Between Glamor and Stigma: How Pop Culture Gets Mental Illness Wrong

Depression, psychopathy, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), and anorexia: what were once taboo, whispered behind closed doors, linked with hysteria, laziness, or madness, have become buzzwords in today’s pop culture landscape. Over the last few decades, mental health awareness campaigns have done an impressive job of pushing mental illnesses into the spotlight , breaking stigmas and emphasizing empathy. They’ve reframed these conditions as treatable, human experiences rather than character flaws. For many, this shift has been a game-changer: giving people the courage to share their struggles, seek help, and educate others. Yet, this newfound openness, like any societal shift, comes with complications. Although its encouraging to see more open conversations about mental health, it sometimes feels like we’ve swung the door a little too wide. Instead of nuanced conversations, the media has turned mental illness into a stage where struggles are romanticized or vilified, rarely anything in between.

Much like how cigarette ads in the 1950s glamorized smoking as sophisticated for women and ruggedly masculine for men, mental illnesses are now framed by the media in polarizing ways. Depression and eating disorders have transformed into something tragically beautiful, while conditions like BPD or psychopathy are presented as unredeemable and monstrous. Take Instagram and Tumblr; on these platforms, depression is oftentimes painted as the hallmark of a creative soul. Black-and-white photos of forlorn figures, overlaid with poetic quotes about pain and loneliness, portray the condition as something deep, even artistic. It’s the same story with eating disorders. Content tagged with "thinspo" (aka “thin inspiration”) floods feeds with images of emaciated bodies, claiming them as symbols of strength, control, and perfection. Often accompanied by unhealthy dieting tips, these posts promote harmful behaviors under the guise of motivation. It’s tempting to think this kind of content is harmless, even empowering, but it’s not.

By turning serious mental health struggles into aesthetics, we trivialize the very real pain they cause. Worse, we risk glamorizing these conditions to the point where vulnerable individuals (especially teens) may see them as aspirational.

And then there’s the media. Remember 13 Reasons Why? The Netflix series about a teen who leaves behind cassette tapes explaining why she took her life made waves for its raw portrayal of suicide. But it also sparked a storm of criticism. Many argued it glamorized the act, presenting it as a dramatic revenge story rather than a devastating, preventable tragedy. Research even linked the show’s release to a spike in teen suicides. Conversely, shows like Atypical show us how it’s done right. By following the life of a teenager on the autism spectrum, the series offers a thoughtful and nuanced depiction of his daily challenges and triumphs. It’s proof that the media can also educate and foster empathy without oversimplifying or sensationalizing.

But what about conditions like BPD and psychopathy? Here, the pendulum swings the other way: the outright vilification. On-screen, people with BPD are too frequently cast as unstable and toxic, their relationships defined by manipulation and chaos. Psychopathy, meanwhile, is almost exclusively tied to violent criminals, perpetuating the myth that these individuals are emotionless predators. This narrative doesn’t just distorts, it alienates individuals by fortifying societal misconceptions about their condition, isolating them from support due to a lack of empathy. It paints a one-dimensional picture of these disorders, one that overshadows the real struggles people endure: the battle to regulate emotions, sustain relationships, and navigate a society that already misunderstands them.

The problem is that both glamorization and vilification oversimplify the truth. Mental illnesses aren’t for the aesthetics, or the personality quirks, or the fodder for dramatic TV moments. They’re real, deeply personal, and debilitating. By framing them as either tragic beauty or irredeemable monstrosity, we’re doing a disservice to the very people we’re trying to support.

At least we’re talking about mental illness. That’s something previous generations wouldn’t even consider. But somewhere along the way, the conversation turned into a spectacle. Too many now treat mental illness as a trend rather than a reality, something to be performed instead of understood.

Mental illness isn’t fun, edgy, or tragic in the way social media and Hollywood like to pretend. It’s real. It’s messy. It’s raw. And it’s time we started treating it that way, not as entertainment or an identity, but as the complex human experience it is.

Apolline Rivier