I was sitting in the waiting room the other day, thinking…
I was waiting to meet my 12th mental health professional, (give or take,) and wondering if this time would be any different.
You can’t blame me.
As I thought about the many roads I’ve traveled trying to find my way to mental health. It’s been a constant battle, that involved husbands, children, friends, family, strangers.
Some have been supportive, others have been less than, still others have kicked me while I was down. Every. Chance. They. Had.
I’ve had professionals, and non-professionals, and healers, and quacks. They’ve tried every thing. I’ve tried every thing.
But there’s always one more thing…
So as I wait in yet another office waiting room, (If there is a hell, it is a doctors office waiting room,) hoping that this one thing, will be THE thing…
Because nobody actually wants to live like this.
There will never be a mental health rights movement. There will never be mental illness pride parades. There will never be a day when being mentally ill will be thoroughly accepted.
As I thought these thoughts, I couldn’t help but feel sad. We didn’t ask for this. We didn’t choose it. We are, for the most part anyhow, born this way.
I tell people I’m disabled, I no longer try to hide it. Not just physically, but way down deep in my brain, something is broken. After a lifetime of playing pretend has gotten me… well… where I am today. I don’t want to pretend anymore.
I can’t pretend anymore.
And I can’t try harder anymore.
No, there will never be a Mental Illness Pride Day, because pride and mental illness will never go together.
Isn’t that sad?