hearing "well, I don't think of insane or crazy being ableist words and I (or my friend, parent, whatever) have clinical depression." This isn't a topic I've discussed openly much, if ever, so bear with me.

Depression has its own stigma, people who are depressed are thought of as weak, they should "just get over it and be happy," or are told its "just a case of the blues." I don't want to suggest that depression isn't a real disease or minimize it in any way, but it's not the kind of mental illness that people are referring to when they use the word "crazy."

Crazy is something altogether different. Crazy is delusion, psychosis, mania, schizophrenia. Insanity, in the depths of society's psyche, is jabbering in tongues rocking back and forth in a padded room. It can't be trusted. It is the serial killer, the mother who kills her children, the man who laughs while committing the most vile crimes - this is what "crazy" conjures up in the minds of the general public.

This terror, this nightmare looming in the dark places of our collective consciousness is harmful. Incredibly so. It means that people who are not neurotypical are stuck with the paradoxical choice of lying or being mistrusted. Perhaps more importantly, it makes us less likely to seek help when it is needed. It took me years to admit, even to myself, that my brain was fundamentally different than most. Because I didn't want to be crazy.

I still don't. I'm terrified of the psychotic break that I am 30 - 50% more likely than others to have, even though I know that it would probably be manageable if it were to happen. I don't generally share the fact of my mental illness with others, even with those I am close to. Admitting who I am is risking ever being trusted or taken seriously again. The reason for this is "crazy."

Ableism at Feministing

Cosigned.

My biggest issue: the use of non-neurotypical status to discredit or dismiss the voices, opinions, and experiences of commenters in other marginalized groups (sex workers, kinksters, trans folk, etc) is unacceptable and needs to be addressed.

I don't know why I even bother to keep reading Feministing, but I just can't seem to help myself. Must be the masochism, or the crazy, or both.

A Week Late...

My condolences go out to the family, friends, and coworkers of Dr. Tiller.  I have little to say on the topic, except to fervently hope that the federal government recognizes this act of domestic terrorism for what it is and acts accordingly.

In other (happier) news, the President has proclaimed June "LGBT Pride Month."  This month marks the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall riots, and same-sex marriage has officially been legalized in six states - Rhode Island is now the only New England holdout against marriage equality.  

Still, I'm not thrilled.  Personally, and perhaps this is superficial, I would really like to see a "Q" at the end of that LGBT.  I wouldn't be opposed to an "I" or an "A" either, although I can see how it begins to be unwieldy.  Queer, though, I think is important; it leaves room for ambiguity.

Closets and Such

So, as part of their violence against women prevention/awareness week my college showed The Price of Pleasure a couple weeks ago.  The presentation was put on by the Women's Studies Advisory Committee, which is essentially code for my advisor who runs the Women's Studies program (I am a math major now, but I used to be a women's studies major and I did not change advisors).  There was a brief discussion (about 45 minutes to an hour) following the film.  I went into it expecting to be at least slightly annoyed, but I wasn't quite prepared for how angry and uncomfortable I became.

The thing is, most of my current social circle is fairly kink-friendly; I generally don't have to deal with any sort of real anti-kink attitudes in real life (online is a different story).  As a result I just wasn't prepared for people's reactions to the content of the film, particularly the more explicitly BDSM imagery.  The film in no way addresses the differences between consensually negotiated BDSM and actual violence/degradation, in fact it tends to conflate the two.  Essentially, in addition to being fairly explicitly anti-porn the film has a strong unstated anti-kink message as well.  

So I just sat there watching these people, some of whom I know fairly well and otherwise like, recoil in horror, shaking their heads in disgust as I silently fumed in the corner.  Fundamentally, it wasn't actually the disgust or the horror that really bothered me, I can at least somewhat understand that, it was the obvious sense of moral superiority that accompanied it; the room was filled with an overwhelming sense of distain.  My few attempts at addressing this were either ignored or treated with thinly veiled contempt.

I don't really know what to say about the experience.  It was extremely unpleasant, of course, but that wasn't really the worst part.  I left that discussion feeling ashamed, slightly dirty.  Some part of me really wishes that I had been brave enough to say what I was really thinking.  I wanted to stand up and point out that as wonderful as all their theory was this was my real life they were talking about.  I wanted to scream.  I wanted to tell them that it wasn't porn, it was ideas like theirs that had seeped into my unconscious to warp and poison my sexuality.  I wanted to tell them how hard I had to fight to find myself again.  Most of all I wanted to point out exactly how dangerous their words could be.

But I didn't.  I didn't say much of anything once it became obvious that they wouldn't listen.  I chose self-preservation over truth, and while I know that choice was the right one, I still couldn't help feeling slightly bad about it.