On Mental Health

Disclaimer: Not particularly funny content ahead…

My mom had really bad mental health issues. She dealt with nightmarish imagery that made it hard for her to sleep at night, and intrusive thoughts during the day that made it hard for her to keep her thoughts subvocalized. Lots of ranting. You knew things were really bad with her when she started claiming she was in love with the American singer-songwriter Michael Bolton. I’m not sure why she chose him. But I remember laughing out loud in the St. Michaels Emergency room one time when they asked her who she thought she was in love with. They looked at me like I was insensitive, but I just knew what she was going to say. Shit was like clockwork. But it’s far less funny to note how her intermittent (but severe) mental health issues also made it impossible for us to live with her full time as kids… Still, I was never (too) resentful because she always believed in me and my abilities. And in turn, I put a lot of pressure on myself to not let her down; to use my God-given and developed gifts to provide a better life for her and my sister…

But the problem with living for other people like that is it’s exhausting and mentally debilitating. If you’re not doing the work of two (or more) people at all times, then you’re by definition being lazy, and so consequently undeserving of their support; undeserving of their love. At least until you fix the issue. You can always sustain the illusion for a while. Maybe end up studying at a really good university, or working a high profile job, or settling down with a nice loving family. But, unfortunately, we all have our limits. Be it our biased perceptions, our physical limitations, or just not having enough time… As a result, when you grow too accustomed to living for (or to impress) other people, you always (always, always) wind up letting someone down: either yourself or the ones who believed in you…

This is probably my last post here for a while. There’s a quote from a Coen Brothers movie I like called Inside Llewyn Davis. It goes: “You’re not supposed to let your practice shit out… It ruins the mystique.” I’m a great writer. That’s the honest truth. Still, most of what I’ve posted here has been quite bad (by my own standards...). Not everything. But a lot of it. And I know this because if I were feeling better, then (most) of these drafts (and drawings) would’ve stayed buried deep in my notes app. Again, not everything. But a lot of it. Still, it’s okay though… It’s been fun. Sort of. In an ironic way. Maybe. And I never had much mystique to protect… 

People always thought I was weird…

But whatever. I have nothing to prove. No one should ever feel like they do. Especially if they deal with mental health issues. You just do the best you can with whatever you’ve been given. It might not look impressive to others, but that’s only because they lack the full context of what you’ve been through. Which isn’t really a failing on their part either. Like I said, we all have our limitations…