Welcome to Overshare, Highsnobiety's deep dive into the role social media plays in our mental health. From a close look at how Gen Z does therapy to a personal essay from the viral comedian Jake Shane to a glossary of words, phrases, and diagnoses that get thrown around on #TherapyTok.
When I was little I used to tap things evenly. If I didn’t, bad things would happen. At least that’s what I told myself. What started as a “quirky” habit quickly became “concerning.” The more I tried to restrain myself from tapping things evenly, the more the need grew. The even taps turned into even numbers turned into odd numbers turned into whatever my brain decided to torture me with that day. Intrusive thoughts, they’re called, though I didn’t know it then. I started counting everything from my breaths to my steps to how many times I told my mom that I loved her before going to bed. It was, and still is, debilitating and humiliating.
I don’t remember the first time I heard about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), but I do remember having to convince people I had it. To the average bystander, OCD is a “neat” disease – everything has to be in a certain order; the OCD life is “organized.” This made my experience hard to believe – my life was visibly and internally falling apart. Being neat was the least of my concerns.
OCD is a long-lasting disorder that finds its victim at the receiving end of intrusive thoughts that result in compulsive behavior and rituals. For example, tapping things evenly or counting breaths or ensuring you’re never left alone. Over the years, my OCD had turned my fear of abandonment into a sharpened knife, stuck it in, and twisted. I was scared of being left at all times. I didn’t know what was happening. There was little to no representation in the media of what I was experiencing. I took some solace in television like Dr. Drew’s VH1 reality show about OCD and in HBO’s Girls, and in particular, an episode that shows Hannah Horvath (Lena Dunham) suffering a serious OCD meltdown. But being seen can only help so much.
My OCD made it difficult to take in information at school – my brain was constantly switching to the next “ritual” I could perform to ensure I had the “good luck” some invisible force promised me. It became hard to read, which was heartbreaking. I had to read, re-read, and read again certain passages to quiet my brain. Even television became difficult as my OCD made me rewatch certain scenes over and over again in order to fulfill the task I had set for myself. I wanted peace.
Where I finally found it, if momentarily, was in pop stars: something about female pop stars made the world go quiet. (Hyper fixation, a symptom of OCD itself, was in fact my only comfort).
In elementary school, I fell in love with The Cheetah Girls. A Disney girl group that preached self love, diversity, and friendship. My brain was loud most of the time, but while I watched them “strut,” literally and figuratively, across my screen, it was quiet. My pre-teen years were time stamped by Lorde’s album “Pure Heroin” and Lily Allen’s entire discography. On Lorde’s song “Ribs,” It felt as if she sang “This dream isn't feeling sweet. We're reeling through the midnight streets, and I've never felt more alone. It feels so scary getting old” to me personally as I wondered if my best years were behind me. Thankfully, they weren’t (I mean, I was 12). Middle school was marked by my admiration of Lady Gaga. I went to school in the suburbs of New York and often felt like an outcast – I don’t think I realized it at the time but she made me feel accepted in a community where I wasn’t. 9th, 10th, and 11th grade I remember as my “Beyoncé period.” Where her albums “4” and “Beyoncé” helped me coast along arguably the most frustrating, but fulfilling, years of my life. Senior year, I was obsessed with Amy Winehouse and Britney Spears. Both a last ditch effort to cling to childhood, faced with the lonesome reality of adulthood.
And by soundtracking my life, these artists helped build my character in ways I couldn’t in a traditional setting. I was able to romanticize a life that wasn’t always worth romanticizing. The lyrics felt like classroom lectures that offered invaluable life lessons, and I felt like a character in my own movie whose traits, the good and the bad, added important layers to a plot.
I found the importance of chosen family in The Cheetah Girls, my bravery and raunchiness in Lady Gaga, my introspection in Lorde, my drive from Beyonce, my understanding of how much love and misery is behind the facade of a public image from Britney Spears and Amy Winehouse, and my passion for writing from Taylor Swift.
But no one had more of an impact on me than Taylor Swift. Swift helped me in ways indescribable, but one in particular, that I will forever remember her for, is being the only constant in the ever-changing year that was 2020. My quarantine was marked by “Folklore” and “Evermore,” and ended with her re-recording of her 2008 album, “Fearless.” Swift’s lyricism guided me through a pivotal time of self growth. “I’ve been the archer, I’ve been the prey, who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?” Swift croons on her 2019 track “The Archer.” In other words she taught me that loving yourself and being self critical can co-exist.
There was also the inspirational fact of a pop star: It required authenticity and confidence in the face of harsh criticism that knew no bounds, from romantic partners to weight to looks. But each one kept singing, dancing, and writing. This was so foreign to me and worked to spark a powerful realization: if these strong, talented women could shut out the world, I could quiet my brain.
The realization, and my pop-star fixation, didn’t “fix” anything, but it helped me forget. As they glistened like ethereal beings, dancing across my screen and whispering melodic fairytales into my ears, I forgot about how many times I needed to look at myself in the mirror, the bad luck that would follow if I didn’t, and, most importantly, I forgot about being forgotten. My OCD wasn’t fixed, and the intrusive thoughts remained the same, but falling into the world of pop stars gave me the confidence to address these issues head on.
We’ve come a long way in mental health representation since I first struggled with what felt like a festering yet invisible wound I had to convince people was real. And while my story may be as old as time, representation is vital to the mental health space – and there it is still nowhere near enough. If the platform I’ve built is for anything, it’s to show people that mental health doesn’t exist in a vacuum, and there is no “right way” to experience it.
It was almost impossible for me to find acceptance as a kid growing up with OCD, but with pop stars I felt seen, and, most importantly, happy. To them, it didn’t matter how many times I tapped the concrete, and they didn’t tell me OCD was a “neat thing” in a bid to miscredit my experience. I didn’t have to convince them of a mental illness I knew I had, and that, to me, was everything.
I marveled in awe. Most importantly, I danced.
If you’re experiencing symptoms you think may require treatment, or if you or someone you know is struggling seriously with their mental health, there are so many ways to find help. Start by talking to your medical doctor or calling your local clinic. You can also get help online. Get specific with your search terms, and when you find a site that looks useful, always check to see if it has proper accreditations (scroll all the way down and look for badges that have words like “accredited” or “rated”). A good place to learn about the different types of therapists and therapy modalities available is Psychology Today. Most importantly: Talk to your friends and family, and ask for help.
