I try not to rage too often on here – I just don’t believe in it. Nothing good comes out of it; not for you, and certainly not for me. And yet the temptation remains, particularly after a few minutes on social media, to unleash some inverse-abrosial hot sauce of doom on these myriad chumplestilskins who strut around the digi-sphere romanticizing mental illness.

The problem: They’re unassailable. Invincible. Un-evinceable. And yet principle parts of the ineffable shitstorm that is the confluence of mental “illness” and social media. And boy would it be nice if this shit would just fucking stop.

But I don’t want to complain.

How does one differentiate between those with real issues and that special breed of melodramatic royalty that inundates the web with mind-numbing, mental-health-deligitimizing horseshit? Bullshit? Humanshit?

You just can’t do it. What, am I going to go on rage patrol and troll the ever-living fuck out of everyone that tweets about #depression or how their #mentalillness is “such a drag?” I mean, maybe it is. It sure is for me. But in a nanosecond glance I can deduce this is outright stupid, time-wasting, real-problem insulting drivel of the Nth degree. Mth Degree. Zth plus Cyrillic letters and Sanskrit degree.

Fuck that noise; fuck myself for complaining. We’re in a bind here – behind door number one is the tried and true do nothing. Turn the other cheek. Grow three more cheeks and turn those too, and don’t worry too much about getting slandered for having a penta-ass. You control your own emotions – nothing more. Deal with it. Roll with it. Hold its hand and stroll on an atoll with it – because I don’t care. Those are my words, and sometimes they’re hard to obey.

And then there’s door number two: RAGE. RAGE. RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!


That’s right motherfucker. WAKE THE FUCK UP.

but I don’t care… Right?

So let’s ask ourselves – what exactly is it that we’re caring about when these unholy posers frolic about on Twitter and Facebook and [INSERT LAME SOCIAL MEDIA HERE] – god forbid real life – just absolutely mocking you by claiming to know and/or understand jack-fucking-shit about real pain?

…Wait – what do I know about that?

What we care about is ourselves – what we care about is a fake competition, a race to the proverbial rock bottom. As if there’s some kind of glory in being the most fucked up. Why? Because that crown absolves us. It is the perfect, eternal excuse for not doing anything about our problems – because shit man, I am literally the worst-off, unluckiest son-of-a-bitch in the history of all that is extant physically and metaphysically.

Time to grow up. I’m looking in a mirror when I say this – maybe you ought to give it shot.

I think the greatest fear of most people with a mental health diagnoses is that they are actually above average – possibly even great. And the insidious mistake isn’t to get pissed off by said posers, but to even bother comparing yourself to them in the first place. If you want to make comparisons – and maybe you have to – compare yourself to your potential. Ask not “Am I as well off as person X,” but instead “Am I as great a person as I can possibly be compared to my potential?

Ladies and gentlemen, the realization of that goal is called happiness. It’s called nirvana. It’s called hi-FUCKING-yaaaaaaaaaaa!

It feels good.

I’ve come to understand posers piss me off because they make me realize I’m the poser. The tourist; the imposter in the fake landscape of mental illness. I’m here to say there’s no such thing, except maybe the delusion that there’s such a thing (if that makes sense – and it does).

I’m the first to say “fuck that rah-rah Twitter shit” – so allow me to also be the first to say you can do better; it will get better. 

But you have to try.

It’s not easy – but it’s not supposed to be Easy. Easy is Tweeting; Easy is Facebook; Easy is complaining and bitching and writing holier-than-thou blog posts and rants and me-me-me’s and everyone-look’s. Easy is racing to the bottom; you don’t need to do anything – just let gravity take over. It is precisely because comparing yourself to your potential is so hard that it’s the worthwhile, respectable, right thing to do. And you’re supposed to fail, over and over like Sisyphus, until you die short of the goal.

Because it’s not about getting to the top – what gives you value is that you take the time out of your self-pity to give it a damn shot. Because you’ve bitched on twitter a thousand times but caught yourself starting again, and chose not to do it just one time. Because you passed on a beer after willingly drinking ten. Because you put ten dollars towards your credit card debt instead of a pack of cigarettes after finishing fifty cartons.

I’m not saying wanting to do these things – these steps forward – is the thing of value. I’m saying doing them is. I don’t care how many times you’ve fucked up, how many times you have been that poser – if you notice and choose another options just one time, that’s comparing yourself to your potential.

I know you can do this because I can. I know you’ll fuck up, because I do. I know you’ll feel guilty sometimes and not give a fuck sometimes, and most of the time you won’t even think about it.

But once in a while you will.

And these are the moments in which you determine your own worth.


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