I have multiple mental illnesses. I have for most of my life, and I will for most of my life. I talk a bit about it. I talk about the warm and fuzzy parts, the kind of things you see on made-for-TV movies. I talk about the parts of my struggles that I have overcome. But what I leave out is the pain I still feel. The agonizing compulsions, the terrifying thoughts. If I spoke the truth, I wouldn't be considered the ~resilient~ woman anymore. It's a lonely life when everyone thinks you're this strong person who has overcome adversity and is now on the other side, but in reality you're probably worse off than before. And when I try to reach out, I'm met with words like "I thought you were better" or, "you're strong, you'll be fine". I'm sad and I'm hurting and I've built up this act for so long and now I feel like some sick and torturous version of the boy who cried wolf. But I cried health.
There is no one in my life who cares enough to read between the lines. It's a lonely existence. —Happy, but not really and I want you to know