Dear Mental Health,
Hello, it's me. The rest of my brain and body that's trying to cope with the fact that there's something not quite right, but we can't quite put our finger (literally) on it. While you've been spinning the thoughts around about self-destruction, repetitive habits, constant worry, and oh so wonderful mood swings, the other half of me has been trying to put the clues together like a Scooby Doo Mystery. And it seems like, as soon as I get all of the pieces of the puzzle put together, you, mental health, seem to throw me a curve ball so fast that I can't even swing my bat and I strike out immediately. I find myself going down the dark rabbit hole that you have provided for me, and I can't help but explore by taking it out on my thoughts, body, and my loved ones.
I know you mean no harm, mental health, but sometimes you can become kind of a problem. For example, when I want to go to an event by myself, and I sign up for said event, but I have to cancel and lose money towards an event that I pay for. All because get a bad panic attack and choose to stay home instead. I can't tell you how many times I've chosen to stay home instead and shake because I was scared that I would be laughed at. The anxiety part of you, mental health, has caused me to worry about other drivers on the road to which I brake when other cars have a stop sign, I feel like I'm going to vomit during tests, and I tend to zone out when I feel like a panic attack is coming on.
Hello depression, my old friend. It's been about five minutes since I've thought about you. I think you're the big player in mental health, and you're the one that always shows up whenever I'm feeling lonely. Whenever I feel your arrival coming on, my bed becomes my best and only friend. I feel you intruding the reasonable half of my brain, taking over and putting me into auto pilot mode whenever I have to go to class or work. Sometimes, however, you feel the need to sneak up on me without any warning whatsoever, in which case I could be knocked out for days. And I mean days. I can lock myself in my room and just cry for no apparent reason. I've lost friendships and almost lost my relationship because of you. But you're genetic, I'm afraid, so I guess I can't be mad at you. You were inherited, I'm afraid. Perhaps you're a blessing in disguise. You and Bipolar go hand in hand, and it's rather annoying when you two gang up on me.
OCD, you're a complete mess, and I absolutely hate you. Unlike anxiety and depression, you were developed over time. I started noticing you when I was twelve or so, but it didn't register until I was fifteen. I don't like it when I have to yell at my mom for touching my things, or cry and have a mental breakdown when things don't go my way. You've created this perfectionist complex in my head, and I have everything planned out in my life. If something goes wrong, I find myself re-writing those lists or cracking my fingers or researching to ease my anxiety. You're kind of a pain, actually.
Mental health, you're kind of a pain. But you're a part of who I am, and I guess I'm just going to have to get used to you.
