“A lego figurine sits on the floor below a shoe, which threatens to crush it” by James Pond on Unsplash

For years, I had my privilege thrown in my face. For years, I was told that I had it good.

In effect, all that talk minimized my experiences. That somehow, having money meant I had less trauma in my youth. Somehow, my privilege invalidated my experiences. I was told this so many times and in different ways that it became even harder for me to be honest about those experiences, feeling ashamed for being depressed. The conclusion was that I was privileged, therefore, I shouldn’t feel sad.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. My experience, regardless of my background is valid. Everyone needs to say that to themselves. “My experience is valid. My feelings are valid. I am valid. I am enough.”

It took me years to feel confident about that and stand up for myself. My privilege does not diminish my problems or battles in life.

What privilege gave me was the opportunity to confront those issues with professionals and break the cycle of disease. For that, I’m grateful. The conversation needs to continue so that stigmas can break down and mental health care expands and becomes more affordable.

Now, after years of treatment and self care, I feel confident enough to share my story, which really transcends the boundaries of society.

It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. White, black, brown, or pink. It doesn’t matter if you like cats or dogs. If you’re young or old. Mental illness and trauma affects everyone.

In fact, growing up, I thought I was poor. I didn’t “feel” privileged. I didn’t know just how privileged I was until my Mom died, and after that, it felt dirty.

Growing up, I didn’t know we had money. For close to 10 years, I was under the impression that we weren’t well off. My Mom didn’t spoil me with toys which I thought were the hallmark of wealth. In my child brain, the art collection she amassed and the jewelry she wore didn’t mean we were wealthy.

Those were class symbols which I didn’t understand.

So, I thought we were poor. Other things that fed into that belief were our small house that didn’t have a yard and the school I went to that didn’t have a playground.

These are things kids notice, which form world views and identities.

I was in preschool when we talked about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Other kids said things like “Firefighter” or “Doctor” or “President”.

I said I wanted to be rich.

In fairness, my Mom didn’t work and my Dad was retired, so the concept of a career was not instilled in me at that young age.

My answer also showed a deep sense of insecurity.

I didn’t want to be poor.

I also didn’t want my Mom to be sad, another thing kids notice.

But she was. She was clinically depressed, an addict, and wealthy all at the same time.

For all of my latter known privilege, my actual experience as a kid was not cushioned or softened by that privilege. I thought we were poor and I knew, very well, that my Mom was sick.

Still, I was told that because I’m privileged, I should essentially “dust myself off” and be happy for what I have. Not to sound like a snowflake, but those statements, to me, are ignorant and insensitive.

Comparison of suffering is a personal injustice.

If someone in your life ever says, “Well, I had it worse than you,” don’t talk to that person. They will always believe that they have the edge and will make you feel badly for feeling bad.

Every category of suffering stands alone and the individual experience of suffering is isolated to an individual. To make such comparisons is insulting to everyone. The psychological effect of pain cannot differentiate between watching someone die, watching parents divorce, experiencing rape, going through addiction, etc. Saying “my pain is worse than your pain” is inherently false unless you can step into someone else’s mind and feel what they feel.

Everyone is fighting their own battles.

All battles should be given respect. But I’ve been told, over and over again, that my traumas were less than others. That I should be grateful because I’m not experiencing genocide or starvation, implying that suffering and pain is on a sliding social scale.

(Real comparisons, from a real conversation. I am grateful, by the way. I’m not blind to my wellbeing.)

But, again, making those comparisons is invalidating. For one, genocide’s effect is on a society and everyone affected will experience that differently in their minds and relationships. Starvation is a physical ailment which is the result of environmental and economic discord.

My suffering was my Mother’s addiction, mental illness, subsequent death, and social isolation.

How can anyone compare those?

Years of hearing that my experience was “less than” made me feel ashamed to tell my truth even though I knew those comparisons and allusions to my privilege were unfair and insulting. Part of me thought, they could be right. Yes, those things are worse. Who am I to feel upset? So, I shut my mouth.

I can acknowledge situations that are “worse”, but that distinction lies with me, and only me. And still, I am not also discrediting my personal experience.

Only you can say what suffering is worse to you, based on your experiences and tolerances. To have someone dictate to you what those are is abusive.

No matter what it is, if you’re hurt or in pain, say so. The right people will not belittle you or make you feel inferior. You will be loved and respected and heard.