After an almost 2 year long fight for my life, I finally won. For now.

Unfortunately, mental illness is like cancer. There are many people who have become outraged by that comparison. I’m sorry, but it’s an accurate one. The difference is that, for me, there will be no remission.

I have to fight for my life every single day.

 I have always been an emotional person. Even as a child, the questions I remember being asked the most were , “seriously? Why are you crying right now? We’re just talking about (insert minor inconvenience here.)”

Even now, it’s really hard for people to understand that I have so much emotion inside of me, I literally can’t contain it. It’s like I feel everything 10x the amount of a “normal” person.

And I know how crazy this is but I feel what the people around me are feeling. I don’t know if I just pick up on the energy around them, if I’m just overly observant of others emotions because of how insecure I am about mine, or if I’m just plain ol’ crazy and belong in a facility.

It just sounds weird. It sounds like I’m trying to write an angsty teen novel or something right? I’m sure that’s what runs through people’s heads when I say it.

So living in an exponentially emotional household with- a rapid cycling bipolar mom, a hormonal 14 year old sister with anger issues, a frustratingly perfect brother, and a dad with depression so stabilized he doesn’t even fully remember how intense it can get- well. As you can see, the situation isn’t exactly easy. And it gets increasingly less easy the better I get.

I know how that sounds. Maybe like I don’t want to get better or something. At least that’s what my parents seem to think. I love my family with my whole heart and quite literally doubt I’d be alive if they didn’t see what was happening to me. Not that it was really that hard. I lost 50lb in a year, and while that’s most women’s dream, it’s my utter nightmare. I was 155lb when I was in middle school. Im not sure when it started, but all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry anymore. I stopped eating. I would very sneakily act like I was eating until everyone had left the kitchen to go eat in their respective places. Then I’d scrape the food back into each respective dish and discreetly wait several minutes before putting my dishes in the sink and go back into my room, or “dungeon” as my family would refer to it. I got so bad I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I became addicted to feeling numb, to feeling giggly for no reason and started smoking weed so regularly, I’d spend about $200 a week on that alone. I’d quit a job 3 or 4 months in and wouldn’t find another for several months after. I spent all of that time just laying in my bed and crying. And crying and crying and crying. And I didn’t even know why. I still don’t, not entirely I suppose. I have lived a blessed life, surrounded by love and comfort and support.

It wasn’t like any of this was new or anything. I always wondered why I was so different from everyone else. It isn’t okay to be different in this day and age. And I was bullied so bad, maybe because I was different or maybe just because I was an easy target. I’d cry, not fight back. I watched friend after friend become strangers to me. I never knew why that was so hard for me. I’ve recently discovered it is my own fault, I self sabotage in order to protect myself (therapy is so important guys, you just have to find the right dr.)

The point I’m trying to make is that I was more than broken. And somehow I still managed to get up and fight and I still am. But you can’t tell me that it doesn’t hurt like hell when the people who helped you and love you, just turn around and begin slowly suffocating you. Yes, I’m your daughter but I’m almost 20 being treated like I’m 11. I fought so hard for... what? So that I can be reminded every single day that I’m not like other people? So that you can knock me down a peg every time you tell me that I haven’t gained any weight, so I must not be trying? To be asked “have you been taking your medicine correctly?” Suspiciously like 3 times a day?

They want me to be okay, I want to be okay too. But I’m not okay when mom demands to know what I’m thinking and feeling at any given point in time because she took so much work off to get me to doctors and appointments and so so so much more. I love her so much for that, infinitely and I couldn’t be more grateful- until that gratefulness becomes bittered by the loss of my emotional and physical freedom.

I know they’re just scared. Hell, mom couldn’t sleep for over a year terrified that I would hurt myself. Someone was watching me and checking on me at every moment they could. But I’m not like that anymore. And I AM trying. It’s so fucking hard to say anything about it though, because all I feel is guilt when I even think about saying something that could hurt my mom, or anger my dad. There’s so much more I could say and I should stop while I’m ahead. No one will want to read this I just really had to get it out.

I’m so passionate about mental illness and I want to help people with my own story, but I have no way to do that and no influence whatsoever so I guess it’s pointless... anyway...