It is feeling completely powerless and like my head is a traitor.
It is knowing that I need to work on projects and meet with friends to feel better but only having the energy to stay in bed.
It is pushing away my support systems.
It is putting myself into dangerous situations, like running away from friends at a party or out into the street at night, because I’m breaking down and can’t think clearly.
It is not being able to walk down the street without having a panic attack some days.
It’s the sense of complete lack of control and fear as I realise I am going to breakdown in public, and don’t know where to hide or how to make it stop.
It’s feeling unsafe in any place because my anxiety could take over at any time.
It’s not being able to enjoy moments with my friends because I’m too busy fantasizing about death. It’s not being able to stop crying for hours and sitting on a bed, forcing my body to get up but not being able to leave.
It’s wanting help desperately but not knowing how to ask for it.
It’s crying over trauma from a year ago and not knowing how to explain to others that these things still hurt.
It’s realising that other people don’t have to prepare their days for their mental illness.
It’s exhausting.
It’s draining.
But it is resilience.
It is feeling like there is nothing worth living for when the past week has been same cycle of crying every day but STILL staying alive.
It is continuing to seek out the smallest amount of hope in you and living off it for months.
It is regaining trust in your head after the things it said to you the night before.
It is constantly putting work into yourself.
It is refusing to see yourself as weak.
My mental illness is ugly. It is messy. It’s not cute.
It is knowing that I need to work on projects and meet with friends to feel better but only having the energy to stay in bed.
It is pushing away my support systems.
It is putting myself into dangerous situations, like running away from friends at a party or out into the street at night, because I’m breaking down and can’t think clearly.
It is not being able to walk down the street without having a panic attack some days.
It’s the sense of complete lack of control and fear as I realise I am going to breakdown in public, and don’t know where to hide or how to make it stop.
It’s feeling unsafe in any place because my anxiety could take over at any time.
It’s not being able to enjoy moments with my friends because I’m too busy fantasizing about death. It’s not being able to stop crying for hours and sitting on a bed, forcing my body to get up but not being able to leave.
It’s wanting help desperately but not knowing how to ask for it.
It’s crying over trauma from a year ago and not knowing how to explain to others that these things still hurt.
It’s realising that other people don’t have to prepare their days for their mental illness.
It’s exhausting.
It’s draining.
But it is resilience.
It is feeling like there is nothing worth living for when the past week has been same cycle of crying every day but STILL staying alive.
It is continuing to seek out the smallest amount of hope in you and living off it for months.
It is regaining trust in your head after the things it said to you the night before.
It is constantly putting work into yourself.
It is refusing to see yourself as weak.
My mental illness is ugly. It is messy. It’s not cute.
