Everyone has seen them. They’re usually solid black or white with an eye-catching typeface scrolling across their chests in negative screened ink. “DEPRESSED,” they say. “EAT LESS,” they demand. These fads that we parade around as street fashion are not popular because of their typography or design or fit or shape or price or brand. They’re popular because they’re ironic. It’s hilarious, right? It’s hilarious to be a happy person and wear a shirt that says “DEPRESSED,” because people will read that shirt and assume you’re not depressed. It’s also hilarious to be depressed and wear a shirt that says “DEPRESSED” because it’s self-referential clothing — and who doesn’t love self-referential clothing? It’s hilarious to be anorexic and wear a shirt that says “EAT LESS,” and watch other girls look at you, just praying that they could “pull that shirt off.” It’s hilarious to have a healthy diet and wear a shirt that says “EAT LESS," because you’re saying you “don’t need to be anorexic to look this way.” Everyone seems to be so proud wearing these shirts, spreading this movement of wearable new age mental illnesses. Personally, I’d much rather my mental illness be wearable on the outside, too, rather than constantly tugging at me on the inside.

Sadly, many mental illnesses are this way. They aren’t clothing. They aren’t fads. They aren’t words that you can type across a Tumblr post to get more notes. They’re real, they’re tough, they’re deadly, and they certainly aren’t a laughing matter.

I was asked by an older coworker today if I “knew any of those kids taking medicine.”

I looked at her blankly and asked her what she meant. “You know, those kids who take depression meds and anxiety stuff.”

I blinked, a small preparation considering the conversation I knew was coming.

“I’m one of those kids,” I told her.

“What?” She was clearly taken aback, as I knew she would be, “Why?”

Now that was a question I wasn’t ready for. Suddenly our roles were reversed and I was the one who was confused. “Why, what?” I asked her.

“Why are you depressed?” She asked me, plain as day, as if a logical reason was needed, or even possible.

“I have a chemical imbalance in my brain.” I figured I would try to simplify it as much as I could as she clearly couldn’t wrap her head around the concept of a mental illness. Her questions were making about as much sense as asking someone with cancer why they had cancer. “I’m just sick,” they’d say, “It makes me sick.”