My entire life I have not been taken seriously. When I say I am ill, I am told I'm just imaginig things or "having anxiety." My mother tells me my bipolar symptoms are not valid, saying "everyone has ups and downs, it wouldn't be natural if we were happy all the time!" I'd like to state that I have been professionally diagnosed with this condition. The last time I was suicidal she told me I was "holding everyone hostage" and "emotionally blackmailing (her)." For the record, I never even mentioned it aloud more than the one time I requested a trip to the hospital. Every single thing I say-- every opinion I have, every memory I have of her saying things like this, every symptom I experience physical or otherwise-- is invalidated. Every. Single. Time.
This is problematic as I have been in unexplained chest pain for weeks and am now unable to swallow food.
I am generally only good for laughing at people's jokes or being laughed at. People don't like me when I'm doing anything else. I am the youngest in my family. I learned quickly as a child that if I did not make a joke of myself, my interests, and my feelings, I would wind up heartbroken, because everything I did was just fodder for taunting from everyone else-- at school and at home. My parents considered this healthy. A character building excercise. Perhaps for a person without mental illness it is. I am a clown. Even as I write this I am doubting my own pain, thinking that I must be exaggerating, despite the fact that I am really on the brink, looking up the most surefire, fail-proof methods of suicide I can and doing so all the time. Even though I know exactly what I would do the second I managed to get my hands on it, that good ol' miracle object that always gets the job done and gets it done quick. Even now, I am trying to punch up this post with humor, thinking that if I don't I'll come off as too dramatic. I don't tell anyone that anything is wrong until it feels so bad that I am unable to think of anything else for days, but I have so much going wrong at once that everyone thinks I am just making shit up. Every time. It happened again today. I cannot swallow food. I asked mom to take me to urgent care. I have been again dismissed.
I want to die for a lot of reasons-- I am tired of the back pain, the searing chest pains, the trobbing migraines; I am tired of the mood swings, the medication shuffle, the scraping lows and the soaring highs; I am tired of being so profoundly mentally ill that I cannot even function well enough to manage three measley college classes; I am tired of thinking about how much easier it would be to not exist every single day; I am tired of having to question my sanity and my memory at every turn, believing that I really am making everything up like I've been told so often. Very tired of all of that. The ice berg goes very deep.
But the cherry on top of it all is that there is just one condition serious enough for the people around me to realize how bad it really has gotten; death.
I will only be taken seriously in death.