stop idealizing and romanticizing mental illness
Bulimia isn’t that pretty and sweet girl, her head hanging over the toilet bowl with her hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail topped with a bow. It is a swollen face, ruined teeth, a gag reflex that no longer exists from the back of her throat being shredded to bits by her acrylic nails.
Anorexia isn't that skinny, shy girl who looks damn cute in her oversized sweater, who refuses some food at the dinner table. It is the inability to walk 10 feet from weakness due to her body eating away at her muscles, furry hair growing on her forearms trying to create warmth for her endlessly cold body, extreme stomach pain from abuse of laxatives and a constant empty stomach.
Depression isn’t a girl sitting on her windowsill, smudged mascara from crying, looking out into the sunset. It is lying in bed for days, staring up at the swirled patterns on the ceiling, no motivation left to even close her eyes. It is wanting to sleep, forever, and being completely alone in a room filled with a sea of people, a bitter and cold loneliness.
Self Harm isn’t a boy you’re in love with, kissing the scars running up and down your arms, whispering ever so softly that you are still the most beautiful thing in the world. It is the stinging pain when the shower water hits your freshly cut wrists, crimson swirling down the drain, scars that will never fade.
Mental illness is not “the new black,” the perfect aesthetic. It is slowly and painfully dying, killing yourself, little by little, every goddamn day.