I read this today and I found myself shaking my head “yes” through so many of the points that the author made.
I too am mad that I have been dealt the hand of mental illness. I am mad that I have to take medications, I am mad that every single decision I EVER make revolves around my mental illness.
Sure we say it will not define us, and for the most part it doesn’t, but still my decisions are made with the reflections of mental illness, or with the thought of how it will affect me.
I rarely want to leave my house. Once I get out of my house I usually feel fine, but the thought of leaving haunts me. I no longer want to participate in activities that involve people, or plastering on a fake smile to get through the ordeal.
I am always terrified that one day my husband is going to have enough and not want to deal with me or my mental illness anymore. Its been 15 years, and I am sure it has taken a tole on him. I am beyond scared about that.
When rage fills me I end up saying things I almost instantly regret. I cool down, I cry, and then I want to cuddle, but who the heck wants to cuddle with the raging demon that was just inside me.
I love her ending of this passage, so please take a moment to read.
I’m fucking mad.
I’m mad that I have to take pills everyday. I’m mad that they don’t work fast enough. I’m mad that they have side effects. I’m mad that they stop working. I’m mad that I currently can’t run because of my meds. I’m really fucking pissed that I feel like a burden to my husband, despite his reassurances that I’m not. I’m mad that he’s afraid to leave me alone. I’m even angrier that I’m afraid to be alone. I’m mad that it seems that my husband and I have a weekly conversation about whether or not we should go to the hospital. I’m mad at how mad I am. I’m mad that I can’t handle stress. I’m mad that I can’t stay up late. I’m mad that I spend what seems like half my life in doctors’ offices. And I’m mad that I’ve had so many blood tests in the past…
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