Sometimes I feel like I have no right to complain about my mental issues. I feel like my life has always been pretty average with no addiction, cutting, or BIG issues that often occur with mental illness. And somehow that makes my problems less.
Like, my degree of madness is somehow less than others, like I haven’t really suffered, because I’ve always been high functioning thanks to the coping skills I had drilled into me as a child.
Then there are days I realize this is bullshit. Just because I don’t self-harm doesn’t mean I don’t have self-destructive tendencies. Just because I don’t actively think about suicide doesn’t mean I place value on my life all the time. There are times I’m secretly begging people to hit me with their car. There are times I think it’d be better if I fell out of the window I’m leaning against. Roofs are my happy place and dangerous at the same time.
I engage in risky behavior, things that could harm me or kill me if they go wrong. It’s not that I’m hoping they go wrong, it’s that I don’t care if they do or don’t.
That’s my degree of madness. And it’s not as dangerous as some but it’s mine and I own it. Some days I embrace it and cuddle it close and let it run me and other days I stuff it down and live a normal life.
I’m learning that just because I can stuff it down doesn’t mean it’s not as legitimate as others. It doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to it. It doesn’t mean that I don’t get to talk about it because it’s a part of my life and it’s mine and my mental illness is not your mental illness and your mental illness is not anyone else’s. It’s time to stop comparing and to start living our best lives based on our needs and flaws, not anyone else’s.