May 30, 2024

On Mental Health Awareness Efforts in Sports

A warning: This post addresses in detail depression and thoughts of self-harm.

At the start of May, the Minnesota Twins hosted their Mental Health Night during a game against the Seattle Mariners. The board showed a video of Twins players saying whatever they could about taking care of oneself and others.

A couple of times between innings, the stadium emcee led a breathing exercise for whoever wanted to partake. The team warmed up in T-shirts featuring slogans promoting self-care. 

As an attendee, I felt conflicted. I cannot deny that the proliferation of efforts such as this are a positive step in society, particularly in such a stereotypically masculine space as sports. Encouraging people to look after themselves is good. The more people who see the suicide & crisis lifeline, which was posted throughout the game, the more likely it is people remember it and call when they are in a dark place. (That number is 988.)

I still could not help but view the presentation with a skeptical eye. By the standards of sports, the Twins did a fine job. The standard, however, could be higher.

Depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress, eating disorders, sleeping disorders, various forms of addiction, psychotic disorders, and many other types of problems have been flattened into a single phrase, "mental health." It is increasingly easy to use it as a mere buzzword. In the most cynical possible example, Republicans have recently used it as a shield against calls for legislation on guns.

The term can also deflect from structural stressors that can lead to mental health disorders: wages that have stagnated against the inflating cost of living, unemployment, debt, discrimination, the addictive nature of modern technology, our increased isolation, fears about climate change, the inaccessibility of healthcare, and so on.

Somewhat more innocently, "mental health" as used in corporate or political rhetoric tends to just mean depression or everyday stress. That is a valid concern and also likely the one that is most relevant to the largest portion of the audience. Sidestepping other forms of mental health problems, though, is still somewhat problematic. Many awareness campaigns reference "ending the stigma around mental health." In practice, that does not include acknowledging, reducing any stigma associated with, or informing the audience about the abuse of painkillers, to use one example.

At the same time that it excludes other forms of mental health problems, the way the term is used also blunts the reality of dealing with depression or stress. This is where my argument takes on a very personal slant, so I concede that for some, this complaint will not hold.

If you have not dealt with depression or suicidal thoughts, a soft bed of piano music under stress relief pointers and encouragement to talk to someone do not do the experience justice. It is not even as simple as just being sad. It is complete boredom and lack of motivation, where no possible use of your time appeals to you and every potential obstacle to improving your life seems insurmountable. It is feeling unworthy of companionship of any kind. It is enjoying yourself with friends only to suddenly stop without knowing why. It is letting one momentary and innocuous mistake, one joke that didn't land, the recurrence of one days- or months- or even years-old memory plunge you into self-hatred. It is feeling like your problems are not worth making other people worried about them, whether a friend or a professional, even as they eat at you. It is wishing someone would notice your pain but not wanting to admit to anyone that something is wrong. It is picturing yourself turning your steering wheel just a couple of inches to take your car into a barrier, or diving off the bridge a short walk from where you live into the river. It is a desperation to stop feeling, only for something in your tumultuous brain to check that impulse before you take the first step: You remembered someone in your life that will hurt when you are gone, or you do not want to go before that concert next month, or you are just too afraid to die today. It is both piercing despair and profoundly mundane numbness.

In the face of this, softened mental health-related messaging feels woefully inadequate. Practicing a breathing exercise might ease momentary anxiety but not unhappiness. Simply saying "you are not alone" is not enough to make me believe it. The ballpark DJ playing a dance remix of Logic's "1-800-273-8255" is just an allusion to a theme more than an assurance that I have enough reasons to live.

(An aside on "1-800-273-8255": There is evidence that this song has done some real good in the world. And genuinely, if it keeps you going, more power to you. To me, it still conspicuously comes from a pop artist's noble intentions rather than from experience — particularly the call-and-response "Who can relate? Woo!" and relatively tidy conclusion of "I don't even wanna die anymore." As such, it misses the mark. Even a song from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood has a more resonant portrayal of pervasive self-loathing and how monumental it is to defeat.)

Maybe a public sporting event is not the best setting for this sort of thing. Encouragement to get over the "awkward" social situation of admitting unwellness is not exactly advice you can immediately put into practice when surrounded by thousands of people. When Carlos Correa and Trevor Larnach hit back-to-back home runs, the Twins should not switch out Rage Against the Machine for Damien Jurado as they round the bases. That just would not work.

At the same time, what would really make a mental health awareness day stick is honesty. The tonal incongruity is hard to overcome, but it is necessary to truthfully, explicitly confront what it means to be unwell. When the athletes we watch are themselves committing suicide, you cannot dodge it.

The media team for one of the sports teams I follow, the English soccer team Norwich City, actually did this well in October. I would not call the video they posted perfect — the music is a bit much — but especially in the context of sports, it is exceptionally well-done.

If you do not want to or cannot watch the video, it goes like this: Two men attend a series of matches together. One looks distant and uninterested in singing with the crowd, griping at the officials, or celebrating goals. The second man is completely engaged and enthusiastic. A couple of times, the second man tries to ask the first about his life outside of the games. He does not get much of a response. After an evidently thrilling Norwich win, the more fanatical one lets his friend keep his scarf.

A card then reads: "At times, it can be obvious when someone is struggling to cope." The section fills in where the two men sat. However, only the quieter steps into frame. He lays the scarf over an empty chair next to him. Overlaid in text: "But sometimes, the signs are harder to spot."

This is the only mental health-related public service message from a sports team or league I have seen that I have felt represents my suffering. Based on how many people have viewed it, it has similarly resonated with others.

I have a small circle of friends I often let know when I am not right, but in larger social settings I am not comfortable starting a conversation. Besides — at a game, especially on a Saturday in the fall, I usually am somewhere between fine and genuinely happy. The tension, the sounds, and most of all the hours of socializing brush the weights of the week into the background.

Even so, when in that place, I am aware how fleeting that moment is. The warmth of our escapes is not permanent. When the game ends, we make our exits, and we all say farewell, the game cannot follow us home. Some of us may have plans for later that night or even a family to accompany us into the foreseeable future. But the weekend is startlingly short. Every sports season ends. The place where I choose to pursue a happy life is engulfed in ice for three months of the year. It can feel like the only release we can find is in the stands.

Sports and other forms of entertainment are not a substitute for life but an opiate to keep us moving. One might come home from a ballgame on a given night, watch its effect fade as they become further removed from the cracking bats and flashing lights and sizzling brats, and decide that they are finally through with such an exhausting act as moving.

If the one night that person buys a ticket is the one time per year the home team chooses to flash the suicide & crisis lifeline on the videoboard (again: 988), then that may be a life saved. If five or ten or fifty attendees who are at relative peace decide to check in with their friends more over the next week, it may be more. Truly, that is tremendous.

But it is hard to pull someone off the ledge. If we more often reached out with both hands to pull them back up and let them feel seen, rather than just presenting a rope, we could do far more good. If sports organizations are going to engage in this kind of messaging, they need to do it right.

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