I feel like I can’t really tell anyone how I really feel, everyone is too busy focusing on literally anything else but how I feel. Or how I have been feeling, or why I feel that way.
“Mental illness is so traumatic,” you say as you sway and arch your back in some tragic repose, the back of your hand lying limply on your brow, “…simply draining, I cannot bear it…” A pep talk and a coffee and you feel like you did your part. This isn’t Starbucks, sweetheart. You didn’t just donate to some disadvantaged third-world child so you can quickly and cleanly wash your hands of any real dirt that gets on it. My mental illness isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card you won after putting a few kindness tokens in. Did you hear about Katrina? I donated… Kindness is not an investment. Kindness is not money. Genuine kindness has no ulterior, self-serving motives. Your privilege is your ability to grimace at tragedy and then change the channel. Your privilege is experiencing someone else’s harrowing story and being able to leave it at the door when you get home. My mental illness isn’t a time-piece I rest next to my alarm clock in the evenings. My mental illness is a war, in every waking moment of my existence. Why are you watching me bear the weight of the world on my shoulders, but instead of helping, you just face in the other direction so you don’t have to see me slowly crushing to death? Because it’s just a little too gory, even for you.
Honestly, fuck you. Fuck you all. Maybe if I didn’t have the heavy burdens of an early loss of innocence, chronic pain and general abuse to carry around with me, you wouldn’t have to watch me struggle. Maybe if someone OFFERED to take just a tiny little fraction of darkness and carry it with them for the rest of their life, the load wouldn’t be so heavy for any of us to bear. Why are you all putting stones in my pockets, watching others putting stones in my pockets and then blaming me when I drown in the sea? I didn’t invent stones. I didn’t even ask for stones. One day, I woke up and I had everyone’s stones in the hem of my dress. What everyone fails to realize is that no one can EVER take pieces of me away. Instead, they leave pieces of them with me. Stones that other people slid into my pocket when I wasn’t looking. Stones that don’t belong to me. Stones people are too afraid to take back because they are afraid they will end up like me, crushed. People are cowards. People have failed me. People will continue to fail me.
You think my mental illness is weak and unattractive? YOU are weak and unattractive. I am strong and beautiful, I have been carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders and you’re jilted because you saw some sweat rolling down my face? So to hell with your comfort levels. To hell with being “the crazy bag lady” or the “sad fat girl”. Until I start seeing you sweating, I’ll continue doing my job while you neglect to do yours.