tw: ableism, talk of mental illness, depression

Today in my Intro to Psych class we started the unit on mental illness.  I guess this is something that the class has been excited for.   “This is the fun stuff,” said my professor.  ”Just be careful not to diagnose your friends and peers!”  This remark drew laughs from the class.

She outlined the chapter and a few disorders, talking about the symptoms, what “they” might exhibit.  The whole class period seemed to revolve around this idea of they, some magical group of people with disorders, as if none of the students in the class could possibly have mental illness, or know someone who does.

I am sitting right in front of you.I’m wearing a green t-shirt and I don’t talk much, but I’m fighting back tears.  Because, as a person with mental illness,  this isn’t a fun chapter in a textbook for me.  It’s not a what-if situation, a game, a research paper.  This is my life.  This is my daily struggle to stay alive and functional, to get out of bed and talk to my friends and put on clothes and attend class.

I looked around the class and noticed 2 or 3 other students shutting down like I did.  I don’t know them and I could be projecting, but the reality is this:  there are people with mental illness in your life.  We exist.  You might not know it— many of us, myself included, have passing privilege.  But we’re out there.  And I, for one, am sick of having to be invisible.