I haven’t typed about this publicly so this will be a very vulnerable first. Something that I am tired of not being talked about by too many people. It’s embarrassing and filled with social stigma.
They tell us to get over it, to stop being so melodramatic. They ignore us because they can’t handle our constant “negative talk” and pain. Tell us to smile. To be happy. That there are people in worse shape than us. That suicide is selfish. That we’re being self-centered. When all we feel is nothing. Not sadness, not anger. Depression as an illness is nothing. A void of emotion.
My dad was found in the one position we who battle our mind’s dysfunction know all too well: curled on the floor. Unresponsive. Numb. Closed to the world and lost.
I say, the silence is what is killing us. The hiding only breeds more hiding. We don’t express because we fear what everyone will say.
But we function. When allowed to. In previous posts, I shared about three individuals who opened themselves to be: one a female in a man’s body who suffered rape, horrid hate-beatings, slander and in her deepest unseen self struggled with self-mutilating depression; a schizophrenic who was finding her voice, A Beautiful Mind, fully functional despite the hallucinations that scare too many people from her; and a heroine addict who poetically found her expression in Sixx A.Ms The Heroine Diaries and whose eyes would alight when people talked to her as a person, vulnerable and herself, struggle and all.
We insist on accepting the physically handicapped and do all we can to tell them they are not less, just different. But still stigmatize mental illness, too many ignoring it as curable if we only tried hard enough.
I say be. Everything you are, and fuck the naysayers and degraders. Find your dance. Don’t smile if you don’t want to. Be manic, then crash. I’m not saying not to get help, do. Don’t allow it to handicap, and don’t be ashamed when it does. This is our struggle and our hand and it’s not less. Just is.
I’m going to do all I can not to delete this because I fear the pity comments or the ignorant “this isn’t a real disease” or whatever shit people do when these things go public. I did all I can to express this, but novels can and have been written on it.
To see more and my poetic ode to my father and myself, see:
Penny for your Thoughts? A nickel for your introspection?