As I mentioned recently, I’ve just gone back to school. I was enrolling for classes over the summer and kept coming back to a course called “Mental Health Policy.” Here’s the description: ‘Examination of evolution of social policy and services for mentally ill, with emphasis on political, economic, ideological, and sociological factors that affect views of mentally ill and services they are provided.’
Sounds right up my alley, right? Half of me really wanted to take it, but the other half of me wants to stay as far away as possible. Because I don’t want to hear people talk about people with mental illness like they’re a separate species, like there’s none of them in the room. I don’t want to hear people advocating for involuntary commitment. I don’t want to listen to people talk about how hard it was on them to have a relationship with a person with a mental illness. I absolutely do not want to hear the terms “those people” or “crazies” or “lunatics.” I just don’t.
I know that in theory, the professor is supposed to take care of those kinds of things. But the more time I spend on disability issues, the more thinking and reading and discussing I do, I find myself moving more and more to the radical end of the spectrum. Reconsidering and rejecting a lot of the “for their own good” policies I’d been okay with in the past. Thinking more and more about the social model of disability and becoming more insistent on demanding movement and changes and sacrifices from TABs instead of being willing to sacrifice and go without.
And I don’t have any faith that the professor would agree with me about all of that. There’s a difference between demanding baseline sensitivity to disability issues – using people first language, recognizing and respecting autonomy, including the viewpoints and rights of PWDs in discussions – and expecting the professor to be as or more radical than me on every potential issue. The first is reasonable (or should be), the second is not. (Unless maybe I was enrolled at Radical Disability Studies University.) But I knew that if the professor didn’t live up to that unreasonably high standard, I would feel irritated in every single class meeting. I would think about how radical or confrontational to be in my papers, my exams, my class discussion.
And then there would be the big question: do I disclose my disability status, or not? Do I talk about mental health policy without being explicit that I’m in the group of people who would be affected, or do I trust these strangers with extremely personal information about myself? Which of those could I live with? Which would make me the least uncomfortable?
So I’m passing up this learning opportunity – and potential teaching opportunity, as I’d imagine I’d run into some “teachable moments” at some point during the class. Because I just don’t want to deal with it. I just don’t have the energy.
And that, frankly, is a real shame. I’d love to do the reading and have the discussions and engage in the thinking that comes with the class. And I’m sure I have some opinions and experiences that would enrich the discussion and benefit other people in the class. But it’s just not worth it for me.