Call Me Red
I have depression, but that’s not the most important thing about me. Yes, I take antidepressants. Yes, I see a therapist sometimes. Living with depression, or a history of depression, is not a big deal.
But there’s a monster out there. It pulls you down into the darkest part of yourself, where there are no ledges, no handholds, nothing to help you out. And the monster? The beast that prevents you from seeking help or from even acknowledging the fact that you are suffering from a mental illness? I’m naming it.
It’s stigma.
Everyone suffers from it, whether it’s internalised or a very present reality of peer pressure and the oft-blamed society.
I never thought I deserved help. I thought that there was nothing wrong – or at least that everyone suffered the way I did. I believed that the help available was reserved for those suffering far greater than I.
I never attempted suicide because it was too much effort to even think about it. I never self-harmed, but I did write I hate myself on my fingers every time I wanted to. I never hurt myself physically, but the cry was still in my blood.
I’m here. I pushed through it; I got help. Without it, I could have turned into someone who does self-harm, someone who does attempt suicide. Without overcoming the stigma, internalised or otherwise, I would never have been able to pull through.
So now I’m here to fight it: to lower the hurdles you have to climb over to even see the possibility of recovery. I’m here to tell you it’s okay if you’ve not reached the bottom of the fall yet; you can climb out from any distance. Don’t let time pull you deeper. Seek help, like I did. And then join me. Fight the monster. Fight the stigma.
Call me Red.