Allowing Myself to Be Known
If I couldn’t even rationalize my mental illness to myself, how could I ever explain it to anyone else?
Topic: stigma
If I couldn’t even rationalize my mental illness to myself, how could I ever explain it to anyone else?
The holidays do not need to be happy or merry to be beautiful and valuable and worthy of life. The people who love you don’t need you to fake a smile or a laugh, they just need you.
I’ve taken to calling the marks in my skin my “war wounds.” They are the scars that remained when the fight was finished, and the evidence that I was stronger than that which had tried to harm me.
Better, when it comes to mental illness, isn’t charted with benchmarks or being able to say “I’m cured.”
I sat in an office all day telling clients all of the reasons to live, all of the ways to get out of depression, all of the things that made them important and why the world needed them. And I felt like a hypocrite each day, never believing a word I said when it came to myself.
Hilary’s death was a turning point in my life. I had struggled with depression, OCD, and anxiety for most of my existence, but I was afraid to tell anyone, except my mom, about it. I worried what other people might think of me. But when Hilary died by suicide, I realized I had to push past that worry and speak up.
If I were to make a list of all the words I, or others, might use to describe me, it might include: “weird,” “inconsiderate,” “quiet,” “lonely,” “goofy,” “kind,” “awkward,” “focused,” and “depressed.”
There is tremendous pressure to be a “good” crazy. To match the criteria, to see yourself in the depictions from books or television. To follow the straight line of recovery, as if it’s that easy. As if it’s a straight line at all.
Tomorrow and the tomorrows that follow will need you. We will need you here, joining us in this ongoing fight.
Getting sober is incredibly hard. Staying sober feels impossible most days. Trying to get sober again after a relapse is like trying to punch a volcano into submission.
It took me a long time to embrace the ugly side of self-care. I’m a perfectionist at heart, so whenever I’m not at my best, I consider it a failure.
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