I Want to Be Where the Normal People Are

by Rachel Bloom

As magical as labels are, however, they do a shit job at describing how mental illness actually feels. Depression, for instance, doesn’t feel like this sterile hospital waiting room word: depression. It feels like my insides are turning gray, which makes the trees turn gray, which makes all life turn gray, which is the color we all turn eventually because everything leads to nothingness.

(I almost questioned her if she meant actual OCD or if she was using the term in the casual way people often do, like, “Oh man, I’m so OCD I can’t stand it when there are dirty dishes in the sink,” but I decided this wasn’t the time or place to bring up how people can inadvertently trivialize mental health issues.)

I am perpetually torn between my inner rage and inability to articulate that rage. I’ve always been, I guess the word is “spunky,” enough to know that I should stand up for myself. You know, get it girl, Aries is a fire sign, werk bitch, all that. But I’ve always been bad at translating the urge to fight back into a coherent takedown of my enemies. Aka, I’m terrible at rap battles.

Being honest disarms people. We are poorly trained on how to be open and vulnerable with even our closest friends, let alone our enemies.

As I loaded up my bags, I felt like Little Orphan Annie singing, “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here.” But in this version, it was about my ashamed delight at benefiting off the inherent unfairness of capitalism.

I had a nightmare of being chased by a giant Twitter egg that was yelling my biggest insecurities at me. “You dance like you’re still a virgin!” and “Everyone notices that you have a lopsided smile!” and “You’re too much of a gluttonous fatass to ever become a vegan even though you know it’s the ethical thing to do!”