Hi, you. Yes, you—I see you. Click on this because this is some dumb stuff you should already know but probably still need educated on. Slipping up on what we say to someone with depression, or any mental illness for that matter, can be very damaging, especially seeing as many people with mental illness interpret what is said more harshly. Not only that, but one third of people suffer depression at some point in their lives, a recent study showing that this number is still growing. Now is the time to learn to help those suffering, first by knowing what not to say. I'm glad you're still here. Read on, and you could save lives by your choice of words.
Coffee, no matter the time or place, will always be there for you. Whether you are alone on a bark bench, or surrounded by friends, it all seems better with a mug of roasted bean blood. Sorry, that didn't sound as appealing as I initially imagined—I promise you I don't have psychopathic tendencies.
You have tried the lotions and potions, squandered your money on products promising you skin so perfect you may as well have walked off the cover of Vogue. Heck, you probably tried desperately hacking at those zits with tweezers once or twice. We have all been there—bad skin sucks.
I really struggle to understand myself. I think that’s part of the reason I cant let you in—I don’t trust that you can understand me, or even accept me because I simply don’t know how to do that for myself yet. I don’t understand how it is possible to love myself and therefore when you try to love me, that’s when I will walk away. You will tell me I am beautiful and I will receive it like a blow to the gut. I will take it like a blatant lie made to my face, I will believe you looked me straight in the eyes, and try to convince me of a delusion. And I will be hurt.
If a tree falls in the forest, but no one is around to hear it, did it make a noise? Are you assuming that the tree’s worth is based on those who surround it?
I wish what is written below could be stamped to my forehead for every guy to read, so that they can run 100 miles in the opposite direction. This is for the guy I turned down coffee with last year. This is my real explanation, which you will never read or know about. This is how every boy has wound up when they become close to me, and this is not how I want things with you. I'm sorry.
One. I like you. I really, really like you. I'm sorry that I lied. Two. There is something about the way you just look at me, that makes me feel like I matter.
Over the last few days, I have been perplexed by a simple question. A question which became two questions, a downward spiral of questions— and then a migraine.