Lions Aren’t The Only Courageous Ones
My courage began with learning English at the age of 7. I was never very good at it. I remember sitting in front of a stranger whose first and only language was English. I felt intimidated.
Topic: healing
My courage began with learning English at the age of 7. I was never very good at it. I remember sitting in front of a stranger whose first and only language was English. I felt intimidated.
I’ve been through this before, and so have the people I’ve reached out to for help. This isn’t a path meant for one, and that’s something I’m beginning to understand. I’m not alone.
Give me the garden beds full of color, but also give me those March and April days when only the bulbs have declared their moratorium on winter’s death and are dormant no more, pushing their tiny bodies into a new year. How silent and steady and unassuming the growth is, but it is not missed by me.
My first therapy appointment wasn’t great. I don’t know if the first session is ever good—it’s hard to be comfortable with the level of vulnerability therapy requires.
I’m aware that this isn’t me, that this seemingly all-encompassing sadness is more of a leaching villain than the toxic-yet-comforting friend I initially saw it as. And if you know me, then you know how much I love a good superhero story.
Depression is not something that only affects certain people. You do not have to go through traumatic life events to experience it. You do not have to justify or explain your depression.
All three of these times, when I made the decision to jeopardize my own existence, I truly wanted to die. In those moments, I believed that whatever I was going through—coming to terms with my sexuality, breakups, fights with friends, bad decisions—was worth ending my life.
It was normal to think you were going to die when the dentist’s hook made a scraping noise against your tooth. To fall asleep in the ninth floor of a towering residence hall, listening to the wind while thinking the whole thing might topple like a house of cards, crushing you inside.
I was emotionally and verbally abused for the first 16 years of my life or so by my father. That’s a hard thing for me to type. It’s an even harder thing for me to say out loud. My instinct is to clarify that I still had a good childhood by most accounts.
Instead of admitting I was in pain I let people in my life think I was a lazy fuck-up, when in reality I was just trying to keep my head above water. I didn’t think anyone would believe me if I told them how bad I felt, because on the outside I looked healthy.
Some days your ears hear things they don’t want to. Your eyes see things they don’t want to. Your heart feels things it really doesn’t want to. But it happens.
While I was at dinner with two friends, the topic of mental illness and treatment arose. All three of us had openly struggled with both depression and anxiety, but our thoughts on treatment, particularly in regards to antidepressants, were vastly different.
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