Sure, I'll Join Your Cult: A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere

by Maria Bamford

But once I meet or have an experience or a product that my mom has said was GOOD, I argue that I kind of make it BAD with my presence.

If it sounds like I’m trying to make my sister seem perfect, yes and yes. She IS perfect because she is not ME. She is GOOD, I am BAD.

Blossom’s greatest gift was a radical acceptance. Even if I had scary thoughts of OCD, even if I was smelly, even if I had weird black hairs on my chin, Blossom wanted to hang out with me. It’s true, she wasn’t particularly interested in comedy, but she would watch me perform for a good five seconds until she drifted off to sleep. She was the epitome of a Good Girl. If I stood too long in one place at the dog park, she would pee on me, as if to say, “This is mine.” I had never had anyone take that kind of proud ownership of me.

We slept face-to-face, her breathing my breath, me breathing hers. Best Pals Forevz.

I was a bad person. And yet, she just scooted closer and leaned in.

Everybody wants you to get better, but they don’t know what medication is going to work. I think that’s like most illnesses/school courses/human relationships. No one can guarantee security and stability, which is a real bummer when you think about it. Don’t think about it.

I have a friend named Mike who has attempted suicide several times due to major depressive disorder. He’s been told that his mentals are “treatment-resistant,” which sounds a lot like “noncompliant” heart disease or “won’t play ball” multiple sclerosis. My pal has done everything to get help. He’s been on every med, had electroconvulsive therapy tens of times, gotten DBS—deep brain stimulation, where they insert tiny electrodes in your head. For years, he had a ticking noise coming from his collarbone that was supposedly tickling his serotonin levels, but he said it did nothing but make him sound like a metronome. He moved to the beach for whatever the ocean is supposed to be good for. He built a sweat lodge. He goes to all the twelve-step programs. He’s married to a kind person. He’s a pet papa and a skilled artist, and he volunteers in his community. And in the twenty years I’ve known him, he has made almost biennial suicide attempts that have only been caught by his spouse at the last minute. And I don’t think it’s because he hasn’t been asked by Byron Katie the Four Questions That Can Change Your Life. It’s because his brain is built to feel appalling. If I told him, “Hey, girl, it gets better,” not only would I be rude for not recognizing Mike’s preferred pronoun, but I’d again be putting the onus of responsibility on him to cure himself.