Acceptance Period

One of the great contributing factors to mental illness is the pervasive idea that we should always be well, no matter the cost. This belief causes us to suffer more than necessary, as many of us take a long time to allow ourselves to fall properly and usefully ill. In a crisis, our chances of recovery significantly rely on our relationship with our illness—an attitude that is relatively unafraid of our distress and not overly obsessed with appearing normal. We must permit ourselves to be deranged for a while to eventually reach a more authentic kind of sanity.

Our healing process is immensely aided if the images of mental illness we draw on do not narrowly imply that our condition is merely a freakish and pitiable possibility. Instead, if we can refer to images that highlight the universal and dignified aspects of our state, we can avoid fearing and hating ourselves for being unwell. We stand to heal much faster if we replace associations like those created by Goya, which depict madness as the seventh circle of hell, with images of men and women like us, sitting on the sofa and combining their inner wretchedness with other more temperate and attractive qualities. This helps us remain fully human despite our terrifying convulsions, absences of mind, catastrophic forebodings, and sense of despair.

The best philosophical background against which to wrestle with mental unwellness would conceive of the human animal as intrinsically, rather than accidentally, flawed. Such a philosophy would reject the notion of perfection and instead welcome our griefs, errors, stumbles, and follies as no less a part of us than our triumphs and intelligence.

Historically, Japan's Zen Buddhism has best articulated these ideas. With its bold declaration that life itself is suffering and its veneration of the imperfect and unglossy in visual arts and psychology, Zen Buddhism offers a profound perspective. Rainy autumn evenings, sadness, moss-covered roofs, stained wooden panels, tears, and irregular pieces of pottery are all celebrated. Against such a background, it becomes easier to accept ourselves in our unwell state, feeling less guilty about not fulfilling societal roles. We become less defensive and frightened, more inclined to seek proper care, and more likely to recover properly over time.

A philosophy of acceptance helps us recognize that, despite the particularities of our crisis, our pains fit into the broader picture of the human condition. No one is spared from significant troubles; everything is imperfect. We don't need to know the specifics of someone’s life to guess at the difficulties they've encountered. We all have inadequate parents, desires that exceed reality, make appalling errors, hurt loved ones, anger those in power, and feel anxious, confused, woeful, and lost. We should accept both that we are profoundly unwell and that our ailments are entirely normal.

Japanese philosophy offers another valuable lesson: while we will probably one day be fixed, there are likely to be substantial, ineradicable marks. These marks can be worn with pride and self-respect. According to Zen Buddhism's tradition of kintsugi, an accidentally smashed bowl isn't discarded in embarrassment. Instead, its pieces are carefully reassembled with glue inflected with gold. The traces of repair are made obvious, celebrated, and cherished, suggesting that we do not have to give up on ourselves or be ashamed of our brokenness.

We can confront our illness without panic or fear, with a quiet, intelligent sadness best captured by the word "melancholy." If we were searching for a patron saint of such a melancholy relationship to mental difficulty, the Welsh artist Gwen John would be a fitting choice. She combined a brilliant career as a painter with moments of harrowing mental collapse but remained fundamentally on the side of life. In her self-portrait, John implies that she understands whatever we might be going through. Her eyes hint that she has been there too, that she could be our guide to the underworld of our minds, and that we deserve gentleness, patience, and respect as we feel our way toward repair.