Verified by 
Key points
- Even casual words that demean the mentally ill can have harmful consequences.
- Stigma is both frightening and infuriating, even if it’s the unintentional result of ignorance.
- Speaking out about stigma can have unexpected rewards, like raising self-esteem.
A few weeks ago, I attended a Zoom conference put on by a prominent writing organization about legal issues that can come up in a writer’s life. I was proud of myself for attending because frankly since I’ve stopped practicing law, I really can’t stand hearing about it. I don’t even watch TV shows like Law and Order, for fear I’ll inadvertently find myself back in a courtroom again. But it was worth it to experience a few hours of discomfort if it meant I’d up my writing game.
I ended up not being bored, as I expected, but shocked and scared, and angry.
Midway through the program, one of the participants started talking about a client he’d once had who had put him in some kind of legal jeopardy. Apparently, he’d agreed to ghostwrite a book based on the client’s life, but the client had turned out to be a handful to deal with. I was half-listening, half-thumbing through New Yorker cartoons when his next words snagged my attention. He said his client was “mentally retarded,” “crazy as a cuckoo,” and a host of other epithets demeaning his client’s mental health or lack of it.
I couldn’t believe that in this day and age, anyone could be so clueless. Not just one offensive term, but a stunning string of them. And not just from anyone, but from another writer, who should know the power of misused words. When my surprise died down, I started to get mad. And strangely enough, I also felt scared. Was this kind of language still permissible? If someone affiliated with a well-known organization used it, did that mean the organization approved? I thought of all the people in the audience who had listened to those words. Were they now under the impression that such language was okay?
Stigma doesn’t just make me angry; it frightens me. I wonder if I’m just seeing the tip of the iceberg. Or does it actually goes much deeper and permeate far more minds than people will admit? If so, what are the chances that we—that I—will ever find acceptance as a mentally ill person, if society is really so unaware of the harm it can casually inflict?
But the writer in me is against policing language—even, or maybe especially, in the name of political correctness. I’ve often written that we should be less concerned with the words we use than with the fact that we need to communicate. I never want to discourage anyone from talking about mental health just because they are afraid they might not use the “right” terms. And it can be confusing—for example, you aren’t supposed to say someone “committed” suicide anymore, because that makes it sound like they committed a crime. It’s better to say they “died by suicide.” Who can keep up? Certainly not the layperson, who means well but may not be aware of the latest approved jargon.
The other issue I faced was, I liked this writing organization and knew I could benefit from it professionally. I wanted to stay on its good side, not be someone they either thought of as a troublemaker or shied away from doing business with because I might be “difficult.” Silence would be safer, neither risky nor provocative. The urge to do nothing was strong.
But…“Mentally retarded?” “Crazy as a cuckoo?” Those were vestiges of an earlier era that didn’t care how words can make others feel. No, my anger was justified, I realized. Even if it meant embarrassing the organization and its speaker, I had the right to protest on my behalf, and on behalf of all those similarly situated.
So before I went to sleep that night, I sent out an email to the organization to bring their attention to what had occurred and explain why it was so inappropriate. I thought long and hard about the words I used because I didn’t want to sound accusatory. I also wanted to have my message received without defensiveness. Insulting the people I was criticizing would only have added to an already uncomfortable situation.
By the time I got up the next morning, I’d received multiple emails from the organization, including one from its president. He told me he had heard the broadcast and had “cringed” when the offending words were spoken. He knew of my work as a mental health advocate and thanked me for stepping forward. He agreed with me about the power of words, and the irony of them being misused by a fellow writer. The organization was going to make sure, to the best of its ability, that no such incident ever occurred again.
I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Confronting stigma is never easy, and doesn’t always receive this kind of quick and positive response. But stepping outside my comfort zone makes me feel brave—and it lets me get to sleep at night. I don’t think I could have let those words just stay out there, unchallenged, forever. So I highly recommend it—hear something, say something. Take the chance that others want to be better.
