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Coming To Terms With Crazy

So what if I'm f*cking crazy?

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There's nothing sexier than pulling out twelve bottles of pills the morning after a hookup

We've got Prozac, Xanax, Abilify, That One Mood Stabilizer I Can't Pronounce™, and a handful of supplements. At first I was ashamed that my brain chemistry was such a mess - actually, a lot of the time, I still am. The only pills my friends pop on the daily are birth control and the occasional hair growth vitamin. If anyone brings up things that happened between September and December, I'm immediately excluded from the conversation. Why? I spent those four months in a mental hospital.

"Why? I spent those four months in a mental hospital."

Giphy / Via media.giphy.com

I only told four of my best friends when my fate was sealed, as I rode in the backseat of my parents' car to the nearest psych ward. I warned them that I'd be MIA for a week or two and wished a silent goodbye - no, a "see you soon!" - to my hundreds of contacts and thousands of followers. "Just tell people that I have Mono or something," I instructed my confidantes. I was not crazy. I wanted everyone to believe I had a bad case of Mono, when in reality I had a bad case of Crazy. I would be home in time to play varsity tennis, catch up on my AP classes, and to claim my student council positions. I had parties to attend, dances to plan, football games to watch, Instagram pictures to post... You know, all that important life-or-death shit.

"I wanted everyone to believe I had a bad case of Mono, when in reality I had a bad case of Crazy."

Giphy / Via media.giphy.com

Well, a week or two managed to turn into a month or four. Apparently Mono only lasts a few weeks, so my cover was blown. Rumors flew through high school hallways, but somehow they all seemed better than the reality. Why was I so afraid to tell the truth? If I had gone to a hospital for any other reason, things would've been peachy - no lying necessary. But, because I was in the ~mental~ hospital for anorexia, depression, anxiety, and OCD, I was terrified of what people might think.

"Rumors flew through high school hallways, but somehow they all seemed better than the reality."

Now, months have passed since my discharge and I've finally realized that I do not have to give in to the stigma that surrounds mental illness. When 1 in 4 people suffer from some sort of mental illness, why is there any stigma at all? Why is it that if I'm in the hospital, I receive sympathy, yet if I'm in the mental hospital, I get silence and stares? It still makes me uncomfortable to talk about my mental illnesses, and it sure as hell makes people around me uncomfortable. But, my philosophy is that the more we talk about it, the more comfortable everyone is going to get with this REAL WORLD PROBLEM that effects ONE IN FOUR people. So let's talk.

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