I used to tell my mom that I didn’t eat dinner because I felt sick or my stomach hurt. I didn’t bring lunch to school because I was going to “eat school lunch”. I didn’t “have time” to eat breakfast. She always believed me. I used to think that it was because I was a good liar. But that’s not true. It was because she was so ready to believe the lies rather than think that something was wrong with me. There couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with my brain. If I was depressed, it was because I didn’t get enough sleep. If I didn’t get enough sleep it was because I was being stubborn and stayed up late on my own. After I started seeing a psychologist, my parents still didn’t want to believe it. They thought I was being dramatic. They didn’t believe anything was wrong with me until I was diagnosed by three different professionals. All said the same thing. Terminal Insomnia, Clinical Depression, Anorexia Nervosa. Even then, they had a hard time getting used to it. They pretended like I could completely control my feelings, and it was my own fault that I had these problems, and that I could just stop feeling the way I do whenever I wanted.
Why is the world so unreluctant to accept mental illness? Why do people automatically assume that it’s something we bring upon ourselves? Being depressed isn’t fun. Starving isn’t fun. Not getting enough sleep isn’t fun.
Yes, starving is a choice at first, but it is the result of a corrupt and heartless society. And after a certain amount of time, it’s hard to stop. You can’t just stop. It becomes an addiction.
Why can’t people just accept that mental illness is a real problem? Because it is.