Mental illness is something I think about often, since I suffer from quite a few different problems: anxiety, depression, and OCD. Who knows what other illnesses I might be harbouring in that brain of mine.
As much as I hate to say it, as a result of this connection between art and insanity, it makes me think of death in a very personal manner. Not in a "I think about killing myself" way (although, when the depression gets really bad, I suppose I can't help but think like that), but it makes me think of how torturous the life of an artist must be, that the mind breaks in such a way.
~
It's taken me two months to write this post. Sometimes, I delete every single word, because I worry it's too personal, and nobody wants to hear me whining about how sucky my life is. It's so difficult to put my thoughts down, to create something I feel happy with. I haven't written anything in ages. I find myself empty and lost when I try to conjure up some words. I feel like a failure when I can't produce perfection.
~
I've been skipping school a lot lately. I know I said I'd cut back on skipping classes, but these past few weeks, when I wake up, I just can't get out of bed. I dread facing the day ahead of me. The mere thought of being surrounded by hundreds of people in the city haunts me. So I just hide in my bed and wait for the feeling to pass.
It never does.
~
I've been trying so hard to find a therapist, but it's near impossible to find affordable mental health care. And I need someone suited for my needs. My last therapist was great, but she flat out told me that she doesn't know how to deal with anxiety that manifests as OCD. How am I supposed to get better if the government basically doesn't want me to?
~
My passion for anything has diminished. I don't find absolute joy in writing anymore. I can't even lose myself in a book, and forget about the world around me, and my problems. I don't hang out with my friends because a part of me, the depressed part of me, tells me that I probably won't have any fun, that I'll be too busy worrying about everything to have fun.
~
I'm slowly punishing my body for having anxiety. I have a form of OCD called dermatillomania, which is essentially a compulsion to pick at the skin. As a result, my arms, shoulders, face and scalp are covered in sores and scabs. I have near-premanent semi-circles under my nails, of blood that's dried from red to brown to black.
I can't wear clothes that show my upper arms or back, because I'm terrified of people seeing the scars and the sores. I'm terrified of what they'll think of me. And it just makes me pick more and more.
On cold days, the scars on my wrists are so purple against my ghost-pale skin. It makes them so much more visible. I used to be so terrified that people would see them. One of my friends freaked out when she saw them. It made me feel like I'd done something bad. But it's so hard to hide them. I can't wear jumpers and long sleeved-shirts forever. I wish someone would just tell me that having these scars isn't such a big deal, and that I'm not weak for wanting to cut.
~
The nails on my left hand are warped from the way I chew and pick at them. I don't often pick with my right hand, nor do I chew on that hand, so the nails are long and strong. Healthy.
~
For uni, I had to write about a body part, and I wrote about my skin. I wrote about the hate I have for my dermatillomania, for the anxiety that makes me pick. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to write. This is just as hard.
~
It's so hard to talk to people about this, simply because for the most part, they don't understand it. I've had so many people tell me to get over it, that I'm just overreacting, that I just need to cheer up, as if it were as simple as that. It just results in me feeling even more broken, because if it's that easy for other people, then why am I struggling so hard? Why can't I just snap my fingers and magically be happy again?
I guess this is why this post exists: so I can get things off my chest before I explode and do something irrational and stupid and possibly dangerous. This is very much a cry for attention and a cry for help. I do in fact want people to reach out to me. I mean, who doesn't?
It's nice to feel wanted and loved every once in a while.
~
I feel like I am a worthless human being right now. Because writing is the only thing I feel like I'm good at, the only thing I live for. But if I can't write, if I'm too mentally broken to write, where does that leave me?
