Here is a story about a questionable description about me from a family member. And other things. (SIDE NOTE: my inbox is always open.)
People like to use words like “cracked” and “broken” when describing mental health struggles.
I have always HATED that. I’m not a coffee mug or China doll. I am not in pieces. Some years are more difficult than others, but there’s never been any piece of me to pity (although sometimes my lame ass young adult self wanted that.)
I talk about bipolar disorder frankly because I’m far from the only person on your newsfeed who struggles with some flavor of mental health nightmare.
I’m not ashamed because I was born with it. It’s classified as a genetic neurobiological disorder.
I couldn’t have prevented this, or “been more grateful, prayed more” in order to resolve the symptoms.
I have forgiven the people who think I should have been able to do this. I can’t expect them to understand what they have never lived.
(I actually had a family remember refer to me as having been a “difficult special needs child.” I told them they were lucky I wasn’t a dead child.)
Number 2:
I do not want anyone to to feel alone. It’s unacceptable and isolation KILLS PEOPLE. Let that sink in.
I once heard a coworker (not at my current job) say “God, I have never understood how anyone could kill themselves” with an obvious arrogant undertone.
I shamelessly injected myself into the conversation and was like “Uhhh consider yourself EXTREMELY lucky.”
Watch your words, you guys.
Number 3:
It can be hard looking back at the past and believing it actually happened. I’ve always been proud to say that I haven’t out-crazied my life, or even been undone by it.
I’m more of an empathetic badass because of my extreme life, but I wish there was another way to get have gotten here.
My success rate isn’t 100%, but my survival rate is.
I do not measure my life in degrees, academic or otherwise.
We’re all just gonna be remember by the love we dole out. Or don’t.
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