I wish having psychiatric problems were sexy and endearing.
Like in Secretary for example, the 2002 love story which
sees the mentally ill Lee Holloway, having recently been released from a
psychiatric hospital, falling in love with her sado-masochist
obsessive-compulsive employer, Mr Grey. As the story unfolds, Lee is
turned from a meek, anxious office assistance into a lustrous, racy secretary
willing to dedicate her life to Mr Grey, a lawyer. The film
concludes with the couple living a happily married life, with their respective
mental health issues seemingly solved by their contrasting power-roles.
In reality, having a psychiatric problem is never attractive.
As much as I long to be the pale-skinned dark-haired skinny girl with a
few neat thin pink scars across my forearms that people instinctually want to
wrap in a blanket and look after, the fact of the matter is I'm a frumpy
24-year-old with zigs and zags of red scars across my arms and legs. I
avoid revealing my scars in public, but if I were to walk around in short
sleeves or a skirt I'd be either stared at or avoided.
I also would like to question the authenticity of a Mr Grey style
Prince Charming ever turning up and sweeping anyone off their feet.
Mental illness cannot be 'cured' by finding love. It can mask the
symptoms for a day, a week, a month, a decade. But if you truly have a psychiatric
disorder one day it will return to haunt you. I see so many young people
around me turning to "love" as their way out of mental health
services. As much as I'd love to live independently of a CPN,
Psychiatrist and frequent inpatient admissions they are sadly playing the role
of husband at this point in time. And to be honest, I would rather face
up to reality and accept their help than take the quick fix of a boyfriend to
delay the inevitable treatment further along in life.
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| You might call me cynical. I call it sensible. |
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