Reflecting on a Post about "The Monster"

I read a blog post the other day criticizing a couple of musicians and the lyrics of a song they perform together. It struck a chord in me. Maybe it was a nerve that got hit. Either way, her post has been rolling around in my head for a few days. It's called "Don't Sing About Mental Illness" and it was written by a blogger named Maddy. The entire blog post can be found at http://chattymaddyhealth.blogspot.com/2014/06/dont-sing-about-mental-illness.html. She focuses specifically on "The Monster" rapped/sung by Eminem and Rihanna.

If you've never heard it, here's a link to the video. Warning: he uses some foul language.

This next video shows the lyrics as the song is being performed. It only shows lyrics and the explicit language is still there.

One part of Maddy's post discusses the chorus.

I'm friends with the monster that's under my bed

Get along with the voices inside of my head

You're trying to save me, stop holding your breath

And you think I'm crazy, yeah, you think I'm crazy
That's nothing

She writes,

First of all, "voices inside of your head" is a sign of psychosis, which is associated with schizophrenia and bipolar I disorder. As someone who has experienced voices in her head and knows how terrifying it is, I can assure you, you don't want to be "friends" with them. It's an experience that will leave you shaken and confused. 

I appreciate what Maddy is saying here and Maddy, if you're reading this, thank you for being so honest and sharing this part of your experience. She's right. Auditory and visual hallucinations are not necessarily the greatest experiences in the world and they are certainly symptoms of a number of serious mental disorders that need to be addressed. I've flown from my own dark bedroom to a fully lit kitchen or living room more than once because of such experiences. They are just part of my condition, my illness, and I've had no choice but to accept them into my life. They are a few of the many monsters, demons, issues, problems, beasts, symptoms, creatures, whatever you want to call them that hide in my surroundings. None of them are friends in the sense of "Hey, wanna go to a movie? We can share a popcorn." They are, however, friends in the sarcastic sense of being an undesired familiar thing like the heartache that comes to visit after a relationship ends. Saying two people are friends also means they accept each other and they've established a relationship that allows them to move on with some grace and dignity - most of the time at least. The beasts that wander through my life fall into that category. We are companions but not buddies. I'm not always thrilled that they travel with me but I've had to make friends with them in so far as being able to play nicely together.

She goes on to say,

Some people say the line isn't literal, but instead referring to self talk. I still have a problem with this because those aren't voices in your head. That's YOU speaking to YOURSELF. You shouldn't try to refer to a mental illness to describe something that is in fact NOT a mental illness.

That's an important distinction to make and most people don't (in my experience anyway). Lumping auditory hallucinations and self talk together undermines the significance of having hallucinations. I can't help but wonder how many people, trying to deny that they are sick, have avoided getting help by calling the voices self talk.

Regarding the line "And you think I'm crazy, yeah you think I'm crazy, that's nothing" she writes,

People are desperately trying to remove the stigma that surrounds mental illness. One of the most painful words you can say to someone who is struggling with one of these disorders is that they are "crazy". It's hurtful. Period. And again, since Eminem and Rihanna are both people who have experienced this, they should understand more than most of the population that this word can cut deep. So why are they referring to themselves as this?

I've already expressed my feelings on the use of the word "crazy" in a previous post: Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

When it comes to the last two words in the chorus, "is nothing," the blogger says,

They are implying that "crazy" doesn't even begin to cover what kind of emotional state they are in. Again, why? They are further stigmatizing mental disorders and painting us in a horrible light.

I don't understand this critique. I don't see how this final piece of the chorus is stigmatizing. Why would it be wrong for me to tell someone they have no clue how I feel? I don't see that as stigmatizing but rather revealing, almost educating. Conveying intensity of feelings opens people's eyes to the broad spectrum of human emotion and human beings are capable of higher highs and lower lows than most people will ever experience first hand. That's important to understand. That's why "pick yourself up by your bootstraps" is sufficient advice for some and impossible for others. I need to be able to tell someone that how they are describing my emotional state is correct but woefully inadequate. It's the difference between bumping your head against the back of the sofa when you plop down too hard and getting a concussion after falling down the stairs.

One final quote from Maddy,

Music is powerful. It should be a tool that is used to help those who suffer from mental illness. ...[W]e need to spread awareness that Eminem and Rihanna's song "The Monster" is NOT okay.

