I was diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder at the worst possible time. Not that there's ever a good time to be told that you have a crippling social anxiety disorder, but in my case, everybody in this and every other country had recently heard that Oscar Pistorius had been diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder (let's call it GAD for the sake of brevity, shall we?). If you don't know who Oscar Pistorius is because you recently returned from your vacation on Mars and didn't spring for that extra mobile data package because it was too expensive, you can find details here.
Of course, anxiety disorders are notoriously difficult to define, and when you slap "generalised" in front, you are simply not making enough of an effort. I have panic attacks about going out, being trapped in a box, spiders, heights, going to the mall, being laughed at, dying in a fiery ball of... er... fire, and many, many other things. None of this makes me want to pick up a firearm and shoot someone. It makes me want to run away and hide whilst hyperventilating profusely (and not just from the running away). But hey, that's just me.
This distinction is lost on people who are not affected by mental illness or disorders, or who choose not to make the distinction at all.
I had to tell some people. I was in a pretty bad way, and it had started to affect my interaction with people, and also my job. The first thing that several people (who clearly need sensitivity training in addition to being educated on mental illness) asked was whether I intended to shoot anyone in the bathroom.
I get it, it's funny, kind of. But let's remember two things. Firstly, a young woman called Reeva died. Nothing funny about that. Secondly, I have an anxiety disorder, so I'm probably going to overreact and take it very, very personally. Which is what I did. Of course.
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