There are moments in my life where I tread through thick mental storms. My head is down, I lean into the wind, and force one foot in front of the other. I have no choice but to cover my mouth as gusts of wind throw the sands of insecurity at my face leaving me to gasp for air. In the midst of the storm an overwhelming sensation of loneliness poisons my core. I’m helpless to its advances but I am strong. I continue. Fighting the infection of isolation from spreading to the tips of my fingers I chase the end of the storm.
At the time these storms seem to never end. Clouded by my own negative thinking, clarity only seems impossible. It’s through the help of my peers that this destructive thinking pattern becomes transparent. However, asking for help is hard. Essentially you’re asking for someone to willingly jump into the eye of your storm and help you stomach it. These people understand and ask for nothing in return. I call these people my friends.
Despite my friends inability to read my emotions or feelings they are willing to help. I just need to ask for it but see I won’t ask. I hate to appear weak so I trek forward as my thoughts puddle in the footprints I leave behind. Eventually, after swallowing uncountable storms due to failed attempts of escape, I taught myself to choke down my pride instead. Simply sharing how I feel with my friends gave me various channels to free built up turmoil.
In spite of the storms steady barrage of self-doubt I can feel my friends unwavering faith to find the end. It’s in this moment that I know my friends are there, taking on the strength that I lack. Pushing me through my emotionally violent atmosphere. I hear their footsteps as they trace the path I’ve forged. Understanding that I’m not in this alone, at times, can be the hardest thing to realize. Talking to your support group whether this be your friends or your family exposes light on this feeling. It’s caring people within this group that ultimately can save you from your own mental storm. They are stronger then you may think.
