Please Don’t Be That Person Who Makes Fun of Mental Illness

Driving to school I can’t help but wonder what ignorant statements I’ll hear in the next eight hours. 

“Try going down the river, not across the stream.” Or “Next time just take the razor to your throat, do us all a favor.” Maybe if I’m lucky “I don’t understand why people cut themselves. If you were real you would stab yourself.” 

My personal favorite is when someone decides it’s okay to ask me in front of people who don’t know so much, “Do you really cut yourself? I heard it’s on your thigh. Is it because it hurts less or is it just easier to hide? Why are you even doing it, your life is perfect.”

I’m barely surviving school as it is, and on top of that all I hear is comments from people who just don’t understand.

These words are said every day by ignorant self-obsessed people who were never taught any better or never listened, and nothing has been done about it. 

By the end of the year thousands of kids across the country will have killed themselves, left their families wondering why, but if teachers and administrations won’t listen, we all know the public will

I was almost a part statistic, and I very much wanted to be. Suicide is scary, but what’s scarier is the idea that a young girl was less afraid of death. 

It’s time we stop making jokes, and I think it’s about damn time we wake up. No one wants to be treated differently, we just want to be surrounded by nice human beings. SO BE ONE. 

Quit the shit, okay? Let’s start here: your jokes are never funny. They weren’t funny last year, they won’t be this year, and nothing will change next year. 

You are hurting people, and don’t pretend you don’t know that. 

So text it, tweet it, or make a funny caption out of self-harm, suicide, or mental illness by name, but only the assholes you surround yourself so easily with will think it’s funny. 

Would your mom be so proud? How about your grandparents? Would they just marvel looking at their perfect son or daughter while you are making people hate themselves more than they already do because of something they can’t control? 

I walk around my high school with the words Anxiety, Depression, and Bipolar painted on my forehead, and I won’t take any more of it. 

We need to teach our children about mental health, teach them that jokes are never okay, and please teach them that it’s okay to not be okay. 

To that kid we all know: please stop making the cutting jokes, or saying cutting is weak or “just kill yourself.” 

You may think the people around you are fine, but statements like that make people a statistic. 

Your jokes weren’t funny last year, and this year I’m done with your shit, and so are the rest of us.

About The Author

Lauren Andre

I began writing as a way to say the things that I felt I had no one to tell, and the majority of these writings I kept to myself. As I’ve grown into my 20s, I felt that in sharing my personal stories and thoughts I could help just one person who feels the way I did. Even if it only reaches one person searching for the answer, I hope that what I write can be a source of comfort when the world feels cold.

You can follow Lauren on Instagram

And Twitter

Personal blog page

 

To the Guy Who Gave Me a Second Chance, I Promise I Won’t Mess This Up

I met you at the darkest time in my life, so I’d like to start by apologizing for that. You deserve the world, and when I met you I gave you hell instead. 

You stuck through it and you’re amazing for that. Maybe that’s why I came back to you. You were a blessing and a lesson, and here we are, same old perfect you and this new me. 

You see, the girl who lashed out uncontrollably, used words like knives, then kissed you back to life as if nothing had ever happened was sick. I don’t mean sick as evil, I mean her brain didn’t work correctly, and no one could help her, not even you. 

Looking back, I know as well as you do that you should’ve run when I first yelled, but you didn’t… you knew. 

That girl, though, is still part of me. But I’m not that girl. Do you get that? I hope you can tell. 

I won’t deny everything that happened because it’s part of our past, but I’m willing to let go of the memory of it if you are.

I’m not embarrassed to say that through medication and therapy I’m someone I can see myself loving, and now I’m here, and I’m quite unreasonably asking for a second chance.

There were many before you, but few after. You had a heart that broke mine for months, even when I broke yours because you were the only boy that looked at me like I put the god damn stars in the sky even after she tore you down. 

You know I love the night, and more specifically the moon, and you never failed to be my moon. Even on my darkest days, you loved me enough to light up the sky and show off the beauty and potential to be something special that you always found inside of me

Now I need you. I need you to be my moon, to call me when things get rough, to make fun of me when I do things wrong, and kiss me back to reality. 

I came back to you, but you’re only meeting me for the first time. 

Continuously I’m sorry, for the timing of your arrival in my life is something I would give my all to change. I promise to prove to you that I am everything you thought I could be one day, and I promise to bandage up where my mouth has left open cuts on your soul. 

I understand you don’t want the old me, I never want her again in my life, and I’m hoping that maybe you’ll want the new me like I want you.

Same face, same hair, but I’m someone you’ve never met before – so hi, I’m the new version of the girl who broke your heart, and I think we’ll get along quite nicely.

