Being a person living with a mental illness, you'd think that I'd have the support of my family. I don't.
They don't know that I'm struggling with depression, or that I have suicidal thoughts practically every single day.
The other day, I considered telling them. I'd tell my aunt and uncle first, just because they'd show compassion, love and understanding towards me. Then, I'd hope for the best when they discussed it with my grandma.
For the past 18 years, I've listened to her rant about how people with depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, mood disorders, OCD (the list goes on) are crazy people. She literally called them CRAZY.
Obviously, I took offence to that.
That stigma around mental illness? She contributes to it directly. She's one of those people who don't really understand what pain can do to a person.
If I were to tell my family about me, they would freak out. They would think I'm an outcast, that I'm so utterly different AND disappointing.
Sometimes, I blame her for the way my relationship ended. Because of her strict rules, and demanding attitude, I could never get that full dating experience. My relationship not only ended on bad terms, but ended too soon. It's on these nights, when I can't stop crying about how sad and pathetic my life is, that I'm tempted to call you, to hear your voice. Just the sound of your voice gave me a sense of security and hope. Because even though you're an asshole and you may not truly understand the meaning of love, you were the person who helped me onto my feet and told me I was worth it. You actually understood how damaging depression could be on a person, that it was a burden I'd carry for the rest of my life. When you figured out I had depression, I felt like I could breathe again, like I could finally live.
They don't know that I'm struggling with depression, or that I have suicidal thoughts practically every single day.
The other day, I considered telling them. I'd tell my aunt and uncle first, just because they'd show compassion, love and understanding towards me. Then, I'd hope for the best when they discussed it with my grandma.
For the past 18 years, I've listened to her rant about how people with depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, mood disorders, OCD (the list goes on) are crazy people. She literally called them CRAZY.
Obviously, I took offence to that.
That stigma around mental illness? She contributes to it directly. She's one of those people who don't really understand what pain can do to a person.
If I were to tell my family about me, they would freak out. They would think I'm an outcast, that I'm so utterly different AND disappointing.
Sometimes, I blame her for the way my relationship ended. Because of her strict rules, and demanding attitude, I could never get that full dating experience. My relationship not only ended on bad terms, but ended too soon. It's on these nights, when I can't stop crying about how sad and pathetic my life is, that I'm tempted to call you, to hear your voice. Just the sound of your voice gave me a sense of security and hope. Because even though you're an asshole and you may not truly understand the meaning of love, you were the person who helped me onto my feet and told me I was worth it. You actually understood how damaging depression could be on a person, that it was a burden I'd carry for the rest of my life. When you figured out I had depression, I felt like I could breathe again, like I could finally live.