Member-only story
We Value Physical Health More Than Mental Health. That’s a Problem.
The case for more empathy and less well-meaning ‘help’
I’ve suffered from depression and anxiety at multiple points throughout my life. Increasingly, I’ve become aware that this may be due to CPTSD (Complex PTSD) from my childhood, but honestly I can’t make it through a single chapter of any book on the subject without bursting into tears. Progress on this one is, as you might imagine, achingly slow.
Even approaching the subject leaves me breathless and avoidant. I often find myself in a deep spiral of shame, fear, and second-guessing — revisiting every mistake I’ve ever made, every time I’ve hurt someone, every “self-actualized” choice I’ve insisted upon. With more time on my hands due to the pandemic, I find it easier than ever to wallow in these feelings.
Regardless, I soldier on: upbeat, argumentative, cutting, and warm. I rotate through an endless cycle of trying to be the best person I can while grappling thoroughly with the worst of my humanity.
My struggle isn’t everyone’s. So many of us deal with unique and special demons that it’s hard to agree on what “good mental health” even looks like. I think of the characters in Parks and Recreation, for example, each one of them more chipper and self-assured than the last (except for Ann). No matter how much they were hurt or hurting, they only expressed hypomania. Anything difficult is relegated to private dialogue — off camera. This strikes me as a good metaphor for Americans’ attitudes toward mental health.
At the same time that we’re trying to stridently avoid engaging with others’ emotional challenges, Americans love to talk (and shop) a woke game about emotional and spiritual well-being. We spend over $11 billion per year on self-help programs, and consume more antidepressants than any other nation, with 11% of the population on some form of prescription psychotropic. We consume, we talk, we self-medicate, but do we truly empathize? Over time — and…
