When I was in middle school and early high school, I would see kids in my grade who were struggling emotionally, and I would turn away, pretend I didn’t see their pain, and not give them another thought. I would feel bad, but I didn’t know what to do with that, and I certainly didn’t want my friends to think I cared about the super weird kid in math class who kept to herself. Teenagers can be cruel, and no way was I risking my somewhat okay level in the middle school social hierarchy by showing compassion for someone who was so obviously different, strange, and maybe even dangerous for all I knew. No, I desperately wanted to fit in, and my status with my friends would not be jeopardized by some “emo kid.”
Three years later, I became that “emo kid” who got words like “bi-polar”, “crazy”, and “weird” thrown at them as weapons instead of truths. I had my first episode, though it would be 10 years later before the mention of bipolar was brought up in a clinical setting as a feasible diagnosis, and the world as I knew it fell apart. My friends grew more and more distant as the hospitalizations piled up, and I would have given absolutely anything for a visit from my family. Everything I thought I knew about myself suddenly became symptoms of my anxiety, depression, and mania. You mean not everyone is absolutely terrified of social situations but sucks it up anyway? You mean I’m not supposed to consistently want to die at least half of every day? And you’re telling me I’m not supposed to wake up 8 to 10 times every night with bad dreams? And not everyone’s mood goes up and down as quickly as mine?
I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression with all this clinical exposure. When I wasn’t in hospitals, it became harder and harder to pretend to everyone at school that I was doing well. I had appointments during school hours that I played off as doctor appointments, but were really specialists and evaluators to help with my psychiatric treatment. My grades were starting to reflect my absences as well. I was silently suffering, and no one at school bothered to ask how I was.
If I could change anything about my actions in life, it would be how I passed by that girl in middle school and did nothing as people ridiculed and ignored her. Because now I know what it’s like to not have a friend in the world to count on, and I know what it’s like to feel different and strange and unwanted by everyone you know. How all you want to do is curl up in a ball and die, but you keep going anyway. Now, I don’t see that girl as strange or weird or dangerous. I see her bravery and resilience in visibly fighting a fight that none of us understood, but finding the strength to do it anyway.
Everyone who has a mental health condition is fighting that fight in some capacity every day. Whether it’s hanging on for one more day when all you want to do is disappear forever or dealing with those awful voices in your head that just won’t stop and are often very scary. Or going through trauma therapy or trying to get over your anxiety. Or even just talking with someone when you need to or helping someone you think might need it. These are all very hard steps, and if someone, anyone, at school had stopped for me instead of passing me by, my journey might not have taken as long as it did.
It wasn’t until I was in the same shoes that I found my compassion, but it doesn’t need to get to that point. After all, we are all fighting something, some of us are just better at hiding it. Be kind. Be compassionate. Be open to embracing differences; not afraid of them. And don’t pass by.
Written by a young adult guest blogger who wishes to write anonymously
