alex arboran

that actually would probably have killed me.

lupus psychosis is caused by an autoimmune disease (literally brain inflammation), it's not psychiatric. antipsychotics do absolutely nothing to help lupus psychosis. the only thing that can improve lupus psychosis is treatment for the lupus itself.

when people with lupus psychosis are admitted to a psych ward with a misdiagnosed psychotic disorder they often die. when people with lupus psychosis are in the psych ward they are often put on increasingly high doses of antipsychotics and other psychiatric drugs and aren't discharged. they are often denied other medical care because it's "unnecessary" and often because "it's just their psychosis"

After a friend of mine had a very visible mental health spiral in the Discord server I mentioned, that included venting and suicidal ideation, another member, well-meaning, responded with the classic script: “this is too heavy, you should seek professional help,” in so many words. Even if it was well-meaning, I deleted the message because I was worried about the friend feeling pushed away due to their specific circumstances. But the friend did see it and left the server, though they have since returned.

This ended up leading to a conversation between me and someone else in the server who hadn’t been there during the moment but caught up on what happened and was mad at me. They felt I handled it badly, that I was wrong not to support pushing the person toward hotlines and therapy. I felt like that response,even if it came from concern, and not even necessarily just because they mentioned therapy or hotlines but just how it was presented, is part of a much bigger problem, and would only serve to push away someone who was already struggling. This is the kind of thing that isolates people when they’re hurting.

So we ended up on opposite sides of an argument. We did end up talking later and giving our perspectives, but this is what they said that has me ruminating ever since:

“There comes a point where you're (vague anyone) hurting other people with these actions. I've been suicidal, I have a history of abuse, etc. I 100% understand how the brain can get to the point that River was at. But sometimes people just act up because it gets them the attention they desperately need to understand that people do care. (Not an accusation of attention seeking but rather explaining the process behind it) But we're on the Internet. We can't help. We can be a shoulder to lean on but there's only so much we can do from afar and we as loving people are going to stress and freak out when the person goes offline in those events.”

I want to be clear. I don’t think anyone involved was trying to be cruel or hurtful. That’s part of what makes it so scary. These were people following a script. A deeply ingrained, deeply socialized, normalized script that says: this is the right way to respond. This is how you help someone. This is what you’re supposed to do. But it’s not just a script about what to say when someone’s talking about suicide. It’s not even always about suicide. It’s a bigger script, one that gets activated the moment someone is in distress. It says: you’re scaring me. You’re making me uncomfortable. I don’t like that. Please go be that somewhere else.

And I don’t think people are consciously thinking that, either. But they feel discomfort, and they’ve been taught what to do with that feeling: isolate the source of it. Push it away. Send it to professionals. Wrap it in moral language, in “concern,” in “supportive redirection.” And that’s what terrifies me. Not because I think everyone needs to take care of every person who’s in pain, of course not. We all have limits. It’s okay to step away. But there’s a difference between stepping away and pushing someone away.

Stepping away says: I can’t be here for this right now. Pushing away says: You are wrong for needing this at all.

And we’ve normalized pushing people away so deeply that it’s not even seen as a choice anymore. It’s just what you do. Someone says they’re struggling, you tell them to go to therapy. Someone says they’re suicidal, you tell them to call a hotline. There’s no room for being with someone in their pain anymore. No space for presence. For acceptance. For simply witnessing someone who is hurting. And when you question that mindset, when you say maybe we shouldn’t default to pushing people out, you’re the one who gets seen as reckless. Dangerous. Enabling. Toxic. Abusive. It’s surreal. It’s alienating. And that’s the thing. It reminds me, again, of my nonhuman identity. That I’m an alien in a strange world. Because I don’t see pain as a problem to be hidden. I don’t think emotional messiness makes someone morally suspect. And yet, the world I live in….. it does.

We’ve let behaviorism shape our response to pain. If you cry too loudly, if you self-deprecate too much, if you don’t use the “healthy coping” tools properly, you become suspect. You’re seen as dangerous, broken, even abusive just for existing in distress. It doesn’t matter what you’re going through. What matters is whether you’re breaking the script. And I hate how easy it is for people to cast someone in pain as the villain. Just because they aren’t pulling themselves up by their mental bootstraps. Just because they aren’t regulated. Just because they’re a mess. Suddenly, they don’t deserve community care anymore. Suddenly, they’ve crossed a line, and the only place they belong is in the hands of professionals who may very well harm them further.

This world demands that we be good mental health consumers. That we talk about our struggles only when we’re already past them. That we perform the right kind of vulnerability, the kind that doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. But people shouldn’t have to sanitize their pain just to be allowed to exist. They shouldn’t have to isolate themselves to avoid punishment. Especially not when what they need most is connection.

Honestly, I don’t know if I feel a lot of hope these days. I know there are people out there who think like I do. But little things like this remind me it’s not safe. Even in spaces you love, with people you like. Because maybe they think like that. And maybe it’s only a matter of time before you’re the one who’s “too much.” Before you break the script. People talk a lot about “learned helplessness.” It’s a term that’s often used to weaponize blame against neurodivergent and disabled people. But if you zoom out and look at society itself, this culture built around emotional support, I think that term fits.

Society has developed learned helplessness when it comes to showing up for pain.

We can offer support to people who are “doing better.” Who can say “I’m struggling” and then immediately soften the blow. Who know how to package their pain. But if someone goes beyond that, if they break down in front of you and don’t bounce back in one neat message, it’s suddenly too much. Now they have to be sent away. Escorted off the premises. Redirected to a hotline, a therapist, anything but you.

And again. I’m not saying individuals are obligated to support everyone. We all have our limits. There are times I mute the vent channel and walk away because I don’t have the energy. That’s normal. That’s okay. What I am saying is that we need to recognize the difference between protecting our boundaries and condemning someone for being in pain. Between stepping away quietly, and making someone feel like their pain itself is a threat. Between saying “I can’t hold this” and “You shouldn’t exist like this.”