I have a mental illness. This is what I want you to know.

Every once in a while, the idea of writing this blog post comes to me. For reasons I can’t explain, I always seem to procrastinate writing it.

Those who follow me will recognize how important the subjects of mental health and mental illness are to me. At almost every point in my life, the shadow of mental illness has been with me. It started when I was a child, growing up with a mother who suffered from severe, sometimes debilitating manic depression. Later, mental illness followed me into high school, staying with me and growing stronger in intensity well into my formative adult years.

Eventually, when I was mature enough to realize I had a problem, I sought help. But it wasn’t easy. At the time, I was a young man who was on the cusp of being married. My fiancée and I were expecting our first child. It should have been a joyful time, but it wasn’t. My fiancée (now ex-wife) and I always knew we weren’t cut out to be parents. Ours was a toxic relationship made worse by both our mental illnesses and by our past traumas. Neither of us wished to admit defeat. We wanted to prove to the world that we could weather the storm.

But we couldn’t.

Although we both suffered from similar conditions, it was difficult for us to see the pain the other was experiencing. So often I struggled, trying to find the right words to tell people what I was feeling. I began to recognize how hard it was for someone without depression or anxiety to understand what suffering from these illnesses was like.

There were so many times where I wished I could grab a soapbox that I could stand on, and shout, “These are the things I want you to know!” Alone in the dark, I’d imagine looking ‘normal’ people in the eye, baring my soul to them, letting them know all the pain and fear that resided deep within me.

“I’m not lazy,” I’d start out saying, quietly. “I think that’s what you think. I think you look at me, and while you’re suggesting I apply for this job or that job, and I do nothing, you believe I’m lazy. Well, I’m not. I’m scared. On the outside, that fear makes me look aloof. Maybe you even think I’m being disrespectful.”

I’d continue, getting louder with each word. “I don’t make eye contact. I don’t talk loudly. And when you do, I leave the room. I know that the feelings inside of my head seem irrational to you. Well, news flash, they’re irrational to me, too. You want me to explain one thing I’m afraid of. But there isn’t one thing. There are a thousand fears and worries in my mind. How do I pick just one?”

In my imagination, I’m shaking. I can barely stay atop the soapbox. It feels like I’m in the center of an earthquake. But I can see people staring at me. I feel judged. I hate that feeling. “I guess it’s easy for you, right?” I continue. “It’s easy to get out of bed in the morning. You stop dreaming, you open your eyes. You swing off your covers, dangle your feet over the edge, and you live. I wish it were that easy for me. When I wake up, I lay in bed, terrified. I’m not even able to give a description of what I’m afraid of. I just am. I am fear. I am panic. I am pain. You can’t understand that, though. But I want you to! I wish you could! I don’t wish it upon you, I just want you to understand me!”

I’m crying. But in my mind, I dare to say these things for the first time, ever. “Some days, it feels like my spine is wrapped in thick cotton. My thoughts are tangled, jumbled, and disorganized. I struggle to try and break free. Most of the time, I don’t have the energy. You talk to me,” I say, imagining pointing to a random person in the crowd, someone who had always been critical of me, “and you think I don’t listen. My eyes are glossy, my skin is slick with sweat, my leg is trembling. You mumble that I could ‘just feel better’ if ‘I wanted to.’ But it doesn’t work like that. I want to. I don’t want to be on social assistance! I don’t want the judgemental, doubting stares. I don’t want to feel worthless. But I do.”

I’d climb off the soapbox, taking a seat on its edge. My head would fall into my hands. “I want someone to understand,” I’d sob. “that I’m not lazy or thoughtless. I want people to understand that I feel alone. I don’t want you to tell me how to fix it. I don’t want your suggestions. I want your compassion. I want you to try and understand that as much as you don’t comprehend what I’m feeling…neither do I. Sometimes I want a hand on the shoulder, and a voice telling me that they can’t imagine how scared I must feel, but they see how it’s affecting me, and they’re sorry about that.”

Of course, as much as I’d imagine this scenario playing out in real life, I’d never been able to summon the courage to do it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the tools I needed to be better. Not yet.

I don’t recall how long it took me before I found someone who I could trust to listen to me. I couldn’t tell you how many doctors I went to. There were a lot. Getting well, or, to be accurate, better than I had been previously, was a process. It didn’t happen overnight. Slowly I began to be able to tell people “I have a mental illness, and this is what I want you to know.” But it took time.

I don’t know if I’ll end up publishing this. I don’t know if it’s coherent enough to make sense. If I do post it, I hope it helps you. I hope that if you’re someone with a mental illness, it can help you explain to someone how you’re feeling. And if you’re someone in a position to support someone in your life who has a mental illness, I hope it helps you to understand a little better, and to comfort them.

In general, I just hope it helps.