I don't remember a time when I wasn't depressed. Logically I know I wasn't always depressed. Logically I know I was a person before this darkness took root in my mind and ruined my life. But I can't remember the last time I was truly carefree and happy. I can't remember not being burdened by my darkest thoughts even through happy occasions. I can't remember what not having an anxiety attack feels like.
I told a friend about this and she didn't understand. Which, when talking about mental illnesses, is code for thinking it's the victim's fault. She didn't tell me to just be happy. She didn't tell me to go do something fun. But she told me that I was overreacting. That I was imagining this situation to be worse than it was -- that I was playing the victim card for a wound of the mind.
I've been thinking a lot about what she said. I can't help but viciously think that if she ever had mental illnesses she would know what the constant struggle and terror is about but...I wouldn't wish what I have on my worst enemy. I'm not going to lie to you -- she hurt me when she said those words.
I'm not playing a victim, I'm just trying to survive.
Lately my mental health has not been the best. I've slowed down since it's summer and no longer have something to constantly distract me. I'm not surrounded by friends day in and day out. There's no "next thing," no class schedule, no fun event I need to get up for. There's been too many events this summer that cause my breath to quicken and tears to spring to my eyes. I've been feeling flayed alive, lonely and scared.
It's like I had been standing on firm ground and suddenly the world is tipping sideways and I'm in no position to grab anything. I can feel myself slipping, but I don't know how to stop. While I know people are trying to help, no one's throwing me a rope or a safety net that I feel I can use.
But as I've learned before and will no doubt learn again, bit by bit it's getting better. I'm relearning not to bottle up my feelings. How to take care of myself again. I've stopped faking smiles so much, which makes the genuine ones shine that much brighter.
I guess the real reason I'm writing this article is to show you who I am. A lot of you don't know me, and will never meet me. I wanted -- no -- needed you to meet the real me.
It's important for you to remember that depression and anxiety are not my identity, but a part of my identity.
I usually don't tell people I meet right away that I have mental health issues. I know the stigmas, and I've been on the receiving end of the looks -- pity, confusion, anger. I've dealt with people telling me I'm faking, that I'm not sick. That's it's nothing like a broken leg. I can and will deal with that. But I've realized that I can't pretend nothing is wrong, when others are doing the same. I can't hide a part of myself and then wonder why no one tells me when they're hurting, when they're scared.
My secrets have been keeping me safe, but I'm afraid they've been hurting others. Because it's so easy to look at a room of people and say "No one here is sick. No one here is being haunted by their inner demons. No one here has an attack when suicide is mentioned." Sometimes it could be true. Sometimes it's not.
But it's vital to realize you're never alone.
That's why I write. That's why I read, and obsess over fictional characters and places. It's why I binge-watch Netflix. That's why I'm telling you.
It took me a lot of pain, time and anger to realize that I was not the only one experiencing something like this. Therapy helped put some things in perspective. It damaged a lot of other perspectives. Mainly, it's taught me that no one should ever have to feel alone.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.
