Is Everything a Psychiatric Disorder Now?

Can't someone just be an asshole? undisciplined? self-centered?

I had a new client not too long ago walk into my office and make statements that left me absolutely speechless. After years of therapy, medications, and a growing collection of psychiatric diagnoses that read like a medical textbook's greatest hits tour, he sat down and said something I so rarely hear anymore:

"I'm an asshole. I'm selfish. I want things my way all the time. When people don't give me what I want, I have a tendency to lash out and hurt them. I become very irritable in the face of discomfort… and many people don’t like me. I don’t like me. Then I wonder why I'm lonely and miserable... Help me break this cycle, doc."

I nearly fell out of my chair.

No hiding behind his "bipolar disorder."

No convenient reference to his "ADHD making it impossible to listen to others."

No blaming his "treatment-resistant depression" for the trail of relationship wreckage he'd left behind.

Just raw, uncomfortable self-awareness. The kind that burns. The kind that matters.

Do you have any idea how refreshing this is? Over the past 20 years, I've watched in horror as basic human flaws—selfishness, entitlement, lack of empathy, poor impulse control, emotional reactivity—have been systematically relabeled as "disorders" requiring pharmaceutical intervention.

Let's be real... we have all acted like assholes in our lives. Every single one of us. So trust me I am not discriminating here. We've thought of ourselves before others. Said things in anger we later regretted. Pushed good people away because of our own insecurities. Got drunk and made complete fools of ourselves. Held ignorant beliefs. Blamed others for problems we created. This isn't pathology—it's part of the messy human experience we all share.

If we don't look back at times in our lives with some embarrassment and shame, are we even growing? That discomfort when remembering our worst moments isn't a symptom to medicate away—it's the growing pain of evolving consciousness. It's the emotional marker of becoming a better human than you were before.

What's become truly disturbing as I've witnessed the evolution of the psychiatric industrial complex is that people are now conditioned to report only the emotional aftermath of their actions as "symptoms," completely divorced from their behavior. No longer are they discussing the sequence of events that led them to this place in time—the choices, the words spoken in anger, the promises broken, the trust shattered.

It's as if the shame is simply too excruciating to bear... so instead, they've created an alternate reality where their behavior exists completely outside their control. They're not accountable agents making choices; they're helpless victims of their own brain chemistry. They lost the genetic lottery and now they're doomed to act in ways they'll eternally regret—at least until they find that magical pharmaceutical cocktail that will "manage their illness" and transform them into the person they want to be without the painful work of actually becoming that person.

Spoiler alert: That never happens.

And now they're identifying with some nonsensical fabrication like "Cyclothymic Disorder"—a condition manufactured by nine so-called experts sitting around a conference table, their name badges conveniently displaying the pharmaceutical logos of the companies that flew them there. Companies desperate to beat their Quarter 4 earnings projections by figuring out how to get more people identifying with an "illness" that—surprise!—can only be treated with their latest patent-protected medication. What a remarkable coincidence!

The diagnostic labels keep multiplying like rabbits. We've gone from a DSM with 106 labels in 1952 to nearly 300 today. Did humans suddenly develop 200 new ways to be mentally ill? Or did the psychiatric industrial complex develop 200 new ways to pathologize normal human experiences and profit from convincing you that your personality is actually a disease?

Revisionist History

"But it wasn't really me who had the affair," “Sarah” explained, leaning forward in her chair. "It was my mania."

I stared at her, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the mental gymnastics I was witnessing.

"Your mania," I repeated flatly.

It was remarkable watching this linguistic sleight of hand unfold before my eyes. The intense passion and sexual attraction she felt for a man who wasn't her husband had been clinically repackaged as "hypersexuality"—transforming desire into pathology with a single, medicalized term.

The series of deliberate choices she made—each text message, each lie about her whereabouts, each hotel room booked—all neatly condensed into "impulsivity," as though she'd been a mere passenger watching her body act without her consent. And those emotional highs and lows that anyone would experience while juggling a marriage, an affair, the constant fear of discovery, and then the inevitable nuclear fallout when it all came crashing down? Well, obviously that was the "emotional lability" characteristic of Bipolar II Disorder.

Do you see what's happening here?

This is the world of modern psychiatry that I've had to battle throughout my entire career—a field that's mastered the art of transforming conscious choices into involuntary symptoms, moral failings into neurochemical misfirings, and the natural consequences of our actions into evidence of disease.

"And how long did this psychiatrist spend with you before making this diagnosis?" I asked.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably. "About fifteen minutes? It was a pretty straightforward case, he said."

"Fifteen minutes. To diagnose a complex mood disorder with no prior history of mania. After you blew up your marriage of twelve years. Convenient timing."

Sarah's eyes flashed with momentary anger, then retreated to a practiced vulnerability. "You don't understand how it feels to be out of control like that."

"What if you weren't out of control?" I asked quietly. "What if you were making choices—terrible, destructive choices—but choices nonetheless? What if the affair wasn't something that happened to you, but something you actively did?"

