So My Mental Illness Is funny
I usually write fiction on Medium. I don’t like to write articles because they usually weigh more on me. I’ve always considered book reviews or tips and tricks, lighter topics.
Yet, for me this is highly difficult. I don’t like sharing my weakness. I don’t like for anyone who knows me to even know I write on this platform. It’s embarrassing to have them find this little hidden piece of me. People think I write fairytales or the like because of my love for children…I don’t like darker topics.
I’ve always been fine keeping things to myself. I also brush off when anyone says people with mental illness are insane, mostly because I say that to the doctors that have taken a look at me, but I can’t ignore it any longer. It’s all taken too much of a toll.
April eighth I was listening to a broadcast honoring my favorite singer/composer. I was happy to chat along with the others and sing along whilst I did my homework. I then got a pop up message on my phone from Facebook. It was my boyfriend’s oldest sister whom I’ve never met. For some reason I started crying, especially when I read that everyone thought I was bad for her brother and that I’m weak because I constantly think of suicide.
I’ve never cried like that. I even had to call my dad to calm me down, and my mom had to come over (I was babysitting.) I know not everyone is supposed to like you but to have someone who doesn’t know you straight up think you’re shit because of something their mother said? It was a low blow. Yes, I’m a negative person. I think my work isn’t worthy of being posted at times. I don’t like myself. I never have.
But to say I’m weak, that my negative thoughts bring him down. To have his family tell me my business gets to them and they do with it as they please? It hurts. It angers me.
I’ve been fighting this my whole life! I’ve been on hundreds of medications and to dozens of doctors. I’ve self harmed. I wish to die every day because the times I’ve tried it doesn’t work.
“My brother works hard and should come home to a clean apartment and food.”
FYI: I work hard too, on two hours of sleep a night. I work and study full time in hopes of keeping myself busy enough not to slit my throat. I do my best to keep food for both of us. I do my best to keep bills paid. I do my best so I NEVER have to ask for anyone’s help.
Working with kids saved my life because they are always happy and they actually like me. But I had to quit my job because diabetes is killing my hands. I don’t type as fast as I used to and, since my suicide attempt, my memory’s shot. I do things, violent things, and I don’t remember them. I want to do my best in school. Here,in Coffee House Writers as well, I want to be good, NORMAL.
To my boyfriend’s family: you think I like taking seven medications a day? You think I like thinking about killing myself because I hate everything about me? You think I like thinking about how that boy forced himself down my throat when I was eight? You think I like looking in the mirror?
One of you is a doctor, a title that society respects, and you think this is funny. That your brother should run from the “psycho bitch” before she kills him. When all I’ve done the past five years is love him. Care for him.Treat him like my teddy bear.
For people like me it’s not easy for people to love us, and when they do they rarely ever stay, so if he wants to leave, I accept it.
I understand I’m a mess. People like me we really, really try. People like you (your mother and bulldog sister) think we’re defective, we’re wrong, something to be thrown away, cast aside like used clothes.
It’s okay for you to laugh. Go ahead,really. It just goes to show you the kind of human you are.
Remember, mother-in-law, when you said I was a “suicide expert”?
Remember, Dr. Sister, when you first met me you gave me a disgusted look because I said I aspired to be a teacher?
Remember, Bulldog Sister, you’ve never met me. I may be insane, negative, and a “bum bitch” but I’m a decent human being who made a decent living.
It’s because of people like this that I don’t want to be here. I’m not here to be your jester.
I have feelings, dreams, and heck, I like to enjoy small things like riding around with your brother while we listen to music.
Yet these past few months no matter how much I try, all anyone does is bring me down.
Is it still funny?
Is it funny to never dream, to wake up scared for no reason, to tear up your room at four o’clock in the morning because you think someone is watching you?
…No…I didn’t think so.
