My drinking is no longer a phase, my drug use is no longer recreational. Cuts turn to overdoses, bills turn to fines, food expires, clothes go unwashed, messages go unanswered and life goes on around you, without you. Suddenly it is up to you to find help. At some point your parents concern evolves to annoyance and then to apathy
Friends no longer think you’re a troubled teen, for you are a troubled adult. Mistakes become irreversible. Bridges are burnt, appointments are missed, and slowly it becomes harder to hide how out of control your life has become. You begin to notice the pity in people’s eyes when they talk to you, the soft tone they use when they ask how things are going, the anger in their voice when you call with a new drama, a new debt, a new crisis
It does seem like you are not trying.. not learning from your mistakes; people start to wonder if you like the chaos and some are convinced you seek it. As your peers grow up to have successful families and careers you are stuck as an angry adolescent. You are incapable of caring for yourself, you refuse to love yourself, you have no idea how to fix yourself. You sit in a sterile room for an hour a week and tell your therapist that you can not do this anymore and you leave, go to a bar, get drunk and forget everything he told you
Evethenntually you resign to the fact that you’ll likely be this way forever, accepting that you are not part of the small percent who heal. Soon you also come to accept your illness will likely kill you, all your potential wasted; dying alone, misunderstood and far to o young
As my twenties grow closer to my thirties I am in awe of who I have become and often find myself convinced it will miraculously change. I am yet to utter the words out loud. The venomous, painful truth that I am chronically mentally ill, an addict, alone and unlikely to achieve anything remotely close to what I once assumed I would.
Truthfully I do not even possess the will power to begin to change. I am too angry. I am angry at everyone for every reason and none of them make sense. I am angry at my sister for living out the life I thought I would have. I am angry at my parents for giving up. I am angry at my friends for not understanding. I am angry at my therapist for leaving, at my medication for not working, at doctors for not caring and at myself for not changing.
I wish that I could scoop out my brain, set it down on a table, pull out my tool box and re cross the wires. I wish I could find the happiest person on earth and swap. I wish that I could go back to when I was born and do it all again. I wonder if anything would even change.
Being mentally ill is living with chronic pain. It is a hunched over old woman persistently scratching you with her long yellowed fingernails. It is a struggling comedian following you around, taking cheap shots at your failing life to score a laugh. It is sitting in a burning room with no door, no window and no end. It is forgetting how to cry, love, interact and relate. It is a ruthless cycle of appointments, sleeping, drinking and disappointing.
It is knowing that you will never be in a functioning relationship and knowing you will never love yourself. It is the sad realisation that you have been failed by society and failed by the very thing that makes you yourself, your brain. It is knowing right from wrong but, foot on the accelerator, flooring it down the darkest path.
I am sick of seeing inspiration and positivity, depression has ruined my life. Why am I not allowed to say that? Why am I not allowed to accept my fate instead of fighting it? I am terminally ill and the sun hasn’t shone on me for a while. I am cold. I do not want to stand outside anymore. I am sick of screaming at a brick wall, tired of running through an endless maze. I need respite from fighting this war. I need sleep.