Tom dinning
Registrant*
Good morning everyone.
Its the end of Mental Health Week here in Australia.
Its been a great week for the wackos, loonies, crazies, nut cases and anyone two planks short of a picket fence.
There have been parties, parodies, fund raising, awareness campaigns, call-ins, send-out and live-ins.
In fact, its been a frenzy of activity, much like a dress-up party at a psychiatric ward. Why, the Cookoo's Nest has nothing on this place.
People have been able to have a joke at the expense of the mentally unhealthy without fear of recrimination or retribution. How nice for them. Every person claiming to be in some way recognisable has declared their love for mental health. A few of them even looked up an appropriate diagnosis in DSM 4 (one that matched their star sign no less) and declared themselves one of us.
Or should I say one of them.
Now the week is over, there is a disquieting lull in the conversation. I was expecting the world to be different this morning. But alas, I fear not. I'm still the same old crazy fart who rants and raves and uses obscenities to punctuate his verbosity. I still pop the same old pills and take a wide birth around the local bottle shop. I still figure that being asleep is better than being conscious and I can't figure out most of the world beyond a subliminal and non-emotional level. Everyone wants to know how my bad ticker is but lets not mention the Brain. ****, no. We don't talk about mental illness on a regular, day to day, band-ade in the second drawer on the right, have you taken your anti-biotics sort of way.
We hedge. I've never heard anyone tell a cancer or heart patient to "get over it". I don't here people whispering in the corners about people who have broken limbs or a bunion. Everyone want to visit you on your sick bed but doesn't want to know you're at home when depression grabs you by the balls and swings you in a loop.
Try telling them about it.
"I have depression."
"Oh, I have an appointment elsewhere".
"I'm a psychopath."
"****! I'm out of here"
"I have an addiction".
"What? Sex?. That must be fun?"
"My child has autism"
"Can't you control him?"
"My doctor told me I have Genito-Pelvic Pain/Penetration Disorder"
"Don't you like sex?"
"I'm obsessive compulsive"
"Aren't we all?"
And the best of all: "He's a bit weird, you know. It runs in the family."
So does hair colour, nose shape and left/right handedness but who's hiding that?"
I was once told that one of the best ways of dealing with psychosis or mental illness or whatever you want to call it is to talk to someone about it. Trouble is, the ones who listen are doctors and other loonies like myself. And Christine, of course, who, by the way, is obsessive compulsive so I guess she doesn't count as a full picket fence.
So, now the week is over, its back to talking to the doctor and the therapy group and the councillor and when someone calls me and asks me out for lunch I will continue to tell them I have a broken leg or dysentery or ebola and can't make it today and return to my usual position of sitting in a quiet corner of a dark room talking to myself or writing on OPF.
As my contribution to mental health week I declare myself Normal. And its killing me.
Can someone come and mow my lawn?
Its the end of Mental Health Week here in Australia.
Its been a great week for the wackos, loonies, crazies, nut cases and anyone two planks short of a picket fence.
There have been parties, parodies, fund raising, awareness campaigns, call-ins, send-out and live-ins.
In fact, its been a frenzy of activity, much like a dress-up party at a psychiatric ward. Why, the Cookoo's Nest has nothing on this place.
People have been able to have a joke at the expense of the mentally unhealthy without fear of recrimination or retribution. How nice for them. Every person claiming to be in some way recognisable has declared their love for mental health. A few of them even looked up an appropriate diagnosis in DSM 4 (one that matched their star sign no less) and declared themselves one of us.
Or should I say one of them.
Now the week is over, there is a disquieting lull in the conversation. I was expecting the world to be different this morning. But alas, I fear not. I'm still the same old crazy fart who rants and raves and uses obscenities to punctuate his verbosity. I still pop the same old pills and take a wide birth around the local bottle shop. I still figure that being asleep is better than being conscious and I can't figure out most of the world beyond a subliminal and non-emotional level. Everyone wants to know how my bad ticker is but lets not mention the Brain. ****, no. We don't talk about mental illness on a regular, day to day, band-ade in the second drawer on the right, have you taken your anti-biotics sort of way.
We hedge. I've never heard anyone tell a cancer or heart patient to "get over it". I don't here people whispering in the corners about people who have broken limbs or a bunion. Everyone want to visit you on your sick bed but doesn't want to know you're at home when depression grabs you by the balls and swings you in a loop.
Try telling them about it.
"I have depression."
"Oh, I have an appointment elsewhere".
"I'm a psychopath."
"****! I'm out of here"
"I have an addiction".
"What? Sex?. That must be fun?"
"My child has autism"
"Can't you control him?"
"My doctor told me I have Genito-Pelvic Pain/Penetration Disorder"
"Don't you like sex?"
"I'm obsessive compulsive"
"Aren't we all?"
And the best of all: "He's a bit weird, you know. It runs in the family."
So does hair colour, nose shape and left/right handedness but who's hiding that?"
I was once told that one of the best ways of dealing with psychosis or mental illness or whatever you want to call it is to talk to someone about it. Trouble is, the ones who listen are doctors and other loonies like myself. And Christine, of course, who, by the way, is obsessive compulsive so I guess she doesn't count as a full picket fence.
So, now the week is over, its back to talking to the doctor and the therapy group and the councillor and when someone calls me and asks me out for lunch I will continue to tell them I have a broken leg or dysentery or ebola and can't make it today and return to my usual position of sitting in a quiet corner of a dark room talking to myself or writing on OPF.
As my contribution to mental health week I declare myself Normal. And its killing me.
Can someone come and mow my lawn?