Pride. It’s not a word I associate with Mental Health,
personally, and I don’t think I’m alone in that. It is a difficult situation
because I am not proud when I get to the end of each day, all I’ve done is
survive, but some days that actually is an incredible achievement.
I sometimes have problems with reality distortions and hallucinations; I hear things that aren’t there (voices, animals, instruments), I believe paranoia that is wildly untrue and impossible (that I am not actually human), and I listen to daily distortions about how the people close to me feel about me (that they hate me, they all deeply hate me). These vary in intensity and how they show themselves, but with one thing in common that they are scary, deeply unnerving and make it near impossible to fulfill daily tasks.
There is no point in me being ashamed that I am living with a mental illness, instead I wish there is a way I could be proud. I would be proud of someone if there was literally a voice in their head telling them to jump off a building, alongside suicidal thoughts and mood problems, and they manage to stay alive. I would be proud of someone for being in public when they slip into the belief that they must not be real, and they still eventually get home unharmed. I would be proud of someone if they survived these problems every day and managed to hold down friendships, hobbies, and studies.
Yet I am not proud. I don’t know why I am not proud. Perhaps it is the constant knowledge that I am only just surviving these things and any day could be the day I fail, perhaps it is the knowledge that if I don’t survive it will be seen as a misjudged action, something that didn’t need to happen. Perhaps it is because I live in a culture where Mental Illness is accepted behind closed doors, but if I’m too open with it, I’m judged.
I want to survive this so that I can look back one day, and be proud.
I sometimes have problems with reality distortions and hallucinations; I hear things that aren’t there (voices, animals, instruments), I believe paranoia that is wildly untrue and impossible (that I am not actually human), and I listen to daily distortions about how the people close to me feel about me (that they hate me, they all deeply hate me). These vary in intensity and how they show themselves, but with one thing in common that they are scary, deeply unnerving and make it near impossible to fulfill daily tasks.
There is no point in me being ashamed that I am living with a mental illness, instead I wish there is a way I could be proud. I would be proud of someone if there was literally a voice in their head telling them to jump off a building, alongside suicidal thoughts and mood problems, and they manage to stay alive. I would be proud of someone for being in public when they slip into the belief that they must not be real, and they still eventually get home unharmed. I would be proud of someone if they survived these problems every day and managed to hold down friendships, hobbies, and studies.
Yet I am not proud. I don’t know why I am not proud. Perhaps it is the constant knowledge that I am only just surviving these things and any day could be the day I fail, perhaps it is the knowledge that if I don’t survive it will be seen as a misjudged action, something that didn’t need to happen. Perhaps it is because I live in a culture where Mental Illness is accepted behind closed doors, but if I’m too open with it, I’m judged.
I want to survive this so that I can look back one day, and be proud.
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