Pin It
The Craft cult 90s fashion film witchcraft
“We are the weirdos, mister”

Why women were put in asylums in the 19th century

These reasons are utterly bizarre/hilarious and if they existed today then we’d literally all have been sectioned by now

Before we all get properly stuck in, has every single one of us seen the list of reasons for admission to a women’s mental asylum in the 19th century? Yes? Good. It’s done the rounds before, so horrible woman sceptic that I am I thought I would have a little Google – and Snopes says it’s pretty much true. They did say that it’s better described as a list of reasons why people eventually developed illnesses that led to their being admitted, but… that’s not actually as funny. It’s also pretty depressing, not only that women were ever locked up in the first place, but that men are still legislating our bodies and calling us mental. Still, we are living in slightly different times. Times where we not only speak openly about our legitimate mental illnesses without being carted off, but where we can smoke and wank and take drugs and scroll through boys’ likes tabs obsessively, day in day out, all with the love of our friends. From now, every bad thing that I do, is for those poor women of the past. Because, honestly, if this shit was happening in 2017, me and all my horrible hedonistic legitimately mentally ill pals would be having a grand old time together in the asylum, far from the prying eyes of our puritanical husbands. Let’s look at this nonsense in more detail, friends.


There are at least four separate items on this list relating to masturbation, because the idea of women having a really great time alone and actually finishing a job their horrible husbands never got round to really shook men. It still does. But if masturbation was a crime or a symptom of insanity, well – girls only beyond this point – whom among us has not had a solo spin on the decks? And with this one, whom among us has also not at some point consumed tobacco? But if this is tobacco and masturbation at once, then tbh I’m just impressed by anyone who’s capable. Patting your head and rubbing your tummy is hard enough.


Now that we’ve cleared up that all you horrible hysterical cows are going to the loony bin for cheering yourself up with a wank every now and then, let’s address this one. Now, is this for 30 years throughout your life? In your mid-40s do the wank police show up at your door unless you can provide proof that you quit? Or is this for 30 constant years nonstop? Because really, at that point, it’s not mental help you need. You’re going to need some quite serious physical rehabilitation.


You can’t do it, you can’t not do it, you have to be a lady eunuch until the day you die never having known true happiness.


Some days I sit, watching seven consecutive hours of Geordie Shore on my PS3 while the controller screams angrily at me to charge it. I literally never immediately heed its warning and just get up to walk over to the TV and plug it in. I lie there, still, filling my face with sweets until the controller finally stops working and I can’t put the next episode on and I would rather do anything, literally anything but sit alone in my thoughts without the commentary of Scotty T. So I get up. And then I sit right back down. All this is to say that I am a lazy, lazy person when I have time to be because we are all disgusting entitled millennials who only care about themselves and instant gratification.


And on that note, I do not have any control over how overtaxed my mental powers are. I would be a much better person if I did, but I am a lazy trash person and just waking up usually overtaxes my very limited mental powers.


This is great, this. It’s like confession for all of the times in my life I have been completely, disgustingly inadequate. So hard study. The fear of women knowing things and not needing you anymore. I mean, what counts? If you’d asked me while I was at uni wasting government resources studying Film Studies and Creative Writing, I would have told you that actually, watching Drive one and a half times, reading a few articles about Ryan Gosling, and then turning around an essay about my adventures was really hard, actually. Just as hard as your big boy degree that’ll earn you money one day, thank you very much. But no. I am probably not all that guilty of hard study, at least not since GCSE, because I have been surfing an extremely chill media wave since then.


I might be a lazy, boozy, wanking heathen, but you know who is bad? My friends. They’re horrible. Bad company is probably not a great reason for admission to a mental asylum, mind, but what is? So yes, I am guilty of bad company. I am guilty of weakly making the decision to be really good and stay in making my life better all weekend, only to be swayed after I receive a text from someone that literally just says: “tins?”. The second my phone buzzes I am dressed, reasonably presentable, and ready to ruin my life and body all over again. I am guilty of going out with these people, these terrible people, swearing repeatedly that I’ll be leaving at 10, only to actually see the sun rise over Brighton the next morning. My friends are horrible and I love them and we will all have a great time in the loony bin.


Is political excitement seeing a photo of Donnie Trump in a big truck and, out of mental exhaustion following all of the legitimately terrible ways he’s ruining our lives, laughing hysterically? Just really laughing. Wheezing. Posting memes. Offsetting the cold dread that’s spreading across our bodies by photoshopping his badge to say I <3 CUCKS. In times like these, I think we are all guilty of political excitement, and yes, it is driving us mental.


I mean. There are laws for this, now. We’ll let the police deal with you. 


When I was seven or so I was bang into superstitions. I loved them. I didn’t step on cracks, didn’t walk under ladders, didn’t put new shoes on the table. I was extremely committed to avoiding any and all bad luck by any means necessary. Eventually this turned out to be a symptom of my then-blooming obsessive compulsive disorder, so lads, maybe they’re actually onto something with this one!