The psychology of humans.
So diverse and broad, I can’t even dive into the subject without taking a deep breath first.
As an A’level student in my last year, I’m currently taking Psychology, learning all sorts of things from theories by Milgram, Zimbardo, Loftus and, of course, Freud.
Just recently we studied the disorders “kleptomania” and “pyromania.”
For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, Kleptomania is a disorder in which a person has an urge to, and compulsively has to, steal. The objects stolen vary immensely and usually are not of any value; the person just feels satisfied knowing they have successfully stolen something.
Pyromania, on the other hand, is a disorder which involves feeling the need to set things on fire. It could be personal property, the most insignificant objects, but when an obsession with fire starts, you know you’re a pyromaniac.
What I fail to understand is the need to categorize every human action as a certain type of behaviour or under the heading of some disorder.
Setting things on fire is not right. When you end up hurting people via flames, it’s called arson. Who are we to twist that into a psychological disorder that may help the criminal plead not guilty?
Look, I’m human too (had some doubts, didn’t you?) I understand that these people have no control over their actions; they don’t intend to harm anyone.
The problem is, we aren’t mind-readers. We don’t know exactly what’s going on in the shaky heads of such people and so we are incapable of labelling them to fit a certain category.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate science – I find it quite intriguing, actually. And I know disorders such as phobias, OCD, DID, BDD all are sad and true and should be helped. I just believe sometimes there should be a limit to how much monotonous fact we apply to our lives.
Do we do this because as humans we feel the need to categorize and bring order and explain every little thing around us? If so, shouldn’t that be an impulse control disorder too? (joke, btw)
I get up everyday and brush my teeth. I sometimes hum and sometimes cry. I sing in the shower some days and, other days, I just stay quiet, thinking about life. My moods vary; I feel like dancing on the moon or sinking to the bottom of the sea. I talk to myself when no one’s around or create stories in my head. I love and hate, embrace and fear, gain and lose. All these things make me who I am. I’m not part of some robotic army that can be labelled and twisted to suit the ways of the people who invent those very labels.
I know I’ll be called an idealist, a dreamer, an escapist, a romanticist or impractical for my views but it really doesn’t bother me. I’m tired of definitions and labels; if I’m called anything because of my views, then so be it.
The truth is that, despite all the labelling, in the end I’m just me.