By Eliot Wilder / To say that our culture is obsessed with the narcissistic and downright bizarre carryings-on of our pop stars is to understate. We may be repulsed by Michael Jackson's freakish mutation into a middle-aged white woman, but who could turn away from his recent Vibe magazine cover photo in which the King of Pop looks more like the Queen of England? Keith Moon once said something to the effect that when you're famous and behave abhorrently they call you eccentric, but when you're a nobody and you act the same way they call you nuts.

By virtue of being on the cover of Rolling Stone or People you are allowed a certain degree of mischief - it's not only tolerated but expected. A so-called normal person would likely not get away with acts such as sodomy, violence and drug abuse without landing in the pokey. STP's Scott Weiland gets to go to a comfy rehab resort to work off his jones; you get to go to the drunk tank. Indeed, rock 'n' roll attracts, encourages and supports borderline dispositions. It makes good copy, at least until it becomes yesterday's news.

Those who are clinically diagnosed with mental illness are not by any means the same as those whose backstage riders stipulate that they will only be served holy water and blue M&Ms. And yet, people who suffer from conditions such as depression or bipolar disorder are more often that not misunderstood and frequently lumped in with the same category as those who drive their Humvee into the hotel pool.

Having a mental illness is often viewed by those incognizant of it as troublesome, peculiar or, worst of all quaint. We think of Syd Barrett and we think of a cracked genius who literally painted himself into a corner. We think Nick Drake and we think of a melancholic but mystical figure who was just too sensitive for this world. We think of Brian Wilson, who appears now to have salvaged at least some of his sanity, and we think of the eternal man/child, a true idiot savant who might at any moment retreat to his sandbox.

Living with mental illness is painful and difficult, and the life of a person held in its sway is made all the more complicated by a society that prefers easy answers. It's not for nothing that Oprah has been made one of the world's richest people off an empire that provides pat solutions to people in desperate need of spiritual salve. But to take a long look into the abyss of clinical depression is simply too terrifying for most. For those who don't suffer from it, it often remains a curiosity. "Why doesn't George just deal with it?" is the common admonishment.

Last year I read an article about '60s pop star Emitt Rhodes, who hasn't released an album in decades and who is also apparently suffering from some form of serious depression. The author of the piece came across as more concerned with telling Emitt how much he missed seeing him perform than he was for Emitt's fragile state of mind. Emitt, in the throes of his condition, couldn't help but reveal the details of his harrowing emotional turmoil. I wrote a letter to the editor because I believed the piece was inadvertently exploitative. I received a lengthy personal response, also printed in the magazine, in which the editor defended the writer, saying he "is a fan and was merely trying to cheer someone up he had no idea was so depressed." This type of blatant naivete is especially troubling, because it helps promote the perception that mental illness is merely a befuddling condition that can be cleared up with something as plain as a pep talk.

For those who have lived with the black struggle of depression, or any such mental distresses, there are no such simple balms. In describing her condition, the poet Sylvia Plath said she felt as if "a great muscular owl were sitting on my chest, its talons clenching and constricting my heart." Understand that this inexplicable agony is idiosyncratic and complex, a desolate condition nearly beyond expression. Understand that patience and compassion - not mystification and disappointment - is essential toward its sufferers, whether they are pop stars or postal clerks.