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

by Maria Bamford

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.