I was 10 years old when I picked my mother up off the floor where she lay crying. Her and my dad had just gotten into a fight that would've woken the neighbors if we had any, but instead it woke me up long before it was time for me to get ready for school. She wouldn't stand up, instead she fell against my body and cried, "Why doesn't he love me?" she asked over and over again. I consoled her, I told her that he does, I told her that I did, I told her anything I could think of that would make her feel better. I did the best a 10 year old child could.
There's a certain strength that comes along with being honest about where you need to be met.
Originally posted on my blog.
While I’ve suffered from mental illness most of my life, I haven’t always understood how important it is to really be heard by the people in my life. The idea of talking about what I go through with others never seemed to be an option. Regardless, suffering alone is quite, well, lonely. Since opening up about my issues with chronic mental illness, I’ve received a bounty of love and support and also a heaping load of trash.