The silence in the room was deafening. I could almost hear the mental machinery grinding as Sarah confronted the possibility that her behavior wasn't the unavoidable force of a chemical imbalance that nobody had bothered to test for. It was simply the most palatable narrative—one that allowed her husband to forgive her, one that protected her from the crushing weight of her own shame.

But was it really helping her grow? Or was it just another sophisticated evasion of the responsibility that could actually transform her?

We've created a mental health system that does something truly perverse—it convinces people they're victims of their own minds. Under the guise of "reducing stigma," we're actually stripping people of the most fundamental human right: the right to be responsible for themselves.

You have Borderline Personality Disorder. Your emotional volatility is beyond your control.

You have ADHD. Of course you can't maintain commitments.

You have Bipolar Disorder. That explains why you maxed out your credit cards.

With each diagnosis that frames behavior as something happening to them rather than by them, we systematically destroy their belief in their capacity for change. We're building a prison of pathetically low expectations and calling it "treatment."

How the fuck is this mental health care?

Every time we use these labels to explain away behavior, we're engaging in a perfect circular logic that leads absolutely nowhere:

"Why did you have an affair?"

"Because I have Bipolar Disorder."

"How do we know you have Bipolar Disorder?"

"Because I had an affair."

What kind of grotesque system celebrates a person "accepting their diagnosis" but never even acknowledges the possibility of transcending it? We've replaced transformation with resignation, and we're charging you $200 per session for the privilege.

When "Bad Parenting" Becomes "Your Child's Disorder"

I've seen this play out many times in different variations. For example, “Michael and Jennifer”, sitting across from me with their 22-year-old son “Jacob” between them.

"He's self-medicating his depression and anxiety," Jennifer explained earnestly, while Jacob stared at the floor. "That's why he's been using drugs. That's why he can't keep a job or stay in school."

"And when did this depression and anxiety diagnosis happen?" I asked.

"Just last month," Michael chimed in. "After his third job termination, we took him to Dr. Prescribe-It-All. She said it was obvious—he's been struggling with undiagnosed mental illness for years."

I looked at Jacob, still studying his shoes. Then back at his parents, both partners at prestigious law firms, both checking their phones every few minutes during our session.

Let me tell you a bit about Jacob's history that doesn't get included in the convenient mental illness narrative these parents have constructed to make sense of their son's current struggles—or more accurately, to avoid making sense of their own role in creating them.

What I had learned over the previous month was a tale of two ambitious professionals building illustrious careers while their son was essentially raised by a revolving door of caregivers—nannies who came and went, daycare centers where he spent 10+ hours daily, and after-school programs that kept him occupied until someone remembered to pick him up.

Family vacations were perpetually interrupted by urgent work calls. School events were missed for client meetings. Jacob grew up in a home where every material need was abundantly met, while emotional presence was treated as an optional luxury his parents couldn't quite afford despite their seven-figure incomes.

"So let me get this straight," I said finally. "Jacob grew up without consistent discipline, without the everyday presence of attentive parents modeling how to push through challenges, without the emotional security that comes from knowing he was someone's priority... but the fact that he now lacks direction, discipline, and emotional regulation is an untreated mood disorder?"

Yeah... I chose to say the quiet part out loud. You can call me an asshole.

I just refuse to tiptoe around the elephant trampling through the room. In my opinion, you don't skirt around facts, and you don't let the convenient "mental illness" narrative go unchallenged. If you do, it will continue to grow like a cancer until any connection to objective reality is lost.

Because let's face it—if Jacob is going to get his life back on track, he isn't going to do it by finding the perfect dose of whatever pharmaceutical flavor-of-the-month his psychiatrist scribbles on a prescription pad during their fifteen-minute medication check. He's going to do it by learning the very things his childhood failed to teach him: discipline, resilience, emotional regulation, and problem-solving skills.

The uncomfortable silence returned. It's so much easier to change the narrative to a neurochemical deficiency than to confront years of parental absence and its predictable consequences. So much simpler to believe your child needs Lexapro rather than your time, attention, and belated guidance.

I sat there watching them squirm, thinking to myself: I wonder if we'll soon be told the ketogenic diet is the cure for this "disorder." Or perhaps intermittent fasting? Maybe CBD oil? The "treatments" keep changing, but the desire to avoid the harder, more painful truths remains remarkably consistent.

The psychiatric industrial complex hasn't just medicalized our emotions—it's provided an entire framework for rewriting our personal histories, for recasting our choices as symptoms, our responsibilities as illnesses, our developmental failures as chemical imbalances.

And we embrace these narratives not because they're true, but because they offer the illusion of mercy. They provide temporary relief from shame while ensuring permanent imprisonment in the very patterns causing the suffering. It's the same bargain offered by every addiction—a moment of escape in exchange for a lifetime of dependency.

These psychiatric narratives aren't merciful; they're cruel precisely because they masquerade as compassion while systematically dismantling the very mechanisms that could actually set us free: accountability, discomfort, growth, and the hard-won wisdom that comes only through facing ourselves honestly.

Jacob doesn't need another diagnosis. He needs the truth. His parents don't need another specialist. They need a mirror. And none of them will find healing until they're willing to walk through the fire of genuine reckoning instead of around it.

