Second Person

If Wellness is This, What in Hell's Name is Sickness?

You stared and stared. You stared blankly and you stared and you stared and you stared. What had you done? After having done it, how could anyone still tell you that you're healthy? How could anyone look at you, especially those would know exactly what happened, look at you and tell you you're healthy? How could a doctor look at your obvious sleep deprivation, the obvious bags under your eyes, the broken look about not only your face, but your whole body, and give you a clean bill of health?

How was it that so many people were prescribed antibiotics and countless other pills and medications without just cause but you couldn't even get one shred, one gram of help? Why was it that all your screams for help went either unheard of or uncared of? Why was it that druggies and addicts could get their medical poisons with absolutely no problems but when you needed help, not a single finger was once lifted to help you?

No one would help you so you found your own medication. Not in the form of a pill, not in the form of a drug, not in the form of companionship. No, you found your medicine in the cold comfort of steel and the warm, open flow of blood. Your blood of course, you couldn't hurt another person at least not physically. You knew that, if someone like your best friend were to find out about what you were doing, that they would be so sad so hurt. You tried to keep it under wraps, tried to hide the fact that there was a problem, but someone always saw through the cracks. You knew, somewhere deep down, that that would always be the case. Nothing stays hidden forever.

But still, despite the scars and the generally upsetting shape of your body, you were always told you were completely healthy. You were told you had no problems (bullshit). You were told that you were in better condition than most kids who do what you do, you supposed that one could be true (but you're still not healthy, don't justify their lies). You knew you should be happy that you were being treated with indifference, but eventually that indifference would kill you (sooner than later, you're not doing much anyway).

You had a voice in your head, one that told you the little hidden truths in the lies that others told you the lies that you told yourself. It was always so condescending, so rude but so brutally honest. You couldn't tell if it wanted to build yourself up or tear yourself to pieces (you're doing a respectable job of the second one all by yourself). Voices in your head weren't very healthy, were they? Or were they saving your life (which do you think it is? Doubt its the right one). Just because something was saving your life, did that make it good or could it still be bad?

It hurt your brain. It physically hurt you to think about that. How could something be keeping you alive but still be bad (what the hell are drugs then?). You started to shake horribly. Everything came crashing done in one ironically healthy plummet. You were still well, you were just convulsing in pain and crying without control of your body. You were just raking your fingers across your arms and drawing blood, you were just coping. No, this wasn't unhealthy, this wasn't a bad thing, it was normal.

No, you were fine. You didn't have anything wrong with you, you aren't mentally ill, you're just a little sad is all. You weren't slowly dying, you were just having a bad year. The thing is, people don't have bad years. If you're having a bad year then there is something else going on. A bad week, maybe even a bad month, but not a bad year. You knew that it wasn't normally, yet you get told that it is a normal thing just because you have a couple of days every once and a while that are happy, that aren't completely awful and make you wish you could just die already.

You are healthy because you don't have a terminal illness, you aren't with tangible sickness. You are just being a baby (that's what they want you to think). The voice in your head made it all so confusing. Sometimes it was agreeing with you, trying to protect or help you, and sometimes it was tearing you down and trying to make you feel horrible about yourself. One moment it seemed to be condemning you on not having cancer and the next patting you on the back and telling you you're so lucky.

You aren't. You aren't healthy. You don't need a terminal illness for that to be the truth. You don't need any of the tangible bullshit. You aren't okay. It felt nice to say it, just once, even if it was to yourself. It was comforting, knowing that the scars weren't for not, that they had their purpose- to comfort. It felt amazing to admit you are sick because finally, finally, you have something to fix.

Fixing felt better than breaking. You found you liked fixing. You decided you were going to try fixing, it brought a smile to your face.