Sitting up talking to my friend Stephanie (Borderline Blondie) about mental illness diagnoses at like 12:30 in the morning can be interesting. It’s the girls like her, that I am so glad to have in my life. Because they’re the ones who understand and sympathize and empathize when things go wrong, and celebrate with you when things are going good.
It’s incredibly difficult to talk to someone about what we’re facing on a daily basis when that person doesn’t understand, or even try to. When I realize that they don’t really seem to care about the fact that I’m struggling, and there are things, however small, that they could do to help but just can’t be bothered, that’s when I want to give up on being honest with them. I mean, really, why should I waste my time and my breath talking/explaining things to a person who couldn’t care less? I just don’t see the point in doing that.
As much as we might hate someone, and they might be our worse enemy, we still wouldn’t wish what we’re facing on them. I might wish that they could understand, sure, but I don’t want them to suffer through what I am.
Some of those same people who don’t understand what we’re going through, they think that we’re faking it. That we’re doing this because we want pity or attention. But that’s not the case. We didn’t choose to be like this. This is not something that we opted into. It’s a chemical imbalance in our brains. It is a legitimate medical diagnosis, whether they believe it or not. We know it is, and so do other people, and that’s what counts.