Scramble/Ramble: Genes
Who we gonna blame? GENES!
This haphazard and alleged drunk and cocaine infused post was written sometime in May. Or April? Who the fuck knows, bruh? May. I think it was May. Or June? June. It was early June.
You know what grinds my gears?
Genes.
Ought to round them up, line them up against the wall and…
…
…
Give them one big hug.
You:
Me:
Daddy’s talking. And papa’s got a brand-new bag of tequila.
But seriously, foehck dem genes, yeah?
Not the word itself, but the story attached to it in the mental health sphere. Like, when society’s met with an individual who thinks differently, feels differently, and fucking acts differently, what’s the first thing they do? Label and classify it into something you can understand.
No problem.
We’re good, bruh.
But what happens when the label you’ve given has a negative story we’ve all accepted? A story that practically stamps you a freak? A monster? A fucking danger to society? Well, then, surprise, surprise, I fucking start to believe that story and, oh, another surprise, I’m now acting out like the monster you’ve fucking made me out to be!
Jesus fucking—
Hold me back, Terry Crews!
Ok.
OK!
I’m calm.
Nope. Need to rock-ah-my-rolla:
There, better.
Anywho, the point I’m trying to get to is this: out of the countless interviews I’ve seen of psychiatrists and psychologists—mainly psychiatrists, jeez, y'all, you need to start prioritizing people over medicine; relationships over theory and technique. Fuck sake, throw out the rulebook of mental health every now and then, que no?
Or… don’t.
Keep believing the Earth is flat.
You:
Me:
¡Que viva México, güey! AYAYAYAYAYA!
WOOO!
Ok, what’s the cause?
WHAT’S THE MOTHAFUCKIN’ CAUSE?
That’s the question to ask when someone’s been diagnosed with, let’s say, Bipolar disorder, a more socially acceptable term. But, fuck, do we really gotta put disorder in there? Disorder means chaos, chaos means destruction, destruction makes me think freak—monster. You’re calling someone a fucking monster, you monster.
Ok.
Alright.
Cocaine’s going down, down… calm. I’m calm. Astute. Acceptable.
I’m acceptable.
And like a distinguished, acceptable gentleman with the power of observation, I’ve observed the answer most psychiatrists have given to that question: what’s the cause?
“We don’t know,” answer a few honest and humble psychiatrists.
Thank you for your honesty.
“But genes play a big role.”
Me tired of that response:
Typical.
Blame it on the individual.
Should you choose to expand to the collective, you keep it within the family because God knows society played no role in the mental health epidemic that’s always been there—social media just made things louder, unable to hide from.
Ok.
Alright.
I think I’ll—
Now, excuse me, I have a nuthouse of hookers and cocaine to tend to.
Come here, Ivana Humpalot:
😀