An open letter to my mental illness.

Dear Anxiety and Depression,

I’ve dealt with your shit for far too long. From the first days of school, hiding behind playground equipment and using silence as a shield against the horrors known as My fellow children. You followed me through the first two years of college. Steadily increasing the pressure till you broke Me and getting out of bed became harder than any assignment or final ever could be.

The second week of Summer break; I received a letter that informed me you had finally won. I had cracked under the pressure. My grades had fallen well below acceptable standards and there was no longer a place for me come next fall.

This was the first time I realized you were there. That not everyone dealt with routine panic attacks and an inability to get through the day. With the first tears I had shed since I was a freshman in high school newly heartbroken, I called My mother.

The shame was almost too much. To acknowledge I was not strong enough to handle the half-adult life of college on my own. To know that I had failed the expectations of not only My parents, but more importantly Myself.

I thought after therapy and medication things would get easier. I now knew what was wrong with me. You were no longer an invisible enemy that would make me erratic. I now knew what it was I was suffering from. Things had to get better right? Wrong.

I now know what you are. However; I still have no idea who I am in relation to you. When am I allowed to be weak and when must I be strong in relation to you? When is it acceptable for me to apologize and say “I’m sorry, It was the anxiety talking” and when should I be rightfully ostracized for the behavior you cause? Is it ever alright to let myself be the victim. Or do I simply push on, hoping that if I lash out people will be accepting?

I now know that you’ve haunted me since adolescence but I no longer know who I am. What is me and what is you. Is there even a difference at this point?

P.S. Fuck you, I’ve gotten out of bed every morning for six months. I’ve beaten you every morning for six months.