What they don't tell you

They never really tell you what mental illness really is.

They don't tell you what it means to be depressed. Depression isn't being sad when your pet dies or you get a B or a C on a test.

Depression is a weight that drags you down, that pulls on your brain and your limbs, that pulls a knife down onto your wrists and a flame to your arms as you try to burn and tear and do whatever you can to get rid of the lead that replaces the blood in your veins. They don't tell you that depression doesn't make you run to a cliff every time you see one, that being ready and willing to die at all times becomes common, that you would happily down those pills, but the slowness in your muscles keeps you from moving far enough to make it.

They never say that your body becomes a prison, and you can barely even try to break out.

They don't tell you what it means to have anxiety. Anxiety isn't worrying about a test, or being scared of a rickety ladder, or worrying you might be attacked when walking home on a dark street in a bad neighborhood alone.

Anxiety is a panic that courses through your veins, that jumpstarts your brain into every solution except for the one you want. It panics you, makes you paranoid, turns you against your best friends. They don't tell you that through the filter of anxiety, your best friends hate you and the littlest things that they say or do just tell you that even more. They don't tell you that you'll concentrate on one thing for hours, that your emotions are constantly on the verge of shattering into a million pieces, that if your friend is angry then it'll send you down a winding staircase with a well at the bottom that's almost impossible to escape from.

They never say that your mind becomes a prison that would only let you free if you stopped trying to escape, but you can't stop yourself.

They don't tell you what it means to have OCD. OCD isn't wanting to have your pencil case neat, or your desk orderly, or having a bad habit such as biting your nails.

OCD is needing to do something, and needing to do it because if you don't, something horrible is going to happen. If you step on the top stair and the area of wood between the carpet and the bathroom, the people you love are going to be hurt. If you don't click your tongue, you'll go blind. If you don't turn the doorknob three times before you open it, you'll never be able to come home. They don't tell you that OCD is a repetitive hell, an anxiety-ridden nightmare and you just want to do the right thing so badly that you'll do all these things as long as it means that you and those around you are safe.

They don't tell you that OCD is purgatory, and everyone makes fun of and jokes about your hell for their own amusement.

They don't tell you to tell your loved ones that you need help. They say you need help, they say that you're sick, that you're crazy, that you're a psychopath and no one will ever understand you. They lie to you, they give you false help, and they torture you.

Your mental illness doesn't define you. You are strong. People will love you even with your illness. You are important, and your struggle is not meaningless.