When someone says, “it’s ok to be different”, how different do they mean?
Do they mean that it is ok to be left handed? Or that it’s ok that I tie my shoes a little different from everyone else. Do they mean that it’s ok that I worry? Not that I worry, that I worry a lot. Is it ok that scars line my wrists, because that’s different too. But that evokes something else.
My scars evoke fear.
Fear of the unknown. Fear of what I would do to myself, and possibly do to others. Again?
People see my scars and they look at me and then look away. In the back of their minds, they know. They know that one day, one night, one instance, I was ready to end it all. That something triggered in my mind that made me loose it. And maybe I do the same.
Maybe I push these thoughts down deep where no one can see them, because when I look at my scars, I am afraid. Afraid that I could have done something like that, almost as if I was watching myself from a third person view. Screaming on the inside, but silent on the outside.
Did I want to do it?
Did I want to leave it all behind? Was I ready for the eternal darkness that late night? I remember blood on my pants, and tears began to well up in my eyes, and finally I back in control. Back in consciousness as if I had blacked out but were able to see everything.
I remember it stung, and I paused.

How long had I paused? More blood seemed to well up on my skin, and again, it was like I was frozen. Then came the putrid taste of bile. I was so disgusted with myself. Hadn’t it been over 2 years since my last melt down? Hadn’t been 6 months since my last pill?
What is wrong with me? I ask this to myself constantly. It thrums in my head like bees that are shaken from their hive. Was there something wrong with me? Of course! You’re sick. You’re depressed. You have anxiety. You are an insomniac. No wait, the opposite. You’re narcoleptic. Diagnosis, after pill, after diagnosis, after pill, after pill. What was left?
Who was I and where was I going? When I took the pills, I was there. Neither able to be truly happy, nor truly sad, it left me but a hollow shell of my former self. But then even worse, when I didn’t take the pills, I had no idea who I was or who I could be for that day. Each day I had to walk on my own eggshells, I was afraid of myself.
I covered myself. My arm wrapped in a thick white bandage sealing my secret from the world. Lucky for me, I am in kitchen, so when I was asked at school “what was the bandage for?” I said it was a burn. People laughed, a clumsy mistake. Then someone asked, not just someone but a teacher said, “Good, I thought you might have tried to end it all” and then laughed. But what hurt me the most, was realizing that I was trying to end it all.
Then the fear again. Who could I tell?
Who would believe me? I seemed happy enough. Finally began talking to a guy. Everything seemed like it was ok. But it wasn’t ok. Nothing is ever just ok anymore.
And again that horrible question pops into my head.
Why Me?
Why did I have to go through this alone? Why was I defective? Why was there no one that I could turn to that night? Why didn’t I handle that like a normal person! WHY AM I NOT NORMAL!!!!
Why am I not normal? It hurts to say that. Tears trail down my face, just thinking that I am not normal. That I need a pill to calm me down. That I need a therapist to talk to because no one else will. Where were my friends when I needed help? I was there for them! I was there to hold their hands in a break up, in a divorce, in the hard times I was always someone to call, but here I am, and there they are. Two separate worlds only bridged by use and abuse.  Where was my mom? Cities away, and filled with worry about me even when there wasn’t anything to worry about. But I scare my mom. When I whisper words about my depression, she tries to shut me out. Shut out the thought that HER daughter could do something to hurt herself. “You have everything! When I was growing up I had nothing! You are so lucky. You are so fortunate. Why can’t you see that?”
I want to! I want to see that! And I do! But depression is like a haze that wraps around my face, and weight that sits on my chest. Some days the haze is gone, some days the weight is gone. And some days I feel like I am pulled down and blinded. Anxiety, like black bubbles poised around my head, filled with the fear of every outcome that could possibly happen in one situation. Some, unrealistic, others, too real. And I could see each and every outcome, and a small voice in my head tells me that the bad things will always happen to me. My voice of reason is quiet and scared of the big bully that sits in my head and makes my thoughts fester.
Help. Someone. Anyone?
Mental illness awareness week passed. And still to this day, not many know what the scars are from, where I have been, or what my fake smile looks like. But that’s ok. Today I stand with someone holding my hand. Not just someone, but a lot of people.
I have family now, who listen to what I say, and know how to help, even if I don’t know what’s wrong.
I have a loving boyfriend who tries his hardest to understand, and it’s ok that he doesn’t understand everything.
I have friends now. Real friends who care about me, who love me, who are in my world as much as I am in theirs. I’m not used, I am not abused, and I have finally found myself.
It doesn’t matter if you’re different. If you tie your shoes to a story, if you’re left handed. If you wear glasses, have braces, wear make-up or don’t. It doesn’t matter about your IQ, your test scores, your class ranking, or what other people think of you. If you have a mental illness, don’t hide it. You are sick. You wouldn’t hide a broken arm, or a fever, or a cough. You would find help. And sometimes all we need is a hand, or a hug, or an ear, or someone to say, “Its ok, you are ok”. If you don’t have a mental illness, just be someone’s hand. Be someone’s light house in their dark times.
Help is never far, it’s as simple as looking in the mirror and telling yourself that it’s going to be ok. Sometimes, just hearing YOU say that is the best help that you can have.