What if one day you woke up and couldn't bear to get out of bed? What if one day you woke up and felt as if the happiness of everyone around you rested upon your shoulders? What if one day you woke up convinced that everyone just pretends to like you because they feel sorry for you?
Welcome to my life. We're happy you're here.
Mental illness is not a joke. In fact, it is very, very real for over 50 million people just in the United States. I personally suffer from Generalized Anxiety Disorder, depression, and a sensory processing disorder. Each disease has impacted my life in countless ways. They've prohibited me from doing what I love. They've helped me become who I am. They've destroyed my friendships; they've started several of the best I've ever had.
Each illness is a disease that sits on my shoulder. They whisper, "You aren't good enough," "No one appreciates you," "You need to lose weight," "You should just give up," "You need to try harder," "You need to try less," "You're bothering her," "You should talk to her more," "Stop worrying so much," "What if you're forgetting something?" Each sickness has its own cruel voice. They taunt me, each wanting to achieve its own individual agenda.
Like parasites they latch onto their victim, consuming its confidence and energy until nothing remains but a broken, hollow shell of a person.
The anxiety sinks its greedy fangs in first. Convincing me that I need to try harder - that I will never be good enough.
The depression slips in unnoticed through the back door. It murmurs soothing words, making my mental barriers weaker for the anxiety. The depression agrees: I will never be good enough. I am forced to listen. Suddenly, nothing I do is stellar or even adequate. No action will ever satisfy the unstoppable team thirsty for any scrap of confidence - every shred of my true self.
I try to fight back. It is impossible. I cannot win. I succumb to the void of sorrow and self-pity.
A little voice in the back of my head, perhaps a memory of what I was, shouts, but it comes from across the crowd at a roaring concert. I cannot hear. I try to read its lips. "You are not your illness!" It screams. "You can beat this!" I want to believe. But I cannot. I let my illness consume me until it is all I am.
I have become a puppet, dancing on black, silken strings. They command me to behave as if everything is normal when I am anything but normal. I walk through the world as I always have, though nothing seems real. It is like looking through a window at someone else's life. The figure on the other side of the glass certainly looks like me, but there is no way that seemingly bright person is shrouded in such immense pain. She looks normal. I am not normal.
I pound angrily on the glass. I want to be a part of that life. The happiness as she laughs and smiles strains my soul. I know it is fake. Her eyes betray her. They dart from side to side, scanning for exits. She is afraid to maintain eye contact for longer than a few moments. The anxiety tells her that making eye contact for too long is uncomfortable, so she looks away. The depression tells her that if she doesn't look at the other person's eyes, the person she's speaking to will consider her to be rude. Together they argue that whoever she is speaking to already thinks she is rude, impolite, inconsiderate, awkward, and useless.
She doesn't want to believe them, but she is forced to. I am forced to maintain a bright, cheerful exterior, while an epic battle wages within.
This is what living with mental illness is like for me. No one's experience is the same; this is mine.
Does it seem like I'm being melodramatic? My anxiety says so. Oh well.
Do you relate to this? Great! Now we can feel alone together :)
