I have feelings. You KNOW I have feelings. I’ve had such feelings that in the past they have affected my mental health. I’ve been fortunate enough to get help before I damaged myself physically, and the emotional scars are sexy. (Kidding. I mean, they kinda are, but I’m also learning to soften them.) That’s not my deep connection to this subject.
My father killed himself. He had a number of challenges he was unable to continue confronting. He was an alcoholic. He was bipolar. He had OCD. He also had, I believe, other undiagnosed issues. And he wouldn’t talk about it.
How could he? He’d been taught that his mind was his to control and any aberrations where his to herd back into the fold or ignore until they perished. If you cannot beat it into submission, ignore it until it goes away. Talking is for the weak and no one fucking wants to hear it anyway, deal with it until it’s gone.
Or until you come across a love letter you sent your now-dead wife when you were first married and decide the gun in your drawer is the only thing that will FINALLY make the pain stop. When you battle depression, it only needs to score once.
I could’t reach him. I tried. So I will infuse every fucking tear I continue to shed with the fervent wish that his lessons don’t have to be learned that way by others. We can make that happen by changing the way mental health is seen in the world.
Right now, we say, “Get help,” to those who need it and can’t see the wall of thorns we are asking them to climb through. I can’t fight the demons in your head for you. But I will cut the brambles and help make your path smoother. I will help it change. I will listen. And I will not judge you.
Except to tell you that you have worth and value.
BellI’mListening
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