I Make Them Uncomfortable

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The rule of them when speaking about mental illness is simple. You don’t. You keep your mouth shut, slap on a smile, and deal with it behind closed doors.

It makes them uncomfortable. It’s hush hush. They like to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

I make them uncomfortable. Because I’m not quiet. I speak up, and I make it loud. I let the ugly monster show it’s face. I don’t play nice. I don’t put on a fake smile as much any more. I talk about what people want to pretend doesn’t exist. I show them we aren’t what they show on television. I show them that we could be anyone you care about.

Sure, they want us to get help. They want us better. That’s what they like to hear about. They like to hear about how Susan down the street with a rich husband was able to take a nice little getaway for her mental health. They like to hear about the hot guy two cubicles down talk about how jogging helped his depression.

Guess what- we aren’t all Susan. We aren’t all some hot guy at work. It gets ugly. It gets painful. You can’t pretend to want us to get help if you won’t support is.

It’s a lonely road because of our forced silence.

I quit that silence, and people don’t like that. People don’t like to hear that I had a breakdown. People don’t like to hear about how I had a panic attack. People don’t like to hear about how I had a binge last night, and nearly threw up. People don’t want to see the truth.

They want easy. They want the other side of the rainbow without dealing with getting there.

You can’t have it both ways.

I’m an addict. I’ll stand up and say it whether you think that’s a “very personal topic” and “needs to be discussed discreetly”. Well, you can fuck right off there, you neurotypical bitch. Addicts are less likely to get help for this reason. We’re less likely to say we’ve relapsed, or that it’s a rough day and we need, oh, I don’t know? Fucking support??

I suffer (yes, fucking suffer) from more than one mental illness. I won’t fake it like your wife there, pretty boy, because “that’s unladylike” or something. I won’t hide behind closed doors while breaking down alone because society is so damn selfish and lacking in empathy they’re uncomfortable with the concept that sometimes a pill and talking doesn’t cut it.

There’s something I noticed lately. The more I posted about recovery in any way- the less people interacted with me. The more I posted information about things that effect my life in a massive way- the less involved they were in my life.

Smile, don’t be depressed. Do yoga. Exercise. Go jogging. Paint.

But god fucking forbid you talk. God fucking forbid you work on erasing the very dangerous stigma around mental illnesses. Because that would make people come out of their little bubble of ignorance. And they like that bliss.

Pop, mother fucker.


About Me

Hobbies and Coping

I don’t work. Well, I don’t get dressed and go deal with the public everyday. I do ‘work’. I’m a stay at home mother of two. Right now, it’s summer vacation. While my son is currently at my mom’s, I still have to pony up for my 4 year old.

My son has ADHD. My daughter just has a strong personality. Put them together, and it’s either amazing watching them together, or it’s enough to make everyone in a 20 mile radius choose to never reproduce.

I don’t find my escape in motherhood like some may.

I write. That’s my biggest escape, and the best way I’ve been dealing with strong emotions. I run a blog with my best friend, and it does pretty well. There’s no money to be made from it, really, but I do enjoy it. I write pain the best. That’s my little comfort zone. Making people cry, and getting those big replies is what I do. And I love it. I love getting people to feel beyond the usual happy, disappointed, or angry. I enjoy making them feel that, and more. Give them a range of emotions so that it leaves them thinking long after they’ve read it.

I used to draw. I used to read. I used to go hang out with friends. So much ‘I used to’.

Of course, I use unhealthy coping mechanisms, as well, but that’s for another day. Out of everything I used to use to cope, writing is all I have left.