We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human

I Did That

No.
I will not allow you to reduce me down to nothing.
I will not let you lessen the value of my victories.
You will not make an ignorant comment about an illness that you no nothing about, without me saying a few words.
Respectfully, of course.
I will always say the same thing.
I am not my disorder.
You seen my weak points and made them my main points.
You don't even see.
I tell you.
I allow you to get a glimpse of my vulnerability.
And you judge me?
That is not who I am.
I am not a struggler.
I am a fighter.
I am a survivor of my unwanted mental torment.
People are so encouraging to ones who survive cancer.
I survived a mental illness.
I will survive. From the day of my diagnosis until the day I die, not by my own doing, I survived.
I did that.
I make it out of each suffocating trap my mental disposition creates to fool me into wanting to find a peace I've only seen among the dead.
I make it out of every yearning to slice my flesh open because the pain and anxiety is too much to handle and I need a release it in some sort of way. Opening myself up to let out all the hurt and confusion.
I make it out of every mood that convinces me to stay in my room.
I make it out of every blockade of decent memories that are replaced with sorrow and despair.
I make it out every sleepless night and endless day.
I make it out of the repetition of uninvited harmful thoughts that mocks me every hour on the clock.
I make it out the fog that surrounds me leaving me to believe I am alone in a sea full of people who love me and care for me.
I make it out my unintentional brazen words and conduct that escapes from my wild thoughts onto my wild tongue hoping everyone forgives me.
I make it out of looking in the mirror and not recognizing who I am wondering if others see me still.
I make it out disconnections from reality where I suddenly believe I can fly and walk through fire. And attempt to jump off my roof.
I make it out of the physical aches and pains and the soul burning lack of air I feel each second I enhale. It gets like that. To where breathing hurts. The thing that sustains your life pains you.
I make it out through all that and more.
I make it out of it everytime.
I do.
It may take months, days, years.
But I make it out.
Every time.
I did that.
I, me, the one you dubbed weak.
I did that.

I did that.