I agree 100% that music is powerful and it can be used to help people deal with their mental illness. It's a valuable strategy to consider including in our individual mental illness toolboxes. Should all music help people who have mental illnesses? Absolutely not. Creating music isn't about helping others, it's about expressing ourselves. It's a form of sharing and it helps us when it resonates with our own lived experiences. "The Monster" resonated with me. It's not a pretty picture but I connected with it. 

A couple final notes.

While reflecting on Maddy's post and the song, I came across a website that I found to be interesting and informative. You might like it. When you click a line in the song, a short commentary about that line shows up in the panel to the right.

and

I've never been a fan of rap music. It's not my thing. Grappling with this song, though, I must admit that it is poetry - something I never thought I would say.

Go Ahead. Call Me Crazy.

I am a middle class woman with a middle class job holding onto a middle class life. My money and my time are limited. I need to thoughtfully decide how to use those resources and be intentional about when and where I engage the larger community in a conversation about mental illness and stigma.

Stigma is definitely a problem, one that is well known among people with mental illnesses. We, meaning me, worry about the consequences of the wrong people finding out about our, meaning my, diagnosis. Whether it's fair or not is irrelevant when the job, custody, or respect of peers has been lost. The damage is done and it can't be undone.

Patsy Cline singing "Crazy" written by Willie Nelson

Stigma must be addressed. People must be educated. I get that and I agree whole-heartedly. How to address it, though, that's the million dollar question.

Recently, I've come across a number of blogs and facebook posts that focus on the use of the word "crazy" and, invariably, the writers are upset about it and are insisting that it should be removed entirely from our language. They are vehement about it, almost as if they were fighting against using words like "nigger" or "retard." I mean no disrespect by writing those words here. I would never use either of them to describe anyone. I'm only making the point that those two words are exponentially more offensive and hurtful than the word "crazy." "Crazy" isn't even in the same league.

Unlike the other two words, "crazy" has a lot of nuances, meanings, and connotations. The derogatory interpretation is just one of many. The word isn't the problem so much as the context. Who is saying it? And why? I don't care if my sister is calling me crazy as a synonym for being goofy or if my best friend says I'm crazy because I did something that she can't imagine doing herself. I see no harm in saying things like "I'm crazy in love" or "crazy about going to the concert." Patsy Cline does not offend me with her song titled "Crazy." It's actually one of my favorite songs of all time.

Just to be clear, certain uses of the word "crazy" cut to the bone. Those five little letters have been thrown at me a time or two (or more) by loved ones who were angry with me. It makes a great little jab when disagreements turn ugly. Saying I'm bleeping crazy as a synonym for demented, psychotic, or delusional can bring me to tears, especially if it comes from someone who knows about my mental health battle. Most of the time, though, it's just not a big deal. I'm actually more offended by being called "sweetie" or "hun" (short for "honey" in the south).

I'm sure it feels like I've gone off on a tangent in this post but I haven't. Returning to the fact that I'm middle class with limited resources, I must ask myself if I really want to spend my time fighting against the word "crazy."

You Understand? Really?

My friend expressed some concern about me not long ago. She is a newish friend and does not yet know much about having a bipolar brain. She knows even less about my particular brain and the life experiences it initiated and stored in its memory.

"You're not quite yourself today. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just in a funky place right now."

It's a good answer. Most people accept it easily and we move on. More importantly, I avoid thinking at a level which would prompt tears or temper. My friend, however, didn't like it. She pressed the issue. I don't remember the exact string of questions or my answers but I kept trying to politely and nonchalantly redirect the conversation. The only way to make her interrogation stop was to be direct and probably rude.

"Look, there's nothing wrong in the world around me. My bipolar head is just screwing with me. It's illogical, it happens, and I'll be fine."

What else could I possibly say? The 15 minutes we had together before going to work was not enough time to explain the meaningless anxiety churning in my gut or the darkness I was walking into. I didn't really want to explain anyway. I wasn't ready to share the very personal, raw details she was trying to elicit and her aggressive, albeit well-intended, poking for information has made me less inclined to share in the future.

Then she said, "I understand." The conversation could have, should have, ended there but I laughed and shook my head. It was a knee-jerk reaction and it was stupid.

We pulled into the parking lot at work. "Really. I understand."

