The typical format of shows like My Strange Addiction, Hoarding: Buried Alive, and Intervention include the introduction of a mentally ill person with a problem. After a reveal of how dire their need for help is–because usually a relationship is on the line–a specialist is brought in to address the individual, and the audience is left to watch the drama unfold.
Who yells at who? Who breaks down first? Will they ultimately change? Will they not?
As a kid, my mom ate this stuff up. I’d occasionally watch them with her on humdrum Saturday mornings, lounging around with a grilled cheese and TLC’s tag lines playing in the background. I never really liked them, however. They made me feel funny on the inside and a little more than guilty for peeping in on something I thought should be private.
The assigned video made me remember why I wasn’t fond: everything, even the altruism displayed, felt either insulting or artificial.
For instance, the video follows the aforementioned format. A man struggles with his hoarding addiction. He has a girlfriend who’s naturally dissatisfied and is considering leaving him despite still feeling attached. A behavioral therapist and a professional organizer are brought in to help solve the “problem,” camera crew in tow. Little progress is made in six weeks when he halts the cleaning up process. To me, this enforces the negative stereotype of the mentally ill being stubbornly “unfixable” (as if it were their fault) even when the resources to “get better” are made plainly available. It’s not that simple. Emerging from a mental illness, especially one as long-held as this man’s compulsive hoarding, is a back and forth system full of advances and setbacks over years which a television show can’t possibly capture. Another thing television shows can’t possibly capture is the emotion behind the mental illness. Despite one or two vignettes where the individual recounts the trauma rooting a disorder or venting about how difficult life is in their shoes, only superficial attention is given to their torment. It doesn’t show the sleepless nights of pacing back and forth, listening to little voices in the back of your head, or anything past what’s necessary to evoke pathos in the audience. Such a simplification is frustrating, creating the same two dimensional figureheads of mental illness created by a poorly done horror film’s “psychopath.”
Second, the visual styling of the show made me queasy. Conducted in the same format as reality television about rich families, Hoarding: Buried Alive once more downplays the severity of these mental disorders. To no fault of the audience, we’re led to view these people as nothing more than intriguing cases for our pleasure, entertainment. The handheld camera zooming in, the intermittent interviews, the background music, and advertising all evoke memories of Keeping Up with the Kardashians or–even worse–since it equates making over someone’s house to making over someone’s mind–Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. (Click the links for examples.) It’s grossly corporate for something which should be honestly portrayed as a call for awareness.
The most perturbing thing, however, was the advertising used in the video. For instance, blurbs would pop up over its course–Twitter posts made by someone I assume is part of the production team. They end with “#Hoarders.” While this is a reference to the show’s name, the concept of someone using a word associated with legitimately mentally ill people in the same way as “#fashion” or “#like4like” horrifies me on a personal level. Can you imagine a depressed person flicking through the internet for relatable content and instead coming across a post advertising a show on TLC with the hashtag “#depressed”? Additionally, the My Strange Addiction webpage baits audiences with the headline “You Won’t Believe How Strange These Addictions Are.” While I admit it’s a part of our inherit psychology to be fascinated by The Weird, it doesn’t mean we should go ahead and exploit living, breathing people with such a sterile glove.
Basically, I’m saying is if you want to see something strange, go ahead and take a tour of Ripley’s because–believe it or not–mental illness isn’t entertainment.