The Commodification of Sadness

TW: suicidal ideation, mental illness, etc.

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I am what the internet would describe as a certifiable SadGirl. Or, in the words of my doctor, “mentally ill and extremely depressed.” But the former has a cuter ring to it.

My boyfriend, god bless him, hasn’t been scared off by my bouts of world weariness. When we met, he told me he had a thing for SadGirls, and it’s been a running joke between us since. While he certainly didn’t know how SadGirl I could get, he sticks by me. He holds me during the days when the sun has been blocked by winter clouds and there’s another murder by police, and I revert to my gremlin mode: curled in a ball, binging junk food, and losing myself in a murder documentary. Luckily for him, I am not the type of gremlin that brings food into the bed, or doesn’t shower. Not because I am better than anyone else (we all gremlin in our own way) but purely due to the fact that I cannot morally subject my partner to potato chip filled sheets or the very noticeable odor I develop fairly quickly.

I have bounced between being lost in the dirty, suffocating smog of depression and days when I can manage to exist, my entire life. I am often told, “You don’t look depressed.” Perhaps because I do not carry a literally grey cloud above my head. I have tried – but they are far heavier than you’d expect, being full of rain and whatnot.

In actuality, it isn’t because I don’t look depressed, it’s because in real life most people do not want to hear about your mental illness. Not your friends, not your family, not your doctor, and sometimes not even your therapist. Because mental illness is scary. It is heartbreaking. And it makes us feel insignificant to be faced with another’s crushing pain. Those of us suffering are lucky if we find one person that wants to listen.

Truth be told, for a brief while I absolutely adored the uptick and popularization of tags like, “Depression,” “anxiety,” “ideation,” etc. Not because I want others to suffer, but because it was nice to not suffer alone. I spent the majority of my life feeling so incredibly isolated – my friends didn’t see it, my parents didn’t get it, and my sister denied it. When I found the world of Tumblr, when I found Instagram tags, I found my people. Or I thought I did. And, for a while, I actually did. I learned about things that were common to my diagnoses, and that traits I always thought were just personal failures were actually symptoms. I learned tricks and tips and hints for how to cope that weren’t just, “Have you considered not being sad?” “Have you tried yoga?” “You should exercise and get more sleep!” Instead, I found people who would say, “I know you are doing your best. I am so proud of you,” and it felt like they understood. For a moment in time I felt understood and recognized and I felt like maybe the crushing weight of the world was a burden I could bear because others were under it with me,

Then the internet did what it always does: it commodified what seemed to be getting traffic. It took the mentally ill and, though algorithms, turned depression into SadGirls, an adorable phenomenon. To be clear, I am not doubting that many of these people may have mental illness – it is invisible and it is not my place to say who does or doesn’t have what. But the issue isn’t that they are normalizing and commodifying it. The issue is they are normalizing and commodifying a very specific type of the mentally ill. She needs to be young, she needs to be pretty, and she needs to be helpless, but in a sexy way. Her depression needs to be neat, and pretty, and she can turn it off when things get too serious or uncomfortable or real. It needs to be a woman who can play a damsel in distress, but who is only distressed at the most convenient times. She needs to be the type of woman that a man thinks he can save. They do not want to see my mental illness: the scars and the sobbing, the temptation that every sharp object brings, and the continuous longing look at pill bottles in the cabinet. That is not a SadGirl. That is a horror.

So, the internet runs rampant with people posting phrases they heard third hand or misunderstood from a self-declared therapist on TikTok. Please know I do not mind self-diagnosis, or even the trickle-down theory of therapy. I have used it – I, too, have googled my own illness and sought advice from someone who costs less than an $120 hour psychiatrist. My goal is not to denigrate woman, especially those that are also suffering. In fact, I applaud the people who have been able to document what their struggles really are like, and who have made strides in normalizing it for the rest of us.

What I do mind is the glorification of the pain and the downplaying of the impacts. Mental illness is messy. It is painful and it is paralyzing, and it is difficult to get diagnosed and more difficult to treat. It is not just the beauty and anguish that creates Starry Night. It is the suffering and excruciating pain that makes us cut off our own ears, and shoot ourselves in the chest. Yes, Van Gogh’s depression gave him art. It also took his life. And he deserved to live. We all do.

We have failed each other because as a society we have managed to make it clear that mental illness is not acceptable. Unless, of course, you’re doing it on the internet. It would seem, then, that I am too sad for the SadGirls. I do not belong to this group of beautiful women on the internet who are Sad as long as it’s profitable, as long as it gets them clicks. And when it stops getting the clicks, they will stop their act of depression and anxiety.

Frankly, I, too, would like to stop myself of depression and anxiety. So much so that I would kill someone.

Probably myself.