 

About The Author

Lauren Andre

I began writing as a way to say the things that I felt I had no one to tell, and the majority of these writings I kept to myself. As I’ve grown into my 20s, I felt that in sharing my personal stories and thoughts I could help just one person who feels the way I did. Even if it only reaches one person searching for the answer, I hope that what I write can be a source of comfort when the world feels cold.

You can follow Lauren on Instagram

And Twitter

Personal blog page

 

A Tattoo Isn’t a Fashion Statement to Me — It’s a Symbol of Hope

I don’t remember much about the first time I cut myself. 

I know my parents were at dinner, I was locked in my bathroom, and I called my best friend. She cleaned me up, bandaged me, and stayed with my until my parents got home to let them know that what I had done. She stayed to tell them of the bloody washcloths to be cleaned, and a trip to the psychiatrist was needed.

The second time I don’t remember either, but the bloodstain on my carpet reminds me every day. The second turned into a third, third into fourth, and after that, I stopped counting — I lost track. My body most certainly remembers each and every time I lost control of my emotions and made permanent marks on my body. I’m forced to see it every morning and night, and many times in between.

Though I’m older now, I can’t tell you I’m all better – that would be a lie. 

But it’s been almost six months since I’ve given myself a “homemade tattoo” and now I’d like a real one that doesn’t hurt to look at. Yes, Mom — I’m young. I understand, Dad — tattoos are permanent. But I was young, and my own cries of release are, in fact, also very permanent.

You say “What if you regret it in 20 years?” 

I already regret my self-inflicted “tattoos” each and every day. These tattoos are flesh color, some of which rise up from the surface of my once innocent, story free skin, and others that are whiter than the clouds in the sky when I tan the tiniest bit. These tattoos burn awfully in the sun and are subject to more conversation than I’d like to know.

So, tell me something — if I had a small mark of ink on my body, do you think that I would be judged more for that, or for the ugly scars that I’m forced to explain every time I wear a bathing suit around unfamiliar people?

I’m not telling you how to parent, I just think it’s time you hear it from my side, our side. And maybe this side isn’t enough, and maybe this won’t change the way you feel, but you must understand something:

I know better than anyone else what feeling regret paired with permanence is.

To the parents of children who have given themselves “tattoos” but are denied your approval to get one with meaning: you’re wrong. I mean that in the kindest of ways, but you’re so painfully wrong.

I’m getting better, but sometimes I need a reminder. Sometimes I beg for something to look at to remind myself that I’ve been personally cut free for almost six months, and even on my darkest days I can get through it without making another tally. Don’t I deserve a badge of triumph among the scars of pain?

I’m begging you to reconsider your stance on the permanence and eternity that accompanies ink. 

I have my own form of tattoos…many more than I ever thought and none of them wanted. They hurt like hell, but I needed to distract my mind from my emotional pain with physical pain. I needed to know that even thought I felt dead inside, I was indeed living.

Would you like to know the difference between the two? I want the ink, and I want it to last forever.

I’d spare nothing to have the chance to go back to the first night or take an eraser to these ugly marks if I could, but I can’t. I ‘m not worried about regret. I’m not scared of permanence. But I’m scared of myself, and the times that you will not be around to do all of those things when I fall flat on my face. I’m begging for a small reminder.

So parents — just  give it a chance. Be sure there’s a meaning, one that will last forever. Make sure it is what they really want, then please give them the opportunity to mark their body with grace, hope, and meaning.

I have given myself breathtakingly painful, ugly tattoos: I’d like to ask now for one I can look at with pride now, not with guilt, harmful reminders, and remembrance of when I hated myself, and the fact that I still struggle to love myself. I get your apprehension, I’m young and tattoos are forever.

Just keep in mind that I was much younger when I gave myself my first mark that would last forever.

**Information on the semicolon tattoo movement**

Project semicolon began in 2013 and has recently been gaining popularity. These tattoos are kept quite small and are meant to present hope and love to people who have struggled or are currently struggling with depression, suicide, addiction, and self-harm. 

Why a semicolon? A semicolon is used when an author could’ve chosen to end a sentence, but instead chose to continue on. The author is you, and the sentence is your life. The semicolon tattoo is a forever reminder that you could’ve ended your life, given up, given in, but you instead made the commitment to choose to spend every day fighting to continue your life.

About The Author

Lauren Andre

I began writing as a way to say the things that I felt I had no one to tell, and the majority of these writings I kept to myself. As I’ve grown into my 20s, I felt that in sharing my personal stories and thoughts I could help just one person who feels the way I did. Even if it only reaches one person searching for the answer, I hope that what I write can be a source of comfort when the world feels cold.

