When I first told you “I might be struggling with depression”, I wasn’t just sad. When I said that I have got anxiety issues, I wasn’t just nervous; and both the times I, most definitely, was not looking for attention. I was sick and distraught, obsessed with the obnoxious thought that nobody is ever going to understand my plight.
Whenever I knocked on your door of validation and comfort, all I heard was that my smile is contradictory to my claim and I couldn’t help but feel encumbered. I’m sorry that I didn’t fit into your stereotype of how my demeanor should be. I was lost and I was lonely. When I asked for not pity but a solution, you told me to get into yoga and to cut gluten. My mental illness wasn’t a trending fad and reading The Secret wasn’t helpful, not even a tad. All I had were these consuming thoughts-
“Am I enough?” or “Will I always feel this sense of loss?”
It took me a long time to realize that my feelings weren’t invalid because of my age and that my disease wasn’t just a figment of my imagination but rather could be actively cured. All that it took was for someone to actually see me and take note of the exertion behind that smile; to reach with a hand into my seeping darkness and share their lantern.
Even today, the darkness visits me from time to time but I’ve learnt to work with it. I can say “I’m fine.”
With all my heart,