I’m ill. I’d forgotten.
I forget quite often.
Until I feel my chest and feel the shadow of stickers left by the nurse, testing my heart rate. ‘Standard procedure’
Until, on a warm sunny day I roll up my sleeve only to feel the dead scar skin and roll them back down.
I’m ill and I’d forgotten until the nurse called me in and described the funny anecdotes of her day to take my mind off the routine check-up that makes sure that nothing, other than the instability of my mind, is throwing me off balance.
The appointment took all of 10 minutes and yet for the next 4 hours I lie down with a cup of tea, watching the entirety of RWBY until my eyes ached to match my head. Thrown completely.
It’s something I am only just getting to grips with in a safe way. Earlier this year I decided to take the step, after 3 days in bed, to see a doctor, and thankfully this time he listened. He didn’t tell me that ‘everyone gets sad sometimes’ like the last one or throw pills at me that would only make bipolar worse and take me to the very edge; but the fact that this has happened before put me off for over a year. The counselor that stood me up before Christmas one year, or told me how great my abusive ex had been because he was also a patient of hers.
Because all of these things happen to too many of us with mental health issues I’m forced to ignore that little voice telling me that my voice isn’t worth being heard and to understand that I’m not ‘bragging’ but merely being visible.