You can follow Lauren on Instagram

And Twitter

Personal blog page

 

What Noone Tells You About Battling Depression

There are so many things no one tells you when you’re told you have depression. They tell you that therapy will make things easier, maybe medication too. They tell you that you should surround yourself with people you love, find the things that make you happy and do those more often. Maybe they tell you to try working out, eating better, find a Netflix series you like even.

But they don’t tell you everything. Not even close.

They don’t tell you that people will talk poorly about you because you go to therapy, or that after months of trying different medications (some that will make you feel even worse,) that the “right” one just makes everything look grey. And God will the world look so grey. That’s the whole point: you never get too low, and you don’t always feel that intense emptiness and unjustified sadness, but where is the warning label that tells you you’ll never feel high either? You’ll never feel the euphoria that everyone talks about. They don’t tell you that the people you love will distance themselves, or completely walk away, because you’re just too much to handle, and the things that used to make you happy just won’t. You can run for miles, but you can’t breathe when you’re done. Not because you’re out of shape or the air is thin, but because even lying in bed at 3a it feels like something is squeezing your lungs and every breath is fought for. Eating healthy would be great, but did anyone tell you that you’ll never be hungry because every square inch of your body is fighting to stay alive, and eating takes more effort than you’ve got in you? Yeah, me neither.

 

No one tells you the important shit. Those things that will never ever go away, no matter where you are, what you’re doing, or what you know you should be feeling.

Some days are good, some weeks, if you’re lucky maybe you’ll even get a few good months. I’ve gone months doing everything I can for myself, and while somedays it’s a fight, others I feel like my “old” self. But that’s just another one of those things that no one tells you, so I guess I’m going to have to be the one to do it:

 

You’re going to feel better, and people are going to notice. Eventually, (if you’re like me it’ll take 5 years,) but you’re going to feel better and people will notice. Those you love will say things like “It’s like you’re back,” “You really seem like you again,” “I missed this version of you- you’re the old you again.” And it’s going to feel so good that you might even cry happy tears, but those same things will come back and eat at you. You no longer know who you are, or who the old “you,” that everyone misses so much was because it’s been so long since you’ve been happy that you don’t remember her anymore. Then one night it will all come crashing down for one reason, a million reasons, or no reason at all. No one tell you, but it always comes crashing down.

 

And for me it’s usually nothing. I think tonight it’s the cold, damp weather and how quickly the sun sets, but what I never understand is why it happens when it does. I wish I could know when I wake up, or while I brush my teeth getting ready for bed, but it never is. No one tells you that you’ll be in the middle of Target, watching your favorite TV show, or maybe in the shower, your stomach will drop, and you’ll just know. No one tells you that it never goes away.

 

I wish someone had told me that it never goes away, and that you’re never going to be “better.” I wish someone told me that boys will fall out of love with you for it, or you’ll fall out of love with them because at 4:16p on a Tuesday your brain stopped loving you, and you can’t love anyone else. No one tells you that as you get older it actually gets harder because you’re so much better at pretending life is still great and you’re still okay, and then you feel even worse because no one notices.

 

No one told me that getting better at hiding it was actually worse, you seem great, and so no one sees what you’re feeling. Now here you are- breaking and alone.

 

I’m so mad because no one ever told me. But no one ever told me that I’d be the only person who can pull myself through it, and that I’ll be stronger and better every time because of it. No one told me that each time my world crashes, and I feel like maybe breathing isn’t what I want to do anymore, that randomly, tomorrow, in a week, sometimes it takes a few months, I’d be through it. That at 8:12a on a Monday I would laugh, and just like that I’d realize I did it again. I’m on the other side of another really dark time. 

 

No one tells you that you have to be all alone, wonder what it would be like if you gave up, dig your nails into your palms until you bleed, and soak your pillow in tears for days. And then the rain will turn from a hurricane to a light mist, and although it never stops raining, you no longer need an umbrella.

 

No one tells you that your sky never stops falling, and that it get heavier each time, but they don’t tell you that you’ll push it back up with a new strength when it falls again.

 

I wish someone had told me all these things 5 years ago.

Maybe it wouldn’t still be so hard every single time.

About The Author

Lauren Andre

I began writing as a way to say the things that I felt I had no one to tell, and the majority of these writings I kept to myself. As I’ve grown into my 20s, I felt that in sharing my personal stories and thoughts I could help just one person who feels the way I did. Even if it only reaches one person searching for the answer, I hope that what I write can be a source of comfort when the world feels cold.

You can follow Lauren on Instagram

And Twitter

Personal blog page

 

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