BODY LANGUAGE
Khadija Magardie
I’m still not sure what to think of a Chicago woman who recently made headlines for her “ono-manism”. The hapless dame so impressed the court that she was spared jail time for fleecing her former bosses of thousands of dollars. And no, this is not about someone with a thing for root vegetables. For those who have yet to unravel the Sicko Smorgasbord, this is the title for someone who is seriously obsessed: with shopping.
A battery of psychiatrists testified at the woman’s sentencing hearing that she didn’t deserve imprisonment because she used the $250 000 (about R2-million) she pilfered on spending sprees to “self-medicate” her depression.
The judge fell for it, noted the woman was “not in any real way able to control that behaviour”, and let her off the hook with an undertaking on her part of ongoing counselling; and no more credit cards.
Luckily there is a cure on hand, a drug called Citalopram that has led to “marked improvements” in 21 female compulsive shoppers used as guinea pigs during a clinical trial.
I guess, then, out of fairness to more lucid readers, that I should confess that I am mentally ill. In fact, I am totally “loco” severely off the rails.
It could all have started way back in my childhood. With my two brothers, naturally favoured by mum, it brought on my Sibling Rivalry Disorder. Or it could have been all those hours battling long division in the fourth grade (that was the early onset of my Mathematics Disorder).
But then again, it could also have been my Intermittent Explosive Disorder, when a high-school sweetheart ditched me. Hell, leave out the early days, newsroom life could have brought out my “Caffeine-Related Disorder Not Otherwise Specified”.
But enough about me.
I kid you not. If you don’t know just how “mentally ill” you really are, or if you want to check up on, say, a prospective employee, the bible of psychiatry, the Diagnostic and Standards Manual, is always on hand.
Find it hard to get up most Monday mornings because of some heavy drinking last night? No, it’s not a hangover, but “Alcohol-Induced Mood Disorder” (with or without hallucinations you can take your pick).
Can’t get it up? Forget the Spanish Fly, you’ve got Sexual Aversion Disorder. While you’re at it, watch out if your partner displays any symptoms of Frotteurism a grave mental illness characterised by rubbing up against someone in a crowd for sexual kicks.
If you’ve answered yes to any of the above YOU NEED HELP!
Though it hasn’t been included there yet, a Stanford University psychiatrist has highlighted the dangers of excess shoes and hats. These purveyors of a “dog ate my homework” culture have defined shop-aholism as “characterised by a preoccupation with purchasing unneeded items that causes marked distress, social or occupational impairment and financial problems”.
Psychiatrists must love women. And I don’t mean a touch and feel on the leather couch. If psychiatrists are anything to go by, there are more Wacko Crackos out there than there are sane people according to some estimates, more than double the world’s actual population.
And you can be sure most of them are women. Yes, shrinks do love women. Not that it comes as any surprise. After all, we’re the ones who always end up holding the Kleenex. We get dumped, deserted, messed around with by hit-and-run seducers, have to smash the glass ceiling, and still go home.
Our misery, anger, guilt, sadness and unrequited love are being boxed into a convenient terminology for psychiatrists to deal with women for what they supposedly truly are: irrational hysterics.
To make matters worse, women have become goldmines for drug companies, who are always on hand to offer us a mouthful to swallow. Just think of when last you saw an ad featuring a man massaging his temples, or knocking back Valium after a screaming day with the boss and the kids.
Instead of getting on with it, buying Viagra, or ditching the loser, you need medical help, preferably of the swallowing kind. Apparently, its all got to do with “serotonin levels”, which, rather like a diabetic who eats too much sugar, can make things real nasty for you.
As a sick woman, you can kill your babies, set your house on fire, and pole-axe your mother-in-law on a good day, and you need not worry: diminished mental capacity will get you off in court.
You will either be told it’s not your fault because the bad transmitters (or an out-of-control womb) have taken over. Scary times indeed when virtually any human emotion is fair game for a drug.
This is not even to mention PMS. Although a victim of melancholia that time of month myself, what I’m not all that confident of, however, is that, had the Falklands not turned out well, Mrs Thatcher could have told the Commons the order to send in the troops came on a “bad day”.