Am I overly sensitive to the word? Maybe. But when a word holds that kind of weight, and everyone around me uses it to describe people they think are “mentally deranged,” don’t I have the right to be fearful of it?
Hello, me again. I’m sitting in my favorite coffee shop this afternoon, later than usual, trying to get some homework done. It seems impossible at the moment. I’m taking a humanities course on “The American Dream.” Sounds interesting, but I can only read so many 15-page essays on the same damn subject before I lose my mind.
Truth is, I can’t even get through one. I got diagnosed with ADHD about a year ago now, at 20 years old. I’ve spent the last year learning about it—about myself— and I can admittedly say that I struggle with the condition daily. But, a lot of it is also in my head. Though I’ve been taking action to help cope medically, I almost wish I never knew. With the overthinking that comes with ADHD, I find myself constantly magnifying this “cognitive disability” in my head. Overthinking the overthinking.
I’ve dealt with depression since I was fifteen, with anxiety often piggybacking, but only in the last year has the latter skyrocketed. I don’t thank my lucky stars enough that my mother is more into mental health than I am. This past year has been weird—with the cross-country move, and in turn, the increase in solitude and self-reflection. While it’s been one of the most exciting, and crucial years to my growth as a human, it’s also been one of the toughest mentally. Yet, my mom has continued to be my rock, my advocate.
Diagnoses’ are scary. I’ve gotten a couple in the last year that I can get into at some point, but for now, I wanted to talk a little bit about what it’s like to get a mental health diagnosis. There was a period of time when I felt something was off. Although I didn’t exactly know what the matter was, to be quite frank, I felt unstable and overly fragile. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but every time I feel “off,” my mind goes straight to the question: Am I fucking crazy? Which then begs the question: What does it mean to be crazy?
When I Google crazy, it comes up with this definition: mentally deranged; demented; insane. When I then look up what exactly “deranged” is defined as, it says “insane, or disordered.” Seems… harsh. Especially for a word that gets thrown around like a rag doll in my world. My ex loved to call his ex crazy. My dad loves to call his mother crazy, and I’ll be honest, my pro-mental health mother might use it the most. Am I overly sensitive to the word? Maybe. But when a word holds that kind of weight, and everyone around me uses it to describe people they think are “mentally deranged,” don’t I have the right to be fearful of it?
So, diagnoses. They’re scary, but what they really all boil down to is a label. A starting point. Diagnoses help create a plan of action. At least, that’s the way I think about them. Just because I got three new diagnoses in a four-week span doesn’t make me “crazy.” In reality, mental health diagnoses don’t make you crazy, they make you human. I think of them as an opportunity to not only be proactive with my mental health but also to learn about myself. Why I make the decisions I make, and why I feel the feelings I feel. Now, I’m not saying you can’t call that buzzer-beater Knicks game “the craziest thing you’ve ever seen,” but when it’s used to describe someone’s character there is a gray line. The word holds weight, so be mindful.
Written June 23, 2023
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