2020 Fest Dates: Oct. 10th, 7:00 p.m. - Nov. 1st, 9:00 p.m.

Mental Filmness is a Chicago-based film festival highlighting works that portray a realistic depiction of mental illness. The festival is dedicated to breaking the stigma surrounding mental illness by sharing stories and promoting empathy for those who live with these chronic psychiatric conditions. We are especially interested in challenging stereotypes, showing different perspectives on mental illness, and informing and enlightening the general public about mental health.

That is the official mission statement of Mental Filmness. During this turbulent year, however, I’d like to make a personal statement about what Mental Filmness means to me.

A few years ago, a friend of mine in Chicago who does a great deal of film programming mentioned to me that he received several films about mental illness, knowing this was a special area of interest to me. He said something along the lines of, they were enough to have their own festival.

A light bulb sparked in me. “Maybe they should.”

His response to me was the same as many I encountered after mentioning the idea: “Wouldn’t that be too depressing?”

The truth is, the way to portray mental illness on film can be as varied as the illnesses and the way they present themselves. We received films from across the globe: comedies about suicide, interpretive musicals about anxiety, thrillers about agoraphobia, documentaries about artists, animation about group homes, poems that were love stories about depression. The movies were sometimes funny, sometimes angry, sometimes sad, sometimes all these things and other things at the same time. They were as complex and multi-faceted and expressive as mental illness itself.

My diagnosis of bipolar disorder after a full-blown manic episode in 2015 changed my life. Not only in the way I had to piece myself and everything I broke in my life back together the best I could, but because it was the first time I felt I had completely lost control to mental illness. Memories of things I had said and done afterward were shocking and traumatizing to me.

Being a librarian and having a naturally curious personality, I read every memoir about bipolar disorder I could get my hands on. I wanted to understand myself and what had happened to me better and in more depth. And I found a funny thing: seeing myself reflected back to me, even when it was discomforting, made me feel better. It made me feel less alone. I realized the stories people told about manic-buying things like tealight candles and spot-cleaning their baseboards and having revelations that they could control the weather were often both funny and sad at the same time. I marveled at the fact that there could be a disease in your mind borne of genetics and brain chemistry that manifested in symptoms like compulsive spending, loud and rapid speech, hypersexuality, suicidal ideations, and grand delusions the very same way that there could be a disease in your body that manifested in symptoms like coughing or fever or fatigue. As tragic as it was, it was somehow bizarrely fascinating.

On my journey of recovery, one of the things that has helped me the most has been the stories. When people open up and share their stories, breaking the stigma of mental illness, it forms a special connection. It helps me realize that in some ways, it can be normal to not want to get out of bed, not to want to leave your house, to obsess and worry over socialization, or to fantasize about death. Other people share these very same struggles. I see so many facets of myself in so many of these films, and I also learn about and empathize with disorders I’ve never experienced, or different facets or manifestations of those I have. It’s sad but it’s comforting, in a way.

During this challenging year I can’t help but feel that almost everyone has wrestled with at least a low level of depression and anxiety from time to time. And when people express it, sharing stories of how they haven’t been able to remember the days of the week, or how they long to see someone not on a video screen, or how they’ve either been obsessively organizing or spending all day in bed, we can laugh or cry and relate. That’s what Mental Filmness means to me. It’s kind of like that.