Experts estimate that over 83 million people suffer from some form of diagnosable mental illness. Some generalize it as anxiety. Some generalize it as depression. Some generalize it as bulls**t. The media romanticizes suicide attempts and self-harm because they make a touching story about someone overcoming struggles by finding “the one” or through some feat of their own strength. But the very real truth is that these conditions are not fun. They are not sexy. They do not come with a tearful confession at just the right moment or a swell of dramatic music when you make a breakthrough. They wound those who have the resources and support to get through them, and they cripple or kill those who don’t. Many people don’t know what mental illness is, or what it looks like. So I guess I’ll have to try to explain it. Listen up.

Sensory processing disorder is one that does raise a few eyebrows. Most people haven’t heard of it, because it doesn’t look sexy on paper. It doesn’t make a good coming-of-age movie or wailing melodramatic punk song. Sensory processing disorder (AKA sensory integration dysfunction/SID, apparently) is a condition in which the brain incorrectly interprets information from the senses. It’s often characterized by a tendency to “over-feel” certain stimuli and can lead to the individual becoming overwhelmed by a large number of stimuli.

When I was a child, I used to divide my clothes into two piles: scratchy and soft. The scratchy clothes were rough and uncomfortable, often made of wool or polyester, and would drive me nuts. The soft clothes were usually 100 percent cotton and wearing them was like frolicking in the chest hair of angels.

I hated going to school as a child. Some years I would cry on the daily about having to go into school. I can come up with a lot of reasons for it, but my mother often theorized that I couldn’t control the noise level, the light level, the environment. That sounds about right.

Sometimes in the supermarket, I will pick of a large cut of meat and slap it. I don’t know why I enjoy it.

Fingernails bother me. If I break a nail or have a frayed edge, it will drive me crazy. I like to keep my nails short and neat to avoid this. One time in the car I went to scratch my chest and scratched the seatbelt material instead. I thought long and hard about the merits of removing my fingernails.

Tags on clothing are a horrible thing invented by bad people. I used to cut the tags off my shirts and pants because trying to wear one was like having a hornets' nest ever so daintily slammed against the back of my neck. Same goes for the car ride after getting a haircut. God forbid we had to stop somewhere on the way home.

Whoever invented tagless clothing should be canonized with the online ordering guy.

Smell is one that can be a double-edged sword for me. I enjoy good smells and dislike bad smells like everybody else. I tend to collect smells, often by touching things and then placing my hands near my nose. It’s almost a nervous tic at this point. There are a lot of parts of my mental illness that I try not to judge too harshly. Not because I want to be easy on myself or anything, but more because I don’t want to alienate others who may deal with the same problems. But this one weirds me out.

My ears are sensitive. I used to wear hearing protection during thunderstorms, movies, concerts, and firework shows. I would frequently plug my ears with my hands when hearing protection wasn’t available. My mother imitates this when talking about my SPD; she tells the story about how I used to “go like this” around loud noises as though it’s the first time I had heard it. I know that I used to do it, mom. It seems fairly straightforward to me that when a noise is uncomfortably loud, you either stop it or plug your ears. Maybe I just looked particularly ridiculous doing it.

On the upside, I have the best hearing of anyone I know.