I got my migraines and my depression both from my parents, it's my anxiety that makes my stomach pain worse and keeps me from sleeping, I've had days and weeks that the stress has been so bad it physically broke me, I live in a cycle where I'm too tired too sick too in pain to do things that make me happy and then become too sad and burnt out to fix any of it.
There's a time and place to remind physically abled people with mental illness that they can still be ableist. Anyone can be ableist whatever type of disability they themselves have. But mental illness and physical disability are not two separate spheres. Mentally ill people are very very frequently comorbid with physical disabilities and even those who normally aren't do suffer physical complications from their mental illness which is itself a disability.
If you're tired of able bodied people or people who appear able bodied mistreating or ignoring physically disabled people I understand and you're right to be. But if you just want to edge them out of conversations and shared experiences then I can't sympathize with that.
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i love my therapist but i hate being in therapy. 10 minutes before my appointment, i'm in a meeting with my boss - we discuss my artistic choices; my boss recommends i artistically choose less. 10 minutes after therapy, i wash my hair and think about everything that was said, and then i have to switch it off, like a lamp, and go back to work again.
i was on a walk the other day and someone had the perfect combination of his cologne and whatever-else. it was almost exactly his scent. i fucking hate that. after all these years, i remember that? i tell my therapist - i feel like a fucking wolf. try telling a middle-aged blonde lady. oh i scented him on the air. i'm 30, and i'm having a panic attack over something that would be a plotline in the omegaverse.
what they don't tell you about mental illness is that if you are lucky enough to survive it into adulthood; it becomes a weird slice of your life. because you do, eventually, have to build a life. i realized in a panic somewhere around 22 - oh. i don't know what i'm fucking doing, because i always assumed i'd just go ahead and die. i didn't die, and i'm grateful for that, and i'm very happy about that choice. but it does mean that i am an adult in an apartment, living with my conditions side-by-side like. oh, that's my roommate, adhd. ignore the glass, bytheway, that's ocd.
so you pick your stupid life up by the scruff of the neck and you're, like glad for it (so much laughter and light and friends you would have never thought possible, when you were in the worst of it). but it feels so strange to be dancing around these odd little microcosms, these patchwork moments of your symptoms. if you have a panic attack at night, you still need to wake up and walk the dog in the morning. if your depression is making everything boring, well, you don't have any sick days left, and a job's not really supposed to be that exciting anyway. your ocd tears out each individual leg hair, and then, an hour later, you sigh, patch up the bloody bits, and go get dinner with friends. and the life is kitten-quiet, mewling and pathetic, but it's also like - it's yours, so you're fond of it.
and it's like - you're real. so you still enjoy pushing the shopping cart really fast and then riding on the back of it down an empty aisle. and you're not, like, so sick anymore that when you accidentally drop a mug you burst into tears (except for the days you do that. which are bad). and no, you're not allowed around certain items anymore. oops! but you've learned to be good about brushing your teeth most days of the week. and yeah sometimes in the middle of the day you have a little freak-out about how fucking unfair it all is, how fucking hard, how other people can just do this without having to fucking hurt the whole time. and then you sigh and force yourself to sit down and fucking journal about it so you can tell the nice middle-aged blonde woman yeah i had a hard day but i practiced grounding. you still sometimes want to burst out of your own skin, but you force yourself to eat kind-of healthy and to take your vitamins. you let yourself chop off all your hair in the sink in a dramatic poetry of control and relief - and you also have developed good hobbies that help you move your body more frequently. you feel helplessly behind, lost in the shuffle - but you also practice gratitude, taking stock of what you have garnered. because you're trying. even if you're never gonna be normal, you have something... close enough.
and the little kitten of your life, this mangy, starlit tigercub, this thing you expected to rot so young: in your arms, it turns itself over, belly-up. exposing this new soft part, all the organs and guts. like it's saying i trust you now. you won't give me up.
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anyway I think zedaph’s like. plotline. character arc whatever is so funny to me. This man shows up to hermitcraft after being in a singleplayer world for 100 episodes and the first thing he does is turn around and build a hole in the ground and not talk to hardly anyone. And the second thing he does is trap the door. Excellent. So then he spends a season or two being a genius and inventing new mental illnesses for his viewers to have and etc etc. Dresses up for Halloween as the embodiment of death and goes up to people and asks them to die. Like. Normal things. He builds another hole in the ground and builds a complicated redstone device that can tell the time for him so he doesn’t have to go outside. And of course he traps the door again. Then in season eight he decides you know what I’m going to start regularly interacting with people other than my two (2) close friends. And you know how I’m going to do it. I’m going to put them in a box and psychologically evaluate them. Awesome. Wonderful. We love to see it. You know what that is? Growth. And so now we’re at season nine and he’s pretty regularly teaming up with the others and being silly and everything. And you know like trying to spy on them without them noticing and normal stuff like that. But at the end of the day he still lives in a hole
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Sometimes, I feel like I've exaggerated my mental illness and that I really don't need the amount of therapy I'm doing, and then I'll get a message telling me to kill myself, and a not-insignificant part of my brain goes "shit, you're right."
So then I just have to sit and breathe until my heartbeat climbs down out of my throat and the impulse passes. Because here's the thing.
There's genuinely a part of me that doesn't want to be here anymore.
I've struggled with suicidal ideation for decades. And I won't lie, it's tiring to keep fighting it. And someone telling me to do it feels like permission, and well, they wouldn't be saying that without good reason, right? They wouldn't say that if I didn't deserve it...
I mean, who would do that. What kind of evil person would tell someone to do that if they didn't -- except oh. No one deserves that, do they?
Anyway. Be careful what you say to people online. Some of us might just listen to you.
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