Romanticize the Fight, Not the Disease: What’s Wrong with Our Storybook Telling of Depression
by Ciara Hall
When I was a teenager, if you had asked me to cast myself as a storybook heroine, I probably would have depicted myself as your typical wilted flower. The sad, misunderstood girl with white lines drawn across pale skin, carved there by blades and tainted by tears.
In this story of stereotypes, I would have been lonely and artistic, but at some point in my life, I would have caught the attention of the cute, sensitive boy in my class—not because I was witty or intelligent or, hell, even beautiful, but because he saw my scars. And when he saw my scars, he would understand. He would take fictional-me aside and he would kiss my scars. He would hold me close and take care of me. He would love me, not because there was more to me than my scars, but because he knew that I was sad and broken. He would save me, and who doesn’t fantasize about being saved?
This is the story I would have imagined myself starring in, because I heard this story again and again. This story was not the reason why I self-harmed. It merely justified my doing so. In reality, I self-harmed because there was just so much emotion inside of me, so much pent-up anger and depression and self-loathing, that I felt I had to express this on the outside.
When I was in my second year at university, studying literature because I wanted to be a great writer, a professor made this statement to my class: “This poem is about depression, which is something that all great writers deal with. I don’t really think it’s possible to be a great writer without being broken.”
Well, that’s good news, I thought; I suppose I need to be broken then. Maybe this is just the price I pay to achieve my dreams.
I think, even at the time, I knew that what I was thinking was wrong.
Even then, I knew that the stories I wrote were not created in the black, ceaseless spirals of depression. They might have been inspired by it from time to time, but no more than they were inspired by other aspects of my life. And, more importantly, they were written in those moments where I broke the surface, where I took in a gulp of air and thought that everything might be fine again, just before I sunk back below and lost all creative ability again.
And no boy ever saw my scars and kissed them to make them better; now that I’m no longer thirteen, I don’t really think I’d want one to. I’d want someone to love me for me, not for my scars. Not for my darkness. For my quirks and my strength and my love—all of which is just as much a part of me as the rest.
All that my scars ever did was give me something to be ashamed of, something to pull my sleeves over and lie about when people asked me about them.
But even still, despite the fact that depression was not my gateway to genius, despite the fact that self-harm brought me more shame than it did love, there was still something so romantic about both ideas. About being the tortured artist, the Sylvia Plath, the Van Gogh. Forget the fact that they both cut their stories off before they were finished; they were beloved and mysterious, deep and thoughtful. And all I had to do to become them was give into what was already inside me, right?
We romanticize mental illness all the time, present it as something mysterious and unknown and darkly beautiful, but it isn’t. The reality of mental illness is laying in bed all day because you just can’t find the motivation to get up. The reality of mental illness is wearing long sleeves in the summer because you don’t want to risk anyone, not even the cute, sensitive boy in your class, to know your secret (because it is, after all, a secret). The reality of mental illness is panic attacks that leave you exhausted, fear that keeps you its prisoner, suicidal thoughts that threaten to cut your story off too soon, if you just give into them.
And the problem with romanticizing all of this is that it then justifies people to give into it.
All of this isn’t to say that no good can ever come from a mental illness; it can. Personally speaking, I believe that coming to terms with my mental illness and fighting it has made me a much stronger person than I would have otherwise been, but that is exactly my point; I needed to fight it. Fighting gave me ability. Fighting gave me more stories to tell than depression ever could have. Fighting made me feel as though I deserved, not only love, but a love that was worthwhile, a love that would see me, not as the broken soul that needs to be fixed, but as a person, as an equal. Fighting is what brought me here, to this place, to this day.
I honestly don’t know who or where I’d be today if I hadn’t fought, but I know it wouldn’t be romantic. It would be pitiful, a tragic tale to tell. And I am not a tragedy.
So if we have to romanticize anything in regards to mental illness, let’s romanticize the fight. Let’s talk about how strong survivors are to reach out and get help for themselves. Let’s praise those who managed to overcome suicidal thoughts, even when it seemed next to impossible. Let’s celebrate the ones who self-harmed at one point, but managed to pull themselves through it and stop altogether. Because when we romanticize mental illness itself, we are helping no one; when we encourage people to seek treatment and get help, we have the opportunity to save lives.