Northern Goshawk

My mind commenced to spinning as a result of her audacity. Thoughts. Feelings. Images of "understanding" eyes full of pity. Memories of "understanding" voices telling me to suck it up. It all moved through me so fast that the only knee-jerk reaction I had was stunned silence and the inability to move. Long moments passed.

I scoffed and stepped out of the car. As we walked into the building we work in she continued looking at me. Her eyes oozed just how pathetic I was to her. She looked at me like I was a sad, little, wounded sparrow even though I felt much more like a Goshawk whose territory had just been invaded.

Those not initiated into the pain, euphoria, confusion, and chaos that bipolar disorder gifts to the fortunate sick and the people who love them do not understand.

A Weekend with Friends

Manic. Margie pegged me. She saw it before anyone else -- including myself. Here I thought I was acting normal and she says, "How many drinks did you have?" She wore a big, goofy grin.

"What?" I asked incredulously. "None. I had a glass of apple juice." I made the decision before going on that trip that I would not drink any alcohol. It's bad for bipolar disorder, a condition which had only recently been diagnosed in me.

"Girl..." She let the r hang in the air for a moment and shook her head, "You're as tipsy as I am and I had three glasses of wine!"

I was a little stunned to hear that. "You're buzzed."  I teased.

"So are you!"

"I'm not." I retorted. "I'm fine. Just enjoying myself and the show."

"No." She drew out the word again, shaking her head again. "You're acting high. Buzzed. Lit."

I considered her statement, took stock of my behaviors over the last couple hours, and realized she was right. The mellower me was being usurped by an overly spirited, bubbly me. I hadn't noticed it in my own self. Someone else had to point it out to me.

Later that night Margie, Kristine, and I took off for a walk around the retreat property. I thought it would burn off some of the energy in me and bring my slightly manic mind and body back down to earth before they had enough fuel to spiral out of control. It was quiet time so I had to whisper. That helped. It was dark, so I had to pay attention right around me. It helped me focus and bring my mind back to me. The quiet and the dark kept my senses from being stimulated as much as they had been during the show. The energy in that room had apparently been electrifying. I thought I was reacting at a level comparable to the other audience members. And maybe I was. Maybe they were simply able to come down to a normal level of happy and satisfied when the show was over whereas I was not.

We wandered along wide pea gravel paths for almost two hours before going to Kristine's room. She shared her room with Gayle, the friend who had taken the lead in making this little weekend happen.

"I have pictures taken of me when I was manic," Gayle remarked before I had time to close the door. "My eyes were so big ..." she held her hands up to her eyes, curving her fingers to pantomime binoculars. "My eyes were so big that you could see the whites of my eyes, all the way around the colored part." She pointed at her eye, tracing a circle in the air around its iris. "I see that in you." Gayle giggled.

She can read me like a book. I don't mind though. She has Bipolar Disorder, too, and has been managing it longer than I have. She's honest with me so I know I'll get genuine feedback and support. I guess she's almost like a mirror. She reflects me back to me and then I see the symptoms.

We sat on the little balcony attached to their room and visited for a while. When the time came, we said our good nights and gave hugs all around. "Sleep tight," I said as I opened the door to go.

"I will," Gayle chuckled. "But you'll still be awake."

Rule #1: Eat

Everyone knows breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Who decided that? I'm guessing it was a breakfast cereal company. The point is, breakfast is not necessarily the most important. Maybe lunch, when I need to get over the midday slump, is most important. Why not dinner? That's when I need to refuel after working all day. Where do snacks fall in the spectrum of significance? 

At the moment it doesn't really matter. In the last six to eight months I've dropped 6 sizes and over 40 pounds. If anyone tells me how they wish they could do that I think I will scream. Maybe /you/ struggle to loose weight but /I/ struggle to gain it. At the heart of the matter the problem is the same. It's about being a healthy weight.

My appetite drops off the face of the earth when I get stressed. Of course I loose weight during those times in my life. During one particularly terrible phase I was less that 95 pounds. While doing a job, a career, that was bad for in many ways, I barely managed to stay up to 110. Stress was the culprit. It had to be.

