I spent twenty years with occasional severe depression before I told most people anything about it, anything at all. It nearly killed me. It would have been a safe bet at the time that it would kill me: I knew how to make it so and I acted. Later, I withdrew from most of my friends and family to avoid the topic, skipped decades worth of rich and wonderful experiences, largely skipped my 20s and 30s. Why? Stigma. It’s powerful stuff, powerfully poisonous stuff. Because of stigma, you never know how someone will respond to your illness, and once you’re open about it in any way, there’s no going back. Some people understand, others don’t. Some people think they understand, seem to understand, but then they start interpreting every little thing as a symptom. You can’t feel distrust without question of paranoia, can’t get irritated or have a bad day just like everybody does without dark suspicions. To them, you are now illness – you ARE your illness and nothing more to them. Contrary to all evidence on the topic, for example, people see those people with mental illnesses as dangerous, threatening, unacceptable, WRONG. They don’t see people with problems, [...]![]()
