I don’t really mean to tell anyone to fuck off, but I am tired of this version of “inspiration.”
I would have written “WHATEVER” in place of the “FUCK OFF” actually, because if it works for you, great.
Unless what you’re saying is stupid and thoughtless.
I’m one-hundred percent done with the “words over a scenic background” approach to mental health and wellness. Can we just talk, please? Whatever happened to talking about things?
Are we becoming so stupid we can only share our feelings via short blurbs and quotes from other people placed over pictures of things?
Are these enjoyed by the same people who need pictures to point to when they order from restaurants?
I especially dislike the “Happiness is a choice!” graphic floating around in various butterfly and rainbow-laden forms lately.
Happiness is not always a choice.
Two of my uncles committed suicide, for example.
For my two dead uncles, happiness was not a choice. Death was the only “choice” they could visualize. They were mentally ill, and for this reason, people implying that my uncles chose to die rather than choosing happiness makes me feel stabby.
(It’s not that simple, but if you think it is, your brain might be. And wow, enjoy that, you lucky duck. Ignorance is bliss, after all. Keep “choosing happiness” with your fortunate blend of brain chemistry and genetics while all those silly depressed people who just don’t “get it” will keep choosing to die. Because gosh, they must not realize that all they have to do is choose happiness! It’s so easy! Hey, maybe you should write a book! You could CURE SUICIDE.)
When Robin Williams killed himself, there was Team He’s Selfish versus Team Suicide and Depression are Mental Illnesses Beyond the Control of the Sufferer. (Or something shorter and more concise than that. I’ll workshop it. I was on the team with the long name, obviously.)
Hey! Guess what, people who called him selfish? The autopsy confirmed what intelligent people already know… his suicide had many potential causes based on biology, not some weird, imagined desire to hurt the people he loved. He had Lewy Body Dementia, which likely contributed to his depression and suicidal thoughts, as it has been known to do to many.
For Robin Williams, happiness was not a choice. He was biologically messed up beyond his control, and calling him selfish for that is like calling someone selfish for a cancer diagnosis. Stop it.
So when someone shares this chirpy, oblivious-to-the-physiology-behind-depression message with me, that “happiness is a choice,” I not only think they’re a blithering idiot, I kind of want to throat punch them.
Or maybe I’d just say WHATEVER.
But you’d know what I really mean, wouldn’t you, friends?