I just finished reading Sarah Silverman’s interview in the latest Glamour magazine and had myself an epiphany.
I am brave.
…I still have downward spirals, days when I have to drag myself… But there’s one thing I know that I used to not know: It will pass. And it does. Usually after 24 hours or so… a friend will reach out: “Are you OK? I saw that tweet.” And I’ll sort of snap to it, brush myself off, and get back to life. I’ve learned that keeping busy is a good thing for me. Like my mom always said, you just have to be brave enough to exist through it.
Infinity isn’t a big enough number to quantify the shame I feel living with mental illness. Most of the time I’m good. I’m medicated, I’m generally happy with my life, I’m accepting of my limitations and trying to find purpose. But I’m not cured. I’ll never be cured. Sometimes I am holding it all together with spit. Sometimes I’m falling apart. Sometimes I am awesome, and sometimes I don’t see a way out. Sometimes I’m a boulder, steadfast and immovable in my strength, and sometimes I am as week as a balsa wood air glider; ready to snap at the slightest amount of pressure. But even when I am at my weakest… When it is dark and everything hurts, when I can’t stop crying, when I can’t stop the lies in my head, I am still brave because I am still here. Just like a cockroach after a nuclear shitstorm. I’M STILL HERE.
And though it seems like forever; like the hurricane it is, it will pass, and I can breathe a deep sigh of relief to be myself again – for however short (or long) it is.