asshole_is_not_a_mental_illness epitome of incomprehensibility For a phrase I first saw in a rainbow-sparkly Spongebob meme, this carries a surprising amount of truth. The idea, short and sweet: don't call someone mentally ill if they're being an asshole. As corollary, maybe, people shouldn't be able to excuse their own assholish actions by chalking those up to mental illness. But that is where it can get difficult, where issues about capacity and agency and free will creep in. It doesn't seem the way the world *should* work, but sometimes a problem will make someone act worse and then it's hard to separate out what's their fault and not. ... I won't go into the Germany situation yet because I'd get super long-winded trying to process it in writing: basically a student with borderline personality disorder (and I think also depression) was sent home for supposedly threatening others. Why "supposedly"? Because she said those things not to the people threatened, but to a third party. While in a breakdown state. And her history included self-harm but not violence against others. Now, there may have been reasons to send her home for her own sake, but I disagreed with the way the program director framed the issue. He made it sound like she threatened people directly. Hm. Okay. So I DID just write a paragraph about that. Short and bitter. But the longer thing I'll write isn't something I witnessed firsthand. Still been causing some secondhand_stress. ... These past few weeks, Dad has been preaching at a church (he trained to be a minister before he went into churchy stuff on the academic side) because its usual minister was having complications from bipolar disorder. He wouldn't have had those problems, Dad thinks, if hadn't started drinking. Alcohol interferes with his medication. Near the beginning of this situation I said, upset at the stress it was causing my father, "But why can't he choose not to start drinking if he knows he'll get out of control?" but of course it isn't that simple and Dad thinks the drinking is a response to trauma. Anyway, he's in a depressed phase now, not a manic one. But tonight his neighbours found him drunk and called Dad to come over. Why do they depend on him?? Arrgh. It seems unfair that Dad has to deal with all this. The police came first and he had to convince them that what was needed was a hospital. I don't take "ACAB" literally, but it's easy to see how cops can make something like this worse - treating someone as a threat instead of a patient. Not that hospitals are always great, but people there are better trained for health-related situations. But I still feel a little upset with the man, feel like saying, "Why don't you just pull yourself together?" - not to him, of course, but in my head, where no one can hear me being unfair. There I go again, using the word "unfair" over and over, like it's the worst thing I can say about anything. Maybe it's because I think the man is arrogant. Mind you, I don't know him much, but when he was at the college where Dad was the librarian - where I'd go to do my work semi-quietly, semi-chattingly - he seemed annoyingly full of himself. Mom got the same impression of him at a book sale. Anyway, if you take the premise in the blathe title as true (and I do, mostly, though life is complicated), it still doesn't mean someone with a problem beyond their control can't ALSO be a crappy person. Or just an annoying one. Plus, I think my feelings are like this because I don't like seeing my father having to deal with so much stress. Maybe I should also feel proud of him for taking care of his friend. 231104 ... e_o_i So it turned out the man wasn't drunk. Perhaps he'd reacted badly to his medication. Perhaps he'd taken too many sleeping pills - he'd been prescribed some. Anyway, he was acting drunk, groggy and slurring his words. His neighbours were wary because he'd yelled at them and acted aggressive when he was drunk during his manic phase, so they didn't want to get too close. Today he called Dad, lucid but still tired-sounding, wanting help - he was having suicidal thoughts. I don't know how many pills he had left, but Dad thought it was an emergency. He drove right over and took him to Douglas Hospital. What I'm ashamed of now is that I got angry at Dad. I was in the next room reading an article for class when he got the call. My parents and I had been planning to leave soon for a nearby BBQ restaurant with a salad buffet - we'd arranged to go last week but that hadn't worked out. Anyway, when I heard he was planning to drive the man to the hospital, I said something like, "No! You said you'd come with us," and then, thinking of a brilliant compromise, "Why don't you ask [name] if he wants to go to Scores with us?" Dad was in emergency mode. At first he completely ignored me. When he hung up, he snapped at me to stop it. "Fuck you!" I muttered, but loud enough for Mom to hear - shocking her because I'm not usually the one who swears. She swears more than me. "You never pay attention to me." "I have to go," Dad was putting on his coat. That would have been fine, but he added, "You're not acting rationally." So he left me annoyed at him. I was on the computer, wasting time on YouTube before getting back to American Structuralism. The sky outside darkened. I had to turn on the light. I worried that if something had happened to Dad, or even if nothing had, I shouldn't have been angry when he left. At half past six I asked Mom if I should start making dinner (I got a yes). The onions and peppers were almost done frying when Dad came in. Thankfully, the friend didn't change his mind but went to the hospital willingly, the hospital staff saw him quickly, and they were understanding and compassionate. (Unlike the nurse Dad first saw for his dog bite, who accused him of hitting the dog. Fun times.) Dad stopped speaking. I served the food (croissant sandwiches and the aforementioned stir-fried veggies). Then I got sentimental: I hugged my father and told him I was sorry, I shouldn't have been angry, I'd been a distraction, and he really was very heroic. "I don't know if I'd call it heroic," he said. "Well, you did a good thing." In turn my parents praised my cooking - while adding salt and pepper. Preoccupied, I had not been Literal Spice this time and the veggies were rather bland. 231105 what's it to you? who go blather from