The ones you lose while battling.

For most part of 2016, I was deeply depressed and struggling the worst anxiety of my life. I’ve had frequent panic attacks, suicidal ideation and tons of psychosomatic symptoms. That made me had to put on hold my life as I previously had known it, I had to take a break from my studies, my job, my social life, from almost everything in order to re-evaluate who I was and where was I heading while I tried my best to be alive in a spiral of meds, therapy and pep talks.

My own crisis brought to light a deep dark secret, that depression did run in my family and that we, as happy and fine as we seemed, didn’t escaped from the harsh reality of having a serious mental condition. My reality became so absolutely overwhealming and invaded every inch of my existance in such a way, that I hadn’t other option than to talk about my battle via social networks and personally, in gatherings with friends and family. I talked about it, about what it was like to cry yourself to sleep, to have a catastrophic mind, to fantasize with your own death daily. I admitted my journey in therapy, my likes and dislikes, my relationship with my psychologist and psychiatrist, my very own reflections of how they changed my life. I assumed the medications I was taking, I talked about the side effects, the good, the bad, the ugly, the pharmacist conspiracy, the idea of having them with me in my life for ever, the reality of dreaming never having to take them again.

I was out of the non-gay closet, out of the mental health closet. In the open. In the world for it to tear me apart.

The response was amazing, I was really shocked by how much loved it produced and how empathic could people be. I was surrounded by love and light, people saw the real me and loved me. In this battle of me vs depression, they rooted for me, for my life, and loved me for fighting daily and being open about it.

Those were the inmense mayority. Love won. But I want to talk about those few, very few, who I’ve lost thanks to that.

This piece is for those who couldn’t take the truth, who thought I “didn’t had reasons” to be depressed, who told me I was weak for placing my ocuppations on hold in order to heal myself, who questioned my diagnosis, who trashed talked my psychiatrist and psychologist for their approach, who were “tired” of me having one more fibromyalgia crisis or for having a funny accent as a result of a panic attack, who simply drifted away…

For you: I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more answers, or make my disease convincing enough for you to be in peace with it. Sorry for all the times I couldn’t make it to one plan or another just because I was to exhausted to leave my home, or I couldn’t stop crying or simply because no one couldn’t drive me. I’m sorry for the unexpected, for the way my voice changed, and for the paralyzing effects of panic in my body. Sorry for being so anxious and sad that my body hurted like hell and I had to show up wearing a cane and limping. I know I looked horrible and it made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry that you couldn’t imagine that I could fantasize about suicide, and that I made you feel sick just because you couldn’t accept me with those ideation. I’m sorry for bringing the mental health topic to your family, to your home, to your friends, to your Facebook and Instagram timelimes. I’m sorry for creating awareness on Suicide Prevention Day and talking about those who took their lives away and should be forgotten, because it’s too uncomfortable to admit their humanity.

And most of all: I’m sorry that I didn’t meant a word of the previous parragraph. I’m not sorry. If anything, I’m hurt. I know not everyone wants to talk about mental health and not everyone gets it, but how dare you make me feel bad for having a disease I didn’t chose? How dare you to judge me? Haven’t you understand that I’m fighting, every damn second, to keep myself alive?

I don’t care if my diagnosis is convincing enough for you or not. I don’t care if my diagnosis is too painful for you to believe it or not. Because for me it isn’t a word. It isn’t a matter of a diagnosis, of a cathegory, of a name. It is a reality. It is a life long condition. It is a challenge I’ll have for the rest of my life. And it’s not a movie or a game I can reset or pause. It’s my life, my reality, my story and it’s all I have in a world that won’t stop spinning and that barely gives me time to keep up with it.

So, yes, I miss you. Yes, I never thought I could lose you over this. Yes, it would probably would’ve been easier with you by my side. But don’t you dare to question my psychiatrist, my therapist, my mom or any of those who’ve, in fact, BEEN there by my side this year. Because they are the ones I owe it to be alive to see 2017 rise up.

And it hurts to end the year without you on my life. But I prefer to be alive, struggling, with people who validate my journey and support my struggle. Those are the one worth every breath I struggle to take.

Because my condition is real. And those who really love me, see it.