Not Even a Little Bit Funny

May is Mental Health Awareness Month, as our HR departments are all likely informing us. Those struggling with mental health are already pretty darn aware. But I suppose the awareness is for others, meant to drive broader and deeper understanding, compassion, and maybe even better systemic support.

Normally, I likely wouldn't write on this topic. It's a scary one, deeply personal. Anything you say will go down on your permanent record (aka The Internet). I am writing, though, because yesterday, I learned that Heather Armstrong, later Heather Hamilton, known mostly by her blog name, Dooce, has died by suicide.

Many of you may not recognize that name or that face. I didn't know Heather personally, but I knew of her. She was an early blogger. She blogged life, including work and parenting and her struggles with mental health. I read her blog for years.

In fact, back in 2002, she was fired because of things she said on her blog, and following that, her blog name was made into a verb - to be dooced is to be fired from your job for things you write online. (To be fair, she did refer to her boss as Her Wretchedness on the blog.)

Heather was crowned the Queen of Mommy Bloggers, but that title is reductionist in my eyes. She blogged long before she became a mother. She was a brilliant writer. Raw, hilarious. Back when I did the blogging thing, she was my idol.

And... she struggled with mental health and addiction.

The loss of Heather, like the loss of Robin Williams, makes me contemplate the mask of humor people wear. Humor is often a coping mechanism, a defense mechanism. It's associated both with good-health things and with depression and anxiety.

It can be a pretty sharp double-edge sword.

I am a big fan of humor. I probably overuse it. I likely hide behind it. I certainly overthink it. Like most people, I've had some pretty low periods in my life. I've gotten help from professionals during those times, but I've not had to deal with the chronic and the severe stuff others have. The kind of stuff Heather blogged about regarding her own struggles.

I consider myself among the fortunate because I have a wonderful network of family and friends. And maybe even a few people who can see beyond the mask and cut through the bullshit and embrace the stripped-down version of me, the version that isn't always very together or very funny or very [insert adjective here]. The crying girl who lives inside is part of the package.

For those people who see and accept all of me, I am truly grateful.

Godspeed, Heather. You made millions laugh and you helped so many who had struggles similar to yours to feel less alone in life, and that ain't nothin'.

That ain't nothin'.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linda Metzler likes to write stuff and sometimes she thinks she's funny, unless she's writing about mental health and then she doesn't feel very funny at all.

Except, wait... she tapped into her archives for some mental health humor. For YOU. She did that for you! It's not about her ego at all, she swears.

Third-person Linda says you gotta laugh. That's how we get through it all.

• Honestly, Lucy pulling away that football was the best thing Charlie Brown ever had to prepare him for life, except she totally screwed him regarding expectations on the cost of therapy.
• Hope there are no tears at this therapy session. It was so awkward last time when I held the tissue to my counselor's nose and told her to blow.
• Therapist: What brings you in today? Me: Hang on, I have a PowerPoint.
• Therapist: Your hyper-independence is a trauma reaction. Me: I really don't need a therapist anyway.
• Me: I don’t trust anyone. Therapist: I can help you with that. Me: Sure you can.
• My therapist said I need to work on vulnerability, so I've decided to open myself up to carbohydrates.
• My therapist said Amazon package deliveries aren't real love. She's wrong about that, right?
• Nothing makes me more depressed than how much scrolling is necessary to find my birth year on a web form.
• The mid-life crisis is coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE!!
• I would ask my therapist to help me with these feelings of worthlessness but she probably has more important things to do.
• You can gauge my mental state by assessing the crumbs in my bed. If it looks like a sandbox, call 9-1-1.
• A pessimist sees a sad woman sleeping alone in a bed full of crumbs, but an optimist sees a free full-body exfoliation treatment.
• Therapist, noun /?ther-?-pist/ a person you pay money to meet with and hide all your craziness while trying to fool them into believing you are amazing.
• Receptionist: How can I help you? Me: Yes, I'd like a complete make-over. Receiptionist: Ma'am, this is a mental health practice. Me: I can't wait for the reveal!

Be well, LinkedIn, and take care of the person behind the humor-mask, whether that's you or someone you love.