I didn’t choose my mental illness, it chose me.
It chose me with the 2,3, and 4 a.m. wake up calls that no light or meaningful explanation could ever bring.
It chose me with the rain cloud that hangs over my mind and me daily. With no sign of letting go of me that day.
Sectioned at 17years old with a handful of pills when they didn’t quite do the trick. Yes my mental illness chose me.
My depression chooses me every single day. When I go to climb out of bed, an anchor brings me back down under the covers. But every single time I check, there is no anchor to be found – just me.
My anxiety chooses me every time I dissect and replay a situation 100 times over because the solution will never satisfy the way my brain is wired.
Mental illness is a part of who I am, but it isn’t my choice.
My choice lies in the strength and courage I have to speak out about mental illness and share my story with the world. In the face of stigma, discrimination and pure hate.
My mental illness empowers me every time I am able to support another person with mental health challenges with empathy, kindness and compassion because I recognize their pain, as I have felt it too.