My backpack’s got two pins affixed to its straps, each displaying whom I care about most. Its left side sports one saying “World’s Greatest Dad;" its right, “1 in 4."
Let me clarify: I’m not actually a father, but a surrogate of sorts. My floormates conferred me the title of “Floor Dad” last semester (for my birthday, they gave me that pin alongside some delectable dorm-baked cupcakes).
They call me Dad because I worry. When I see them dressed in nothing that’d keep them warm, I worry they’ll freeze outside. When I observe a usually spunky friend sulking in our common room, I worry they don’t have a listening ear or crying shoulder. Or, when I think someone’s citric acid cycle is in overdrive, if you catch my drift, I hope they sleep on their side and drink extra water.
Indeed, this worry is characteristically paternal. My other pin, however, reminds me of an important point. The concern that arises from my worrying can be simply chalked up to friendly concern. But, for someone else, it may be a mark of mental distress.
I got my second pin at Tufts’ Active Minds GIM. The “1 in 4” refers to the 25 percent of Americans suffering from mental illness. I want to dissect what this actually means.
One of my close high school friends suffers from an anxiety-related disorder. After listening to her, I’ve become rather intrigued with psychological pathology. As a result, I decided to take Professor Mascher’s "Abnormal Psychology" course.
But class only gets you so far, so I turned to Active Minds to learn more about mental health stigma. I’ve only been to one meeting, but it was enough to recall the one I’d heard repeatedly from my high school friend: “stigma."
To be frank, people crave to hear themselves talk, fluff up rhetoric and cushion critiques. But mental health is different: it’s taboo talk altogether. I guess we assume it’d be awkward to discuss, since acknowledging “suffering” implies abnormality, and being “ill” in the head confers sickness.
I don’t deny this; I’ve witnessed that “suffering” is painful for my friend, and “illness” does physically make her sick. But these words dump their owners into an ugly, “other” category, defined by ignorance to mental fragility.
If I so ardently embrace this position, why then do I feel awkward asking my roommate to leave the room when my high school friend calls me, bawling? Why am I self-conscious that someone’ll think I’m mentally ill, just because my backpack’s pin relates to the topic?
The answer’s simple: I’m part of the problem. And I hate to say it, hon, but you probably are too. So what now? The solution rests exactly where the problem originates: our speech. We need to do more than just wear our hearts on our sleeves, or perhaps, our backpacks.
What about beginning some f*cking dialogue? Or truthfully answering, “how are you?”. Or not trivializing “depressed,” “anorexic,” “obsessive” and the like as colloquialisms? Why hide mental illness? There are 1,360 first-years here alone. Start talking about the elephant in the room. The 340 elephants, rather.