When Your Phone Addiction Becomes “Neurodiversity”

The cultural consequences of our medicalization obsession are fucking staggering. We're creating entire generations who believe they have zero agency in their own lives—who genuinely believe their behaviors are "symptoms" rather than choices, who see themselves as helpless victims of their brain chemistry instead of authors of their own stories.

Let's talk about ADHD for a second. I can't tell you how many times I've had this exact conversation:

"I just can't focus on anything. My ADHD is so bad."

"How many hours a day are you on your phone?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Humor me. Open your screen time report."

The uncomfortable shifting begins. They reluctantly pull out their phone, tap a few times, then turn it toward me with a defensive shrug.

There it is: 8 hours and 37 minutes.

YESTERDAY ALONE.

"So let me get this straight," I say, trying not to laugh at the absurdity.

"Your brain is getting bombarded with algorithmically optimized dopamine hits for eight and a half hours daily. You're interrupting your own thoughts approximately 140 times a day to check notifications. You sleep with this digital slot machine six inches from your pillow. You wake up and immediately start scrolling before your feet hit the floor. And you think the reason you can't focus on reading a book for twenty minutes is because you have a NEURODEVELOPMENTAL DISORDER?"

They look at me like I've grown a second head. Their drug dealer— sorry… I mean psychiatrist— never explained it that way. Yes I know… I’m an asshole.

The thought literally never occurred to them that their inability to focus might be—oh, I don't know—THE DIRECT AND PREDICTABLE CONSEQUENCE OF THEIR BEHAVIOR rather than some inherent brain defect requiring Adderall.

We've created a society where it's easier to get a stimulant prescription than it is to have an honest conversation about our tech addiction. We've medicalized the perfectly predictable cognitive consequences of digital overconsumption, sleep deprivation, and constant distraction.

And here's the most insidious part: How the fuck do we even begin to solve the legitimate problems that exist when people have become so pathologically fragile that they're completely unwilling to acknowledge reality?

If I have to participate in your ADHD illusion—pretending your focus problems are primarily neurological rather than behavioral—I cannot possibly help you break free from your phone dependence.

I can't guide you toward creating a lifestyle where your focus naturally improves if we can't even acknowledge what's actually happening. Which, by the way, would involve tolerating the excruciating discomfort of not checking your phone every three minutes. It would require the apparently herculean feat of redirecting your attention back to that book when your mind wanders. It would demand developing consistent exercise habits, establishing a regular sleep schedule, and doing all those hard, unsexy things that actually improve cognitive function but don't come in a convenient pill form.

When I suggest their brain isn't broken—it's working exactly as designed, responding predictably to the environment they've created for it—the reaction is almost always the same. Wide eyes, defensive posture, and the incredulous question:

"So I'm the problem?"

They say it like I've just accused them of war crimes, not simply pointing out the blindingly obvious connection between their actions and consequences. Well, who else would be responsible for change?

Your phone manufacturer? Mark Zuckerberg?

I can't tell you how many people react with genuine moral outrage to this suggestion, as if I've violated some sacred agreement to pretend their behavior exists in a vacuum. It's remarkable to witness—this visceral, almost allergic reaction to personal agency. They recoil from responsibility like vampires from sunlight. It's as if they're magnetically drawn to victimhood, desperately clinging to genetic explanations and neurochemical narratives that absolve them of any accountability for their struggles.

"It's not my fault—it's ADHD." "It's not my choices—it's my executive function deficit." "It's not my behavior—it's my genetic predisposition."

The psychiatric industrial complex has created the perfect circular logic—one that ensures you'll never have to face the uncomfortable truth that you might actually have the power to change your life.

Thank you, medical establishment, for creating this nightmare where an entire generation believes their brain chemistry is permanently defective rather than highly adaptable.

The carnage is everywhere—college kids who can't function without stimulants, young adults who've never developed the capacity for sustained attention, and a society increasingly unable to engage with anything requiring more than 30 seconds of focus. We've created millions of people who believe they're fundamentally broken when they're actually just untrained, undisciplined, and unwilling to face the uncomfortable truth about their own choices.

And we're building a society where personal responsibility is considered "ableist," where setting boundaries is labeled "triggering," where expecting growth from people is deemed "oppressive." We've replaced the uncomfortable work of character development with the comfortable numbness of symptom management.

This isn't accidental. The psychiatric industrial complex isn't just misguided—it's deliberately designed to keep you small, dependent, and disconnected from your own power. By convincing you that your struggles are diseases rather than doorways, they ensure you never discover your divine nature waiting on the other side of discomfort. They've medicalized your calling, pathologized your potential, and diagnosed your divinity as disorder. The greatest freedom isn't found in the right diagnostic label—it's found in the courageous act of reclaiming your sovereignty from those who profit from your limitation.

Your emotional struggle isn't a symptom to eliminate; it's the sacred fire burning away everything that isn't truly you.

Let it burn.

On the other side is the freedom you were born for.

RESIST

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I try to keep RADICALLY GENUINE as free as I can, but it takes quite a lot of work. If you find some value in my writing and podcast I very much appreciate the paid subscription. It really helps me continue putting time aside for these pieces. Thank you.