I am really into terrible TV. Not as a guilty pleasure (although what's not to like about television so bad you can't look away?), but as a tool for my mental health. For me, terrible TV is how I create space for decompressing.
Decompressing is when we intentionally create an environment that will allow our minds to lay fallow for a bit, our bodies to be still, our shoulders to uncoil, and our entire being to untangle. Decompressing is one way we exhale and regroup, and its distinguishing characteristic is stillness and inactivity.
Stillness and inactivity are not easy to come by or simple to execute. I have discovered that terrible TV is the perfect solution and provides the ideal setting for unwinding.
The pace is easy, but not boring, which feels comforting.
The story is exciting, but not stressful, which feels entertaining.
The action is intense, but in an anxiety-free kind of way, which feels safe.
Terrible TV keeps me occupied just enough to stave off boredom, but does not create any new stress. No violence. No harm. No fear. Just episode after episode of wonderfully terrible television.
Lately, I can not get enough of Viola Davis so, obviously, I am watching everything she is in, including her five-season run on How To Get Away With Murder. Viola is spectacular, but the show qualifies as textbook terrible TV. It is predictable and ridiculous, full of crazy plot twists and unrealistic solutions, not to mention all the murder happening at every turn. Viola helps me decompress, and I am starting to feel like we could be friends.
During the pandemic, I watched Tea Leoni in Madam Secretary. Before that, it was Keri Washington in endless episodes of Scandal. Then Downton Abbey, Call The Midwife, and Mad Men joined my decompression repertoire as have The Crown (moment of silence for HRH), and West Wing.
The more seasons and episodes a series offers, the better, and ideally the show will feature strong female characters wearing high heels and making it look easy. While the leading ladies are solving mysteries, running the world, ruling nations, delivering babies, and dominating politics, I don my pajamas, sink into a mountain of pillows, and let terrible TV work its magic.
As I watch Viola cover up murders, my body is still, muscles melting, breath steadying, senses sated. My mind is lulled into a state of relaxation, and after an episode or two, I am calmer, uncoiled, wondering if I too could wear heals, rule the world, and perhaps convince Viola that we should be friends.