What's the problem now? I'm in a job I enjoy, surrounded by people I like working with. I'm good at my job and when I'm done for the day the work I do stays at work. Those characteristics were sorely lacking in my last job, the one had chosen as my career. Life has stress. That's the nature of life. The level I experience now is nowhere near what it was. Why, then, am I loosing so much weight? Clearly extreme stress is not the catalyst.

 

She Speaks - Washed and Whipped

Hot water slid down my back. I leaned my head against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. The fissure inside me grew wider. All joy and contentment spurted from an emotional wound, like blood from an artery. Misery and pain slowly clotted the hole. Memories of everything I ever did wrong, real and imagined, played on a giant screen in my mind’s eye and I was powerless to turn it off.

Water washed down my spine splitting at my hips into tributaries that rolled down my thighs and calves. Focus on the water. The heat. I wanted it to help but it did little to carry my distressing thoughts into the drain. Make it stop. I pleaded with the universe which yielded nothing in return.

My mind slipped from the moment and into a space I knew to be imagined and real at the same time. I held a bullwhip in my hand, poised in desperate readiness to use it against my enemies. Who were those foes? I didn’t know. I only knew that I temporarily forestalled their attacks.

The bullwhip disappeared. Rope restrained my wrists and pulled my arms over my head. A whip struck me from the darkness. Confused by the pain and lack of control, I stared into the gloom searching for my attacker. A strap of leather lashed out again, beating me like Jesus or a slave. I cringed.

“I’m not a savior! Or a slave! So why are you doing this?” I cried.

Another crack sounded and the whip landed surely on my back.

“Am I so terrible that I deserve such punishment?”

A woman’s voice in the darkness said, “If you are going to use a whip, you should know what it feels like to be on the receiving end.” She was calm, not the slightest hint of anger in her tone.

Even though an infinite shade limited my sight, I knew the woman’s voice had a body and companions.

A length of leather braid smacked my back and she said, “You never know when they’ll hit.”

Another lash, harder than the last, burned my shoulder blades. “You never know how hard they’ll strike.”

I heard a loud snap in the air to the left above me and felt a strike from the right. “You never know when they’ll miss or where they’ll come from.”

The beating continued from all around and, just as she told me, I could not predict if, when, or where I would be hit next. I could not tell how much pain would be inflicted or who was controlling the whip. My mind, intoxicated by so much pain, held up who as the most important information to have.

The woman provided the answer before my pain-soaked brain fully formed the question. “Sometimes it’s others, people you’ve wronged. Most of the time it’s not.”

A dark haired woman in a long crimson dress stepped into view. The whip reappeared in my hand and I stood outside my own exhausted body. I used it on the tied woman, myself. I couldn’t stop torturing the part of me that a rope still held in place. She rolled her head weakly and looked at me. I helplessly turned my attention to the woman from the shadow.

I pointed to the bleeding woman. “Why are you doing this to me?” Tormented tears dropped from my burning eyes.

“I’m not. You are.” She looked at me through steady green eyes reminiscent of the undisturbed surface of a pond. The woman’s companions gradually emerged from the darkness.

“But I’m not, I couldn’t,” I stuttered. “I wouldn't do this to myself. Something or someone is making me.”

She shook her head, “You are beating yourself, punishing yourself for things you believe you should be punished for since no one else will do it.”

I handed the whip to one of the woman's companions, the featureless person nearest me. It was a shadowy thing, a stark contrast against the brightly lit and blood-striped body in front of me. I watched as the unidentifiable person whipped her, me, further. Others joined it and they took turns beating and abusing me, spitting at me and occasionally kicking me. I looked at the crimson woman again. “Why are you letting them do this to me?”

“I didn’t give them permission. You handed them the whip. You’ve stood here idly watching them assault you.”

Standing beside the woman at the edge of the shadow, I cried from the guilt of persecuting that person hanging limply from the rope. Returned to the delirious body I started in, I cried from the physical pain inflicted on me but stayed without a struggle because of the disgrace I felt. A chill moved down my spine.

My everyday self leaned face first against the shower wall using my crossed arms as a pillow. Cool water washed down my back, burning as it rolled over my spiritual wounds. I slid slowly to the shower floor, my face turned to the wall, and wept.

Normal or Nuts? Or Angry!

Dr. Phil.
Then Brian Williams.
Now Dr. Oz.

I struggle against stigma. I fight it, one way or another, every day. These guys sure are making it difficult!