I don’t like being defined by my mental illness and its stigmas. After all I’m just normal human being with illness in their mind – nothing to be ashamed of, people say. When I mention that I’ve got problems with my heart and I’ve been taking medications for last 10 years, I’m being told that maybe I should go and check with another doctor because it’s not getting better – and then I say I suffer from depression, anxiety, personal disorder and PTSD and I’m met with silence or questions such as “why are you so depressed”. I’ve always found this funny how people react to my illnesses.
Most of the time nobody can tell that something may be wrong with me. Im smiling a lot, I talk to people at work, I’m liked, kind and cute – as they say, I also wear a lot of glitter but that’s the story for another day – but when I’m alone, in the silence of my thoughts and solitiude of my mind, I feel that intense – and insane – sadness, anger, damage, loneliness. I hardly sleep without medications, only now I actually feel things and emotions – my whole life depends on medications and yet they also can kill me, so easily. It’s rather amusing, I find, that in my bedside table there are medications that help me cope with life and yet can finish me if taken in bigger dose. How very ironic, isn’t it?
I accepted my sadness. I accepted myself. But I have hard time accepting how many people left me because of it.
I remember all my sins 