Words, Words, Words
You know that feeling when you say or read one word over and over again and it begins to lose its meaning? It sounds like nonsense, and for a split-second it is nonsense. To you, at least. Its meaning is gradually diluted by repetition until it doesn’t mean anything at all. It’s just a sound. A string of letters. Devoid of substance.
I believe that the way that we use words is very important. The words that we choose and how we choose to use them has significance. And I do believe that a word’s usage can morph its meaning, and how you respond to saying it, and how others respond to hearing it.
Take, for instance, the following scenario: an obsessive, agoraphobic boy is housebound because of his illness. And this illness has a name: OCD. A neat label for a very large, messy, heavy package. He spends hours each day checking locks, candles, ovens, outlets, fireplaces, etc., paralyzed with the fear of forthcoming catastrophe. Catastrophe that, in his mind, would be his fault if he hadn’t ensured, and ensured, and ensured, and ensured that everything was safe and off and blown-out and closed and locked and locked again. He leaves his house once weekly for groceries, gloves on his hands for fear of contracting a communicable disease. Understandably, depression follows him. He is determined to stay alive and safe, but he has forgotten what for. Why go to all the trouble of obsessively keeping oneself alive if the purpose of one’s life is to keep oneself alive? This nihilistic cycle crushes him, and he shops for chicken with a blank stare. Beside him, a woman pulls some produce from the very back of the crate. She turns to her friend:
“People always go for the ones in the front, and you just never know where their hands have been. It’s disgusting to think of all the germs. To eat that food.
I’m so OCD.”
They giggle.
The boy overhears, says nothing, buys his chicken, heads home, and resumes his checking routine for four more hours to ensure the most peaceful sleep that he can reasonably achieve. A sleep filled with nightmares of a burning home, burglaries, and danger. Danger that he is responsible for keeping at bay. And, more than anything else, a night plagued by doubt.
And he wakes up once more, to an unburned and unburglared house, and, still unconvinced of his own minds’ irrationality, he resumes his routine. And he thinks of the woman from the store. The woman who is “so OCD.” So OCD that it makes her and her friend laugh together for a moment, before they continue their shopping.
Words matter. When we misuse medical terminology to describe a fleeting state of stress, sadness, or anxiety, or absent-mindedness, we diminish the significance of diagnoses that have debilitating, life-altering, and sometimes life-ending implications. We dilute their meaning until they mean nothing at all, nothing more than an adjective, just like “silly” or “stupid” or “sad.”
Retarded, OCD, depressed, psycho. These words aren’t funny substitutions for someone looking to really drive home their point or make a joke. Every time they’re said out of their appropriate context they steal significance from the plights of people living with mental illness and disability.
I told a friend last week that I had obsessive-compulsive disorder. Which started in childhood. Which was the reason for the countless doctors, therapists, psychiatrists, and pills galore. The reason for the thousands of photos of outlets and burnt out candles on my phone, just to be extra sure. The reasons for the bandaids on my hands to cover the skin picking. The reason for the saddest, most hopeless nights of my life. The single most difficult challenge I’ve ever faced. I saw this as a moment of candidness, to be shared with a confidant and met with respect, sensitivity, and empathy.
“Oh my god, I completely get it. I’m totally OCD too. I carry hand sanitizer with me everywhere. Here, look!” she laughed.