Ciara Hall is an author, blogger, feminist, geek girl, and fairy queen. A version of this essay was published in Elephant Journal.
by Ciara Hall
When I was a teenager, if you had asked me to cast myself as a storybook heroine, I probably would have depicted myself as your typical wilted flower. The sad, misunderstood girl with white lines drawn across pale skin, carved there by blades and tainted by tears.
In this story of stereotypes, I would have been lonely and artistic, but at some point in my life, I would have caught the attention of the cute, sensitive boy in my class—not because I was witty or intelligent or, hell, even beautiful, but because he saw my scars. And when he saw my scars, he would understand. He would take fictional-me aside and he would kiss my scars. He would hold me close and take care of me. He would love me, not because there was more to me than my scars, but because he knew that I was sad and broken. He would save me, and who doesn’t fantasize about being saved?
This is the story I would have imagined myself starring in, because I heard this story again and again. This story was not the reason why I self-harmed. It merely justified my doing so. In reality, I self-harmed because there was just so much emotion inside of me, so much pent-up anger and depression and self-loathing, that I felt I had to express this on the outside.
When I was in my second year at university, studying literature because I wanted to be a great writer, a professor made this statement to my class: “This poem is about depression, which is something that all great writers deal with. I don’t really think it’s possible to be a great writer without being broken.”
Well, that’s good news, I thought; I suppose I need to be broken then. Maybe this is just the price I pay to achieve my dreams.
I think, even at the time, I knew that what I was thinking was wrong.
Even then, I knew that the stories I wrote were not created in the black, ceaseless spirals of depression. They might have been inspired by it from time to time, but no more than they were inspired by other aspects of my life. And, more importantly, they were written in those moments where I broke the surface, where I took in a gulp of air and thought that everything might be fine again, just before I sunk back below and lost all creative ability again.
And no boy ever saw my scars and kissed them to make them better; now that I’m no longer thirteen, I don’t really think I’d want one to. I’d want someone to love me for me, not for my scars. Not for my darkness. For my quirks and my strength and my love—all of which is just as much a part of me as the rest.
All that my scars ever did was give me something to be ashamed of, something to pull my sleeves over and lie about when people asked me about them.
But even still, despite the fact that depression was not my gateway to genius, despite the fact that self-harm brought me more shame than it did love, there was still something so romantic about both ideas. About being the tortured artist, the Sylvia Plath, the Van Gogh. Forget the fact that they both cut their stories off before they were finished; they were beloved and mysterious, deep and thoughtful. And all I had to do to become them was give into what was already inside me, right?
We romanticize mental illness all the time, present it as something mysterious and unknown and darkly beautiful, but it isn’t. The reality of mental illness is laying in bed all day because you just can’t find the motivation to get up. The reality of mental illness is wearing long sleeves in the summer because you don’t want to risk anyone, not even the cute, sensitive boy in your class, to know your secret (because it is, after all, a secret). The reality of mental illness is panic attacks that leave you exhausted, fear that keeps you its prisoner, suicidal thoughts that threaten to cut your story off too soon, if you just give into them.
And the problem with romanticizing all of this is that it then justifies people to give into it.
All of this isn’t to say that no good can ever come from a mental illness; it can. Personally speaking, I believe that coming to terms with my mental illness and fighting it has made me a much stronger person than I would have otherwise been, but that is exactly my point; I needed to fight it. Fighting gave me ability. Fighting gave me more stories to tell than depression ever could have. Fighting made me feel as though I deserved, not only love, but a love that was worthwhile, a love that would see me, not as the broken soul that needs to be fixed, but as a person, as an equal. Fighting is what brought me here, to this place, to this day.
I honestly don’t know who or where I’d be today if I hadn’t fought, but I know it wouldn’t be romantic. It would be pitiful, a tragic tale to tell. And I am not a tragedy.
So if we have to romanticize anything in regards to mental illness, let’s romanticize the fight. Let’s talk about how strong survivors are to reach out and get help for themselves. Let’s praise those who managed to overcome suicidal thoughts, even when it seemed next to impossible. Let’s celebrate the ones who self-harmed at one point, but managed to pull themselves through it and stop altogether. Because when we romanticize mental illness itself, we are helping no one; when we encourage people to seek treatment and get help, we have the opportunity to save lives.
Ciara Hall is an author, blogger, feminist, geek girl, and fairy queen. A version of this essay was published in Elephant Journal.