This year hasn't been the most amazing year. It was supposed to be but it's officially July and writing this article is probably the first step in me doing the do for this year. But even amongst all the depression, anxiety, and not reaching a single one of my preset goals so far, there's always something that stands out. One of my biggest nightmares happened. I got walked in on at that job in the bathroom.

Now I'm one of those people who legit locks and relocks the door. Looks at it again when I make it to the toilet and have even checked after dropping my pants and almost sitting. Yet, low and behold after doing the do, mid stand, hands on pants almost at the point of total accidental walk in safety and... the door opens. Um... awkward.

If a camera could record both of our expressions it would be hilarious. It turns out that the door bounces open because it closes so hard. If you are not paying attention when you deadbolt it, you don't notice it's actually on the inside of the door and not in the slot. And it's slightly ajar enough that if you're outside and used to it being closed or locked you will be as equally unaware as the person inside. and out of all the days to not be paranoid that is the day this phenomenon occurs.

What I learned, after I locked the door I laughed. I laughed so hard I had to tell three other friends via text so they could laugh with me. For a whole week, I couldn't think about it without laughing. and if I thought I overheard any coworkers talking about it I laughed some more. A whole week of happy after half a year of anything but. Apparently one of my biggest fears was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

The real question is what does this have to do with the bathroom being my safe place. I routinely hide in there to cry. Feel the feels. Offset the spontaneous moments of wanting to cry that I suck in all day because you can't just cry at work for no apparent reason. The only thing worse than being crazy is people treating you special because you suffer from something that to them is irrelevant.

I have written loads of poems where the person in them dies. I'm no stranger to suicide. I'm an artist. But the amount of times I've thought about it this year is astronomical. The nervous breakdowns I've head... zero. Not a single bathroom hide has worked. However on a Friday the day before this day, I was huddled in the corner having a really intense cry. I couldn't help but think that if this coworker had walked in that day I would've been mortified. I would've had to explain certain levels of psychosis to someone who more than likely wouldn't want to deal with something that heavy. I would've cried more. I would've sunk more. It would've been disastrous. I realized as I told a friend afterwards I had gotten the lowest I had ever gotten and if I wasn't caught butt out the very next day who knows what I might have actually done. I don't know, I don't want to know, and I'm perfectly okay with that.

Mental illness is a thing. It's this grey area that people like to avoid.

"Happiness is a state of mind. Speak a better outlook of life into existence. You'll be fine. Just get over it. it's not that serious. Why do you have to be so negative. If you thought more positively..."

The list is endless of the things people say to rationalise why they can't be bothered to deal with the fact that you can't just talk it away and meds don't work for everyone. It's complicated. Seriously an outright 'i don't want to deal with it' is at least more honest than trying to blame someone for something out of their control.

That was where I found myself that Saturday. Laughing and genuinely happy I thought about all the times I space out at work and pray people just think I"m weird so I don't actually have to explain it. When I'm just walking from here to there in a public space and have to find some way to avoid a public breakdown. I questioned when did I, and others, get to the place where faking normal to avoid all the indifference from people pretending they care became the norm. When did it get that bad?

I realised at that point that getting caught probably saved me but that I'm probably more terrified of the one day I crack and I'm forced to have to deal with people treating me like some diseased thing. I came to the conclusion that I was much more put out by the thought of getting caught huddled up in the corner crying the day before than mid stand about to pull my pants up.

All that to say I was grateful for a week of laughing. Thought about the fact that I'm not alone. That many are aware that the fake care and different treatment is something that will only make their diagnosis worse. The solution is to avoid it at all costs but you know some things can't be avoided. I've had at least two employers recommend I take up employee therapy programs. One before I knew I suffered from anything and one after. Some people just know.

Maybe one-day things will be different. People won't run and hide from mental illness like it's contagious. One won't have to be afraid to just be, but until that day I'll always have music, books to write, songs and poems to create, articles and blogs to type and most important of all, places I can go to hide when life just gets too much. I got coping down to a science and hope I won't need to be walked in on in the bathroom to lift me from depths I didn't know I could reach. I'm also aware I may always need something random act of the universe to save me. I may always be this way and I'm okay with that. I've survived so far. I'll survive until my next cry.

I'll be alright. I'll be alright.