Just as David Levithan states in his opening line of "Will Grayson, Will Grayson", (co-authored with John Green; it's a devastatingly beautiful take on the struggles of being gay and having major depression, while the other half is devoted to figuring out exactly who he is and what he wants) "I am constantly torn between killing myself and killing everyone around me. Those seem to be the two choices, everything else is just killing time."
Now I know, that with World Mental Health Day being last week, that I am just a tad late. (Almost a week, but who's counting?) But is there really a specific time to talk about being depressed, or anxious, or bipolar? Am I supposed to hold back on my thoughts and emotions to constrain them to a specific day, just to tell everyone the agonizing fact that, "Yeah, I've been through this, but I'm still breathing today, so don't give up?"
Well, that's kind of bull, in my opinion. Depression and anxiety and the multitude of other mental illnesses should be talked about every single day that a person has them. Every day should be a testament to the strength and will that it requires to wake up in the morning and get out of bed, even if you don't want to. You should look at that person who's struggling with life, wrap your arms around them, and tell them that even if they don't believe it, everything will be okay.
So, I guess it's time to tell my story.
About five years ago (roughly), I picked up an eyebrow shaping product and cut myself for the first time. That first time progressed into a second which transitioned into a third and slipped into a fourth...since then, everything has slowly gone downhill. I began struggling with my worth as a person, and the people that I loved slowly became the people that I loathed the most. Classmates who I considered to be my best friends just wanted me to cut my hand off so that they could call me names, and did nothing to stop the slow progression of self-destruction that was becoming my life. I opened my eyes every morning and had to force my muscles to push me out of bed because I couldn't see the point of going to school just to be able to work for the rest of my life until I died. Slowly, voices that weren't my own began to poison my thoughts and tell me that I wasn't worth every inch of space that I was taking up, or that I was wasting air that someone else could be using to cure cancer or end world hunger. I just wanted to die. Nothing mattered and I wasn't going anywhere in life, so I figured that death was the only option. As my sickness went on unchecked, panic attacks and anxiety mixed itself into the cesspool of garbage that was my life.
And to the person that told my middle school guidance counselor that this was going on, I thank you. Because without you, I may not even be here today.
Since then, I've seen a multitude of counselors and taken hundreds of pills. I've been diagnosed with a mild-depressive disorder, an anti adjustment disorder, and (I can't remember, but I think it was) mild anxiety. I wake up every morning these days not with the thought of death on my mind, but with the thought of what I'm going to eat for breakfast. The panic attacks only happen on the bad days, and suicide is maybe the tenth thing on my list of things to do in life. I'm breathing and blinking, and I can feel the pressure of the keys on my keyboard as my fingers press them down to make my words. I am alive.
The point I'm trying to make is, mental illnesses are real. They are real, and controlling, and perhaps the worst thing you could try to make other people understand (especially if they don't have to deal with them). Dying, although it seems like a great escape, won't help anything. It will hurt, and people will suffer. You'll leave people behind who will second guess themselves and grieve and hate the world for taking you away. We should stop bottling up our sicknesses and making them seem like less than they are, especially since they only get worse before they get better. I want people to stop being afraid to tell others that they are sick, and that they feel this way and that they need help. I want to live in a world where there aren't kids or teenagers or adults hiding away in places to cry or locking their doors at night so that they can finally pull the trigger because they think it will make things better even though it won't.
I want to live in a world where people aren't afraid to love themselves.
To Brock, We love you, and we miss you every single day.
