Also, if you are going to date someone with a mental illness (or any illness) make sure you have accepted that they might not get better for a very long time, if ever.
Do not enter the relationship thinking that you can fix them or that they will be fine in a few months. Never do that.
Movies really give us a false sense of what happens in these cases.
"After controlling for family hardships that might also make these mental health issues more likely, the researchers found distinct patterns of psychiatric problems that distinguished the bullies from their victims. Victims of bullying were nearly three times as likely to have issues with generalized anxiety as those who were not bullied, and 4.6 times as likely to suffer from panic attacks, or agoraphobia, in which they felt trapped or had no escape, compared to those who were spared bullying. Bullies themselves showed a four times higher risk of antisocial personality disorder as adults compared to those who did not bully others, and children who reported being both bullies and victims seemed to fare the worst of all; these participants showed a nearly five times greater risk of depression as young adults compared to those who had not both given and received bullying behavior, and a 14.5 times greater risk of having a panic disorder. These effects also showed some gender differences; women had a dramatically higher risk, at nearly 27 times, of having agoraphobia, while men showed an 18.5 times greater prevalence of suicidal tendencies."
What was that about sticks and stones?
Mental illness isn’t a fucking contest of who’s got it worse if you’re depressed and then you go and tell someone also suffering from depression that their reasons aren’t good enough or they haven’t been dealing with it for long enough you need to go and sit in the fucking corner like the petty 5-year-old you are
"This depression and anxiety thing isn’t temporary. It’s not going to disappear when I hit a certain age, or achieve certain career milestones, or get a really great deep-conditioning treatment. I can keep it at a manageable level with the help of drugs and therapy, but I can’t cure it or wish it away. Diabetics don’t just happily toss away their insulin once they’ve followed a successful course of treatment for a few years. Why should it be any different for folks whose chronic conditions are of the mental rather than the physical variety?"
My mind is literally deteriorating. Mental illness crashed into neurological issues and then both were T-boned by an endless stream of medications.
When I’m playing a game, and I have no idea whose turn it is, ever, and that’s not funny. Stop fucking laughing.
When I have a low-alcohol beverage, like a small mimosa, don’t blame my confusion on being drunk. Stop fucking laughing.
When I frantically search for my ECG transmitter, only to realize it was in my hand the whole time, it isn’t funny. Stop fucking laughing.
When I take 30 seconds to read a clock, partly because of my amblyopia worsening, and partly because I just can’t keep the numbers straight in my head, it’s not cute to compare me to a kid just learning. Stop fucking laughing.
I always seem a little dazed anymore. Like I was woken in the middle of the night and asked how many pieces of pie are leftover. ”Uh…what? There’s pie? Oh…yeah. Some…I don’t know, I have to count.”
Stop. Fucking. Laughing.
This is why I write. Because when I write, I can take a bunch of breaks, I can clear up foggy writing, I can make some fucking sense. In the real world I’m a fucking mess, and everyone outside of my partner and daughter seems to just think this is fucking hilarious.
Stop. Fucking. Laughing.
They have no idea what it’s like.
No idea what it feels like.
No idea how scary it can be on the inside.
We’re so so happy that you find our illness hilarious.
“I kind of hate that spoons thing. It’s seems so defeatist to me” says the one who doesn’t struggle with constant fatigue or mental illness. Thanks for your fucking opinion.
Ugh. And when I found the spoons thing I realized that I finally had a way to understand and describe what life was like.
It’s a succint and simple way to describe your capacity for things at any given time, like
what isn’t great about it, it’s brilliant.
mental illness is constantly either demonized or romanticized by society and there is no space in that dichotomy for real people with mental illness to exist without feeling shamed and invalidated and that isn’t fair
You know what having a mental disability is?
It’s never asking for accommodations you know you desperately need because you’ve been taught that you don’t deserve them.
It’s being afraid to say you can’t do something or tell someone that you need help because you know they’re just going to guilt you about how they thought you were “stronger than that” or “why can’t you get over it.”
It’s the fact that being seen as disabled is mutually exclusive from being seen as “functioning,” and if for one second you look like one, then obviously you can’t be the other.
It’s the fact that “functioning” for you is held up to the exact same standards as everyone else who isn’t disabled, and functioning any less than “highly” (perfectly) means you’re worthless and can’t be trusted to do anything right or well.
It’s the people who love you never, ever being able to grasp the fact that “irrational” or “all in your head” doesn’t change the fact that you experience what you experience and it fucking hurts.
It’s people telling you that you need to smile more, or speak up, or try harder because “everyone has bad days.”
It’s people saying things like “well at least you can walk” because physical disability is seen as more valid and real than your disability.
It’s also, at the same time, nobody saying you’re “brave” or “inspiring” for managing to do things outside of your limitations.
It’s being told you’re horribly selfish for being the way you are, and being expected to change that and never fight with it ever again.
It’s people you love honestly telling you that they’ve suffered too because of you, and it’s so difficult to deal with you, and you should be grateful they put up with it.
It’s being eyed in the hallway because you’ve been labeled “dangerous” even if you haven’t actually hurt anyone.
It’s being told you’re just “doing it for the attention,” and being told that needing attention is bad.
It’s being told in order to be good or valued that you need to somehow magically make yourself all better.
It’s relatives asking all the time if you’re “still” taking medication.
It’s people listening to neurotypical people more than they listen to you because everything you say is automatically discredited because you’re insane, or broken, or some other bullshit excuse for ignoring you.
It’s being told that it is impossible for you to know what’s best for you.
It’s never getting a “get well soon” card when you’re being treated because no one expects you to “get well,” or thinks there’s anything for you to get well from.
It’s having to repeatedly explain that there’s only so much you can do, and to please not push you, but no one listens.
It’s being reminded every day of your life that you are a weak, horrible, diseased thing, and that first and foremost your kind should be eradicated from the genome instead of treated.
It’s fighting with your insurance repeatedly over whether or not your condition is “legitimate” enough to be covered.
It’s hating yourself, and feeling like a burden, and being incredibly lonely, and being marginalized because there’s something wrong with you.
It’s looking in the media and seeing 9 out of 10 portrayals of someone with your condition being a manic, screaming, uncontrollable lunatic; or a drooling, childlike, oblivious dullard; or any combination thereof. (What I’m saying is, negatively stereotyped all to hell. And if they’re not a bloodthirsty villain, they’re a plot bus.)
It’s probably having multiple slurs against yourself solidly ingrained in your own vocabulary.
It’s having hordes of people question or genuinely outright not believe your disability even exists.
It’s your employer or school never accepting your sick days because you aren’t really “sick.”
It’s syrupy fountains of superficial pity being poured over you whenever it’s convenient.
It’s having your condition romanticized and glorified to the point where everyone is surprised and disappointed to find out that in real life it’s ugly, and messy, and makes you absolutely miserable.
It’s getting fired for all of the above, even if you’ve never made a mistake any worse than your abled coworkers.
It’s wondering every fucking day what you did to deserve this.
That’s what it’s like.