Do not put them down, uplift them. Remind them of how worthy they truly are. Remind them that life is indeed beautiful.
So there I was, the 24-year-old big sister, sitting at her desk and painting my nails sky blue, trying to casually talk to her about you know, suicide and rape and drinking and mental health.
It’s wanting you to ask if I’m okay but not wanting to speak.
Whenever my depression hits, I feel like I’ve let my loved ones down. I feel like I’m making them feel bad.
Knowing anger allowed me to appreciate peace; knowing sadness allowed me to appreciate happiness; knowing disbelief allowed me to appreciate the present; and knowing death allowed me to appreciate life.
I couldn’t bring myself to believe it, though, to accept what was apparent and obvious. I wasn’t depressed, I didn’t have an anxiety problem; I just wasn’t doing college right. I was bad at getting my work done, bad at living up to expectations, bad at having fun, and bad at being happy.
The root of it all starts within. To be honest, I’ve never felt more alive than when focusing on my internal rather than the external.
Although the stigma of mental health has decreased, the romanticization and stereotypes of mentally ill people – especially those with depression – seem to remain the same.
It’s in that moment I ask myself if this is the life I want to live.
I’m here for you, 24 hours a day.