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War, pandemic, poverty, racism, climate catastrophe—the world is in the thick of it. Tension, fear, anger, and sadness have become ubiquitous. Mental Health America reports that in 2019, 50 million American adults experienced a mental illness but more than half did not receive treatment. In 2020 there were 45,979 reported suicides and 1.2 million attempts, according to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. And from 2020-2021, "the percentage of adults with recent symptoms of an anxiety or depressive disorder increased from 36.4 to 41.5," says the Center for Disease Control.
From the comfort and stability of my home, conscious of and contrasted by those suffering in Ukraine, Syria, Afghanistan, Central America, and the Covid wards, I've felt the change. So much time spent staring out at nothing, wondering what will become of us all, wondering what's the point. Depression snakes its way around everything, constricting daily chores, self-care, and things that once brought joy. The zest for life goes stale: Been there, took the pills, bought the t-shirt.
It's hardest when it sinks into the body. There's "walking depression," the kind in which, for the most part, we keep up appearances and go about our routines. It lurks omnipresent in the background while we keep on trudging. Then there's the depression that has us curling up on the couch, oversleeping, not leaving the house. Coping and recovery become particularly challenging because that level of debilitation feels uncomfortable in the body. We lose muscle tone and range of motion. We fatigue easily when we finally attempt that exercise that everybody's always talking about.
And there it is: "the babble." The well-meaning advice. The same stuff in seemingly every article. That's what this post should be, I suppose: A cheerful list of self-care strategies. How many posts have I written about "resilience" over the past decade? I've looked around and it's still the same old stuff playing on a loop: Get exercise (Insert infuriating photo of fit woman on treadmill). Watch a funny movie (Insert photo of guffawing friends spilling a bowl of popcorn). Declutter your home (Slow down, you're like 1000 steps ahead of me). Sit with a sun lamp (How about just smashing it with a baseball bat? Smashing feels better).
I can only speak for myself, but what I most sincerely want from those articles is honesty. I want the voice of someone who has felt what I'm feeling. And if they've felt what I'm feeling, they know the small joy of encountering the wit, sarcasm, humor, satire, rough edges, and blunt punchlines that make me feel seen and heard. They ignite something. If I've mustered up the effort to click on an article and keep my eyes open for three minutes, honor my time and celebrate my accomplishment by providing me with a moment of creativity. It's creativity that sparks me alive. When I see inspired art or read great writing or hear an edgy snippet of philosophy, my mind becomes engaged. When I hear an exciting piece of music, my body starts to move.
Here's an example: Recently I had an inexplicably immobile day. I'd been on the couch, staring off, and my body felt like lead. It was time to make dinner and I was looking for the easy way out (What genius invented the air fryer?). Even though I wasn't in the mood for music, I put my playlist on shuffle and entered the dark lair of the kitchen. Each of these was a forced movement. I was a pouting child dragging myself to clean up my toys. And I did. The music melted just enough of the ice in my muscles that I could chop vegetables. The knife tapping was a nice little snare drum. Oh, things really got moving then. My mouth opened up and sound came out—vaguely in tune with the music. I was chopping and singing and dancing and an entire meal got made. I even washed the dishes! Nobody told me to, I was merely open to the possibility that something might happen if I placed my body in the vicinity of musical notes and a potato peeler.
The problem with self-help advice, in addition to it feeling regurgitated, too fluffy or too clinical, or cleansed of all personality, is that it has become too prescriptive. Most of it comes off as someone "well" telling someone "unwell" how to behave when, in fact, that's the last thing we want to hear. That doesn't play nice with someone like me who doesn't like being told what to do by someone who feels more bot than human. I like sincere human connection, I like being engaged with new ideas, and I like being listened to. A human writing from lived experience would understand that I don't want to "do," I want to be transported away.
A well-written article can feel like it's connecting to and listening to its reader, while still offering a bit of entertainment and encouragement. I don't need to be clobbered with the top 10; just one little smile would do.
I deeply respect creativity and humor—with the understanding that artists and humorists make space for viewers/readers/listeners to insert themselves. When someone writes a top-ten self-care tips article, they are not inviting my interpretation or getting my blood pumping. It's all just words filling a page with nowhere for me to sit and gaze at the marvels of its creation. For far too long they've assumed people who are depressed need to be spoon-fed mushy peas, failing at the fundamental first step: trusting that just because a reader is depressed, doesn't mean they lack agency, intelligence, humor, or creativity.
I thank you, reader, for spending time with my writing. I believe in your intelligence, ability, and creativity. You are important. I hope you find a smile today.
