This is going to be a huge, huge, rant on the stigma surrounding mental health and how massively suckish it is. Ugh. Mental Health is that one issue my school never talks about (oh, along with the LGBTQ+ community, but that’s a whole different post, guys, don’t even get me started on that one) It’s just so frustrating that in my school there’s never been any conversations on mental health. I’m not even gonna bother trying to bring it up, either. Because once I tried to start up an assembly on bullying against LGBTQ+ youth and I got shut down faster than you can say “I’m gay as hell and I love it!”. I think it’d be safe to assume that an effort to start a conversation on mental health would be shut down in a similar way. I’ve been a first hand sufferer of depression, and self harm, and I know self harm isn’t a mental illness, but there’s stigma surrounding that too, so yay, added bonus! (-.-) I just wish that there was less of a stigma surrounding mental health in my society, because if I had been able to talk about my depression, things would’ve been completely different for me. Instead, I’m locking myself in the bathroom, breaking down and then pulling myself back together before getting the hell out of there and acting normal.
Depression is enough baggage to carry already. Bisexuality is hard enough to accept on its own. Self Harm is something I’m already beating myself up about. The fact that there’s so much stigma surrounding everything just makes my life harder than it needs to be. I’m not ugly, society is. (I know, its an overused tumblr quote, but it’s actually true) I’ve been told by a friend to “just get over” my Depression, and what makes this burn particularly sting is that she’s actually a genuine friend whom I know only means the best for me- but
she’s got no clue what Depression is, not even in the slightest, and how am I supposed to blame her? she mean well, but we grew up in a society that shunned mental health issues as ‘not real issues’ that weren’t worth validation. I now live in a society where my self harm scars mean I’m crazy suicidal and a freak. I currently have to be so burningly conscious of my scars everywhere I go. I get it, I made mistakes, but the stigma surrounding those mistakes makes them less like a part of my past and more like a cancer foo my present, which is so fucking counter-productive, thanks a lot, stigma. And don’t even get me started on the people who are constantly romanticizing mental illness. You, yeah you, if you’re one of those people, hi, let’s sit down and have a conversation about how cute it is to have anxiety, or how tragically romantic it is to cut yourself, or how bad ass it is to be depressed, how anorexic that girl looks, I bet it must be soooooo thrilling, right? Because they’re not metal disorders anymore if you keep trivializing them and making them less of an issue than they actually are. And that is a huge problem, because when people who are actually suffering gather up the courage to cry for help, all they’ll get in response is “you’ve been looking at too much thinspo, go eat a sandwich” or “hush, it’s just teenager angst”. And jut like that, their experiences will be invalidates. There’s already so much stigma, and now you’re romanticizing something that never got proper widespread recognition in the first place. I cannot just get over my Depression, and recovery from self harm is not as easy as counting to ten.
Some things just need to be said, and some screams for help just need to be heard. Living in a society which constantly invalidates experiences related to mental health goes against this. I remember one particularly terrifying night, I was up until 4 A.M. unable to sleep, ad I was tossing and turning and I felt as though the sky was inexplicably heave, collapsing into me. I felt as though I was breathing in liquid lead, as though my slightest movement was enough to send everything crashing down. I felt so low that I thought I hadn’t just hit rock bottom, I was rock bottom, and while words can’t fully articulate the emotional fatigue I felt that night, one word in particular comes to mind, every single time I think of that night, without fail- heavy. The night was unbearably, excruciatingly heavy, a weight of worlds unknown to me, a weight that greeted me like a malicious stranger, a sadistic opportunist. That was a night where I felt as though I needed to be heard, to be listened to, to be validated, because the inexplicable and unrelenting heaviness of my situation was one that I couldn’t possibly come out of. every single thought that plagues me that night was black, as though even my own mind had succumbed to madness and had devoted itself to my downfall. That is the type of unadulterated horror that I have to watch being romanticized, trivialized, and coldly dismissed. Stigma, don’t fuck with me.