Please Don't Give Me Advice for My Mental Illness If I'm Just Venting
Sometimes we need advice. But sometimes we just need to vent. This is true of pretty much all people, but I find it especially true of people with mental illness.
Venting is the act of getting something off your chest. It may come explosively if it has built up for a while. There may be one final incident, however tiny, that sets you off. All you really want is to feel heard, for someone to acknowledge your distress and understand it. Sometimes all you really need is a sympathetic ear and maybe a pat on the shoulder.
Venting acts as a safety valve. It allows you to “let off steam” that might otherwise build up pressure until it comes out violently, or at least excessively.
Why do I say this is particularly true of people with mental illness? So often we have feelings we can’t articulate, thoughts we don’t understand or events that trigger us in both large and small ways. It’s natural to want to keep all these things inside. We’re taught to do that — not to “let the ‘crazy’ show,” to keep all those messy thoughts and feelings to ourselves. Eventually, we can get to the point where we think no one will understand anyway, so there’s no point in giving voice to these feelings.
Then, when we do finally vent, inevitably someone says we’re overreacting.
If I’m venting, the wrong thing to do is to give me advice. Unless I specifically ask for advice, that is. But even well-meaning advice can easily go wrong. People who do not struggle with psychiatric conditions often offer advice regarding what works for them when they feel a certain way. And yes, a walk in the fresh air and sunshine can certainly be uplifting. But when I’m too depressed to get out of bed, it can be an impossibility. It can even make me feel worse about myself.
To me, suggestions for possible remedies for my disorder are even worse. It’s taken me and my assorted doctors years to assemble the right medications at the right dosages to tame my bipolar disorder down to something livable. When someone tries to tout the latest remedy they heard about — pilates, elderberries, juice cleanse, probiotics or whatever — it feels to me like “pill-shaming,” like I’m being blamed because none of my meds will “fix” me thoroughly enough. Add the fact these suggestions often come from questionable sources — laypersons or bogus “studies” — and I’m likely to dig in my heels and feel offended.
At times, though, I do need advice. When I do, I usually get it from my therapist, someone else who shares my disorder or an old friend who has been there for me on my journey. Sometimes I need a reality check: Am I just catastrophizing or is it really true that something bad might be happening? Sometimes I need help dealing with a specific person: What can I say to my sister to help her understand my condition? Sometimes I need a reminder I really ought to make an appointment with my therapist and get a “check-up from the neck up.”
And it should be understood advice is just that — a suggestion that I am free to take or leave. Even my therapist, who usually gives very good advice when I ask her, sometimes suggests techniques or approaches that just don’t work for me. And even she knows sometimes I just need to vent, to feel the feelings of sorrow or hurt or rage and let them out in a safe place. To quote Jimmy Buffet, “It cleans me out and then I can go on.”
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