“The more hopeless you were, the further away they hid you.”

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists" Sylvia Plath

Through the act of repetition, necessary internalisation, and simple survival, the acts surrounding maintaining my mental stability have become so normal I perform them without a second thought. They are automated, integrated into my daily routine, and I have accepted they will be with me until the day I cease to be. Today however I was hit with a reality I was not expecting. I have long, now I know foolishly, thought members of my family had accepted my condition, and in fact were somewhat proud of the fact I had survived so many times. That having seen me perform the same rituals time and time again they too had become accustomed to them. How wrong was I... They are embarrassed, scared even. My sister doesn't want my niece to see me handling my medication or taking it; My father walks out of the room when I am crying; My mother still insists I have been misdiagnosed. I hide my pain to avoid hurting them, to avoid shaming them. I have come to terms with who I am, in my world I am even proud and that gives me important tools to deal with some of the most harmful thoughts that sometimes populate my mind. When suddenly I am reminded that rather than feeling proud I should be feeling ashamed, all the strength that I have put together to fight the demons that have taken residence in my head for the past couple of years dissipates. I am left disarmed, overtaken.

I will not blame them, this is not their fault. This is on me. I choose to feel this way. Regardless, it does not make it any easier. I have added further weight to an upward struggle...