being

I am on medication for depression.

I have been on and off. 

Tried so many types.

Different variations. 

Cocktails. 

A pick-a-mix of anti depressants, sleeping pills, anti anxiety, and so on. 

Meds that dull the senses. That stop tears in their tracks. That hold me. That let me sleep. My medication lets me 'be'. It takes the racing heart and sweaty palms out of ordering coffee. It lets my head creep up from staring at the floor. It takes some of my pain away. On the darkest of days it gives me a slice of light. It gives me the ability to be. This medication helps me and many others turn days of despair into days where getting out of bed is a possibility. 

However there is a foggy stigma when it comes my little tablets. It rears it's ugly head whenever this subject is mentioned. And I am angry. I am angry that mental illness can sometimes hold hands with shame. I have felt that shame. I have clasped my mouth closed with quivering hands when I should have shouted the loudest. I have whispered when I should have screamed. I have said those words 'no, I doing fine' hoping someone would hear the hidden meaning, that had sunk so deep I didn't even know how to breathe. This stigma scares me. This stigma must leave. 

No one smuggles in a secret Lemsip when they have a cold. No one asks a patient in a coma if they've tried 'getting up.' No one tells someone with a broken leg 'to go running.' So why do we do this with mental illness? Why do people tell me to 'cheer up' when there is something damaged in my brain? Just because it's not visible does not mean it's not there. And the stark reality is that people die. These illnesses are vicious. They kill. If a little pill can stop that, if medication can save a life, or even just make a life livable. Then it must be okay. It has to be. 

It might not be the only answer. Medication is not the one and only. There are therapies. There are other answers. It just so happens that it helps me. And that is okay. 

we will not forget who we are.