08/09/2023
Cross post from my personal page.
Okay, big post. Content Warning for discussions of mental health challenges.
TL;DR - be aware that language you find comforting when you're struggling may be quite detrimental to people with mental health difficulties.
A PSA.
I've wanted to write this for a while, but I didn't want to come across as ungrateful or aggressive. Also, I'm using the word “we” because I know this affects others who are neurodivergent, but I must reiterate that the experiences I'm talking about are my own.
Those of us with mental health conditions will often try to describe how things are for us to the less neurodivergent among our support groups. It's not easy to do because we've never really been given the language to talk about it. If we get cut, we know that we are bleeding and that we should wash it and disinfect it and cover it and care for it. We all know this. But what do I put on my brain, my soul, or my relationships when my mental health condition is “bleeding?” Where is the wound that I must treat?
The trouble with the language we do have is that it is often used to describe things that happen to virtually everyone. “I've forgotten where my phone is.” “I missed an appointment.” “I screamed and raged when that person cut me off in traffic.” For me, the most common response when I try to describe what is happening to me is, “Well, everyone feels like that sometimes.” I have been told this for my entire life. Almost 50 years of being told that the things that I feel, that I experience, are felt and experienced by everyone.
I can see why this would be a go-to for those in our social circles who don't have the knowledge, or sometimes the capacity, to engage with our difficulties. I feel like the intention of the phrase is to let me know that I am not alone in the things that happen to me. And that impetus, that desire to make someone feel less alone, is one of the most important things in human existence, not just in the existence of the troubled neurodivergent. I am filled with gratitude to the people in my life who want me to know that I am not alone.
But there's a flip side that may not be quite as obvious. First, when we're told that, it's a double-edged sword. Yes, it's nice to know that other people deal with the same kinds of difficulties that we do. But where the phrase cuts is when we realize that this must mean that everyone else is so, so much better at handling these situations than we are, so we must be truly useless and broken. I'm not saying that this is the case, and maybe it doesn't feel that way for everyone. But for me, this is the first response. If everyone else can do it, why can't I?
The second aspect is something that just occurred to me this morning. For my entire life, I've been told that the things I struggle with are normal, everyday struggles, and that I just have to work a bit harder. Pay a bit more attention. Be more compassionate and understanding and forgiving. As I sat having a coffee this morning, I realized that one of the reasons it took so long for me to be diagnosed is that I'd been told my whole life that there was nothing fundamentally wrong with me. I dealt with the same things everyone else did, and they all got through, so, obviously, there was nothing wrong with me. I just had to work a bit harder. I just had to, as my family doctor told me from the age of 11 to the age of 35, "learn to relax a bit." And every time that didn't work, I hated myself just a little bit more. Until my BPD diagnosis this year, I just couldn't figure out why nothing I was doing was making my life any more manageable. And prior to the diagnosis (diagnoses), I was just a useless, less-than-capable individual, and that's what the “Well, everyone feels like that sometimes” phrase did to me. It kept me from expressing that what I was dealing with was so, so much more intense and detrimental than the stereotypical experience.
I want to say this as clearly as I possibly can: I thought, from birth to my mid-40s, that the way I experienced life was just how everyone did. I never knew that the way I feel is not in line with the culturally-accepted ideas of neurotypicality. I just never knew. I thought I was simply someone who was less-capable than the vast majority of people I knew and loved. And I have hated and berated and derided myself for it for nearly 50 years.
Bottom line – just as neurodivergents need to be aware of how our behaviours can be damaging to the people we care about, the people who care about us and care for us need to understand that saying something like “Oh, that happens to me, but I eventually get over it” is a bit like seeing that someone has an open wound and then sticking your finger in it and saying “Oh, yeah, that's happened to me before. Feels just like my wound.” Sure, there's an aspect of compassion and connection. But it really fu***ng hurts, too.
Don't stop showing kindness and support to the troubled souls in your life, neurodivergent or not. But do be aware, as we have to be, that the words and actions you take that may seem perfectly reasonable and helpful to you can be hurtful and detrimental to people that you're trying, desperately, not to hurt.
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