A letter to those who romanticize mental illness

There is nothing romantic about mental illness.


At all.

There is nothing romantic about:

– consistent panic attacks,

– crying in the bathroom,

– fearing to leave the house,

– losing friendships because you just cannot bring yourself to go out,

– feeling like you’ve missed out on growing up because your mental illness has you trapped inside our own house,

– screaming into a pillow because your head is filled with daunting thoughts.

– feeling and sometimes being physically sick because you’ve got to make a phone call.

– paying for private therapists because the price of mental health services are quite shocking.

– having your mental illness undermined and completely disregarded by some closest to you, because they think someone with anxiety is just a bit shy and nervous, when in reality they can have episodes of isolation, continuous crying, vomiting, breathing difficulties, fits of rage and times where they just cannot leave the house for days on end.

There’s not a single romantic element in taking tablets every day just to try and get by.

I have so much anxiety that my anxiety has anxiety.

It’s crazy.

It’s chaotic.

And it never stops.

Mental illness plagues your mind. It makes you think of the worst case scenario all the time, it makes you worry about anything and everything, and it frequently takes over my life. It dictates almost everything I do.

Mental illness is something I will probably have to battle with for the rest of my life.

The more you romanticize it, the more you hurt us.


An actual, real life person with anxiety who’s sick and tired of your none-sense.



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