It is shame repackaged as respect. Instead of brave, I’d rather be thought of as kind. Thoughtful. Fierce
Sun 4 Oct 2020 17.30 BST
Last modified on Sun 4 Oct 2020 23.19 BST
When I think of the word brave, my mind flicks to images of swords and the dankness of the middle ages. But I’ve noticed it’s a common response to a disclosure of mental illness. I write about my experience of mental illness often, most recently in my book Hysteria. Yet every time I’m told I am brave, it grates.
I do not feel brave when I write. I am simply narrating how it feels to live in my body. When my work is read, I worry about the shape of my sentences, the clarity of word choice, rather than feeling as though I am plucking up the courage to share my illness.
Perhaps the idea of being brave grates because it implies that this experience is so unpleasant that to talk about it is courageous. For me – like the social model of disability explains – the hardest part of being disabled is not the disability itself but navigating a world that does not accept my experience of mental illness.
Stella Young’s work on inspiration porn highlights the lowered societal standards for disabled people. “We’ve been sold the lie that disability is a bad thing … and to live with disability makes you exceptional,” she says. “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been approached by strangers wanting to tell me they think I’m brave or inspirational … It is objectifying.”
I think the assumption behind brave is that, to write about mental illness, I am ignoring the shame I’m presumed to be feeling. (Sara Ahmed calls this the “cost of not following the scripts of normative existence”). I go to a new GP to renew my antidepressant prescription and she tells me not to be ashamed. I never mentioned shame – I asked for a medication I have been taking for years. As she continues to speak, I notice the discomfort of the thin foam atop the hard-plastic chair. I shift, looking to the blood pressure monitor on her desk. In a strange but not uncommon turn, I am shamed for not feeling ashamed.
Elspeth Probyn writes in her book Blush: Faces of Shame of “a strange little strain of shame: the body’s sense of being out of place. It is a shame born of the desire to fit in, of an interest in being part of a place.” Probyn is talking about her experience of a life moving from country to country, where she is seen not to fit. But I think of this out-of-place shame being placed on me in my interaction with the GP. While sitting across from this woman with short hair and a loud button-down shirt, I’m removed from existing on the same plane as her. She has placed me into Susan Sontag’s idea of the “kingdom of the sick”. I am apart from her; I do not belong.
Navigating these interactions – trying to smile through being called “brave” – is so tiring that I cannot voice it. I know that if I were to push back, I’d be told it’s a compliment. But surely a compliment is only one if it feels like praise?
In my experience, disclosing, sharing, seeking help does require strength. It is not easy to discuss access requirements or voice the daily experience of living with illness when I’ve been met with friendship fade-outs and glazed looks. Being faced with stigma – whether well intentioned or not – is eroding. It feels like being a car tyre, spun round and round against bitumen. But facing this is not bravery. It is the urgent need for help trumping the possibility of stigma.
The idea of being brave also assumes disclosure is always a choice. I go to an art gallery with a friend and a seizure comes. I start to dissociate; see lights and flickering. I say nothing, leave him. Find a seat and grip on to a table to steady myself. He catches up with me, sits as I start to come to. Even if I didn’t say anything to explain my experience, this is disclosure. Having a panic attack at a pie shop on my 18th birthday was disclosure. Cancelling one too many times on friends due to “feeling unwell” (too unwell to discuss the complexities of my illness) probably was disclosure, too.
All of this is to say: if I was never ashamed, how can I be brave? I see myself as one small link in a history of people living with mental illness with dignity and strength. For me, being disabled is community, resource sharing, acceptance.
Brave is condescending. It is shame repackaged as respect. Unwrap the words, and you’ll feel their sting. Instead of brave, I’d rather be thought of as kind. Thoughtful. Fierce. I’d rather any other word because then it feels as though you are listening. Not just hearing about an illness and making a judgment.
• Katerina Bryant is a writer based in South Australia. Her first book, Hysteria: A Memoir of Illness, Strength and Women’s Stories Throughout History, is out now.
