I’m Not Okay
I’ve never been suicidal, so my mental health is fine. I’ve never wanted to self harm, so my mental health is fine. I’ve never been destructive, so my mental health is fine.
These are the lies I’ve always told myself.
Because I’m not fine. I’m not okay.
May is Mental Health Awareness month and writing the articles I write, it always feels like I’m pouring out my own diary onto the internet. It’s healing in a way, but I’ve always been one to keep things close to my chest, to suffer in silence. So this is another entry into my diary, another piece of my story that I want to give to you, to anyone reading this. One day maybe you’ll have the full story of what has led me to where I am.
I’ve always passed through life as a fly on the wall, noticing things people probably wish I didn’t. Keeping myself small and hidden as though that would protect me from the worst of life. I tried to be a friend to those whose pain I could see while I clung to my wall. I’ve tried. Sometimes I’ve succeeded, sometimes I’ve failed.
When I was growing up, I thought the only form of self harm was cutting. Truly, I thought this for a long time. I was friends with a girl in high school who had scars up her leg and was self conscious about it during gym class. She probably thought I didn’t notice, but I did. Another girl I knew always wanted to fit in but was more of a loner. I befriended her and one day she brought ammunition to school, with probably the worst intentions. Nobody noticed her, I did. A friend in college was sexually assaulted by a casual acquaintance and fell into a deep depression before eventually telling me what happened months later. She thought I didn’t notice, but I did. Something drew me to these people, and others I’ve met along the way, because I never wanted anyone to suffer through their own darkness alone. I could see it like an aura around them, feel it in the pit of my stomach that something wasn’t ok. This is something I still carry to this day. It’s what led me to getting my psychology degree in college. It’s what makes me wake up some days still with the feeling I need to talk to someone in particular.
I realized as I got older that this intuition I fostered, while it led me to places and people I loved, had a glaring blind spot. Me. I could see others in pain and read the warning signs, but I couldn’t tell when it was me that needed help, when I needed to talk to someone. I had to be heavily medicated for anxiety leading up to my first wedding and never once did I see that as a warning sign. I never saw myself slipping into a deep depression, never realized that I worked a ton of overtime to avoid being home. I never noticed how I started to hate myself as I slowly lost my self esteem. I never realized that I would tailor my own emotions and personality to suit others, that I would do whatever I needed to make myself seem ok so nobody would ask questions. My own trauma in life has made me who I am, scars and all. While I wear most of my scars on the inside instead of outside, it doesn’t erase that they exist and that I don’t fear opening them up every day. That I haven’t had to learn to love them because they made me who I became.
This glaring blind spot has been a problem my entire life and I’ve only recently started to address it. It’s almost like the monster in the closet that you pretend you don’t hear for fear of bringing it to life. But I decided it was worth facing the unknown to not be afraid to take up the space I need to feel sane. For the first time in my own life, I’ve stopped trying to mask my own emotions for the benefit of others. And let me tell you what a ride that has been. I’m so used to adapting to what everyone else feels that they aren’t used to me having feelings at all. I told my parents I was depressed before my birthday and you would have thought I told them I was gonna go jump off the bridge. Granted they thought my depression was surrounding my birthday, when it was in fact just a general statement with poor timing. Masking your own feelings is not healthy, something I very much know, but I’ve run out of cares to give to keep doing it to keep others happy. Everyone around me is finding that out and it’s been a journey nonetheless. Just the first step of many I will be taking going forward.
One thing I’ve learned over the years is that mental illness and trauma do not look the same for every person. Just because you feel like you don’t have it as bad as others, doesn’t mean that you don’t have it bad. Only you can decide what has been traumatic to you and what affects your mental health. Nobody else gets to dictate how you heal. And treatment is never a one size fits all. Everyone has their own path to take with their mental health.
I’m not suicidal, but that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally think about what would happen if I ran into a guardrail. Or what would happen if I stepped into traffic. I’m not self harming in a physical way, but that doesn’t mean that keeping things bottled up isn’t a form of self harm. It doesn’t mean putting everyone’s needs before my own isn’t self harm. I’m not destructive, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have impulsive thoughts that make me want to be. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have something in my head telling me everyone secretly hates me and that I’ll never be enough, so I avoid getting attached to people. Just because I say I’m fine doesn’t mean I am.
Why am I telling you any of this? Why am I letting people see the raw edges you don’t often see? The ones I intentionally hide from others because I think they will think less of me? Because if just one person reads this and thinks they had a similar experience, it’s worth it. If someone else overthinks themselves into a panic attack sometimes, or has intrusive thoughts that tell them to do things they know are harmful, it’s worth it. It’s worth me letting my own experience bleed onto a page to help someone out. If you need someone to sit with you in the dark, I’ll do that for you. Still. Without question and without hesitation.
Admitting you aren’t fine is just a step and I recently saw an amazing video from @kaayybe saying that even if you have to take it one minute at a time, that’s a win. And it is. I’m here spilling my guts to you because I refuse to suffer in silence anymore. I’m depressed. And I have anxiety and adhd, probably a myriad of other things too. But I’m here and I’m working through it, one minute at a time.
Mental health rep comes in many forms in books, so what feels like rep to me may not be the same to you. Did I overthink this entire list? Absolutely. As always, please mind your trigger and check the TW before diving in. Here are some of my personal favorite recs with mental health rep in all various forms:
Come Out, Come Out by Alexia Onyx
Warmer, Colder by Alexia Onyx
The Prodigal Son by Sara Cate
Lifers by K.C Blume
Phantom by Greer Rivers
Outdrawn by Deanna Grey
All the Feels by Olivia Dade
Still Beating by Jennifer Hartmann
Late Bloomer by Mazey Eddings
Torment Duet by Dylan Page
Lovely Madness by Jaime Diamond
Rink Rash by Santana Knox