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The Three People I Live With

A Personification of Mental Illness

By V. RenaePublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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Oh, anxiety. My constant friend. You speak in small, specific sentences with urgency. It’s Not Safe. You Can’t. Something Is Wrong.

That’s your favorite.

If mental illnesses were different stages of life, you would be the 2-year-old who broke into my house and decided you live here now.

Where are your parents dude? I didn’t ask for you.

I have to coddle you in the middle of the night. I have to take you everywhere. I never have a moment without you. You demand attention in the most inconvenient places – in the middle of a meeting, before an interview, on a date, and always, always, while I’m sleeping. You stare at me until I wake up, bewildered and terrified, because Something Is Wrong.

What is?

Something.

Okay, but I can’t fix it if I don’t know...

SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Well, okay, I guess I’ll stay up trying to figure it out, if it’ll make you feel better.

And then last year your sister came to visit. She is older than you, by a long shot. She’s the vindictive, conniving teenager my younger self would have worshipped. She trips ugly girls in the hallway and she pinches the fat on my arms and snickers.

People just call her PTSD because her full name is long and boring. It smacks of hateful words like traumatic and disorder.

She likes to take car rides with me. Doesn’t matter if I’m driving or not. Doesn’t matter if we’re all shoved in the back and really, PT, there’s no room for you here. She comes.

I click my seatbelt in place, on my way to work or to get groceries or a friend’s house.

“I sure hope that doesn’t pop out of place when you get in another wreck because today you’re definitely getting into another wreck,” she says, a snide smirk on her face.

I back out carefully, take the side streets, and I stay in my lane unless I have to turn.

“You can drive as careful as you want. You know it’s still going to happen.”

She chuckles when a gust of wind jerks my tiny Kia. She laughs when the car in front of me stops short and my tires screech as I avoid tasting their bumper.

And she fucking cackles when it rains.

“Remember when you flipped your car after it rained? Remember how that puddle was deeper than you thought? This one is, too. So is this one. You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You should have died that day. Slow down. Slow down. Stop. Pull over. You can’t do it. You’re pathetic. You’re a joke.”

I wipe my sweaty hands on my legs and try to stop crying.

“Call your friend. Tell her you can’t come. It’s supposed to rain.”

“Ask work if you can leave before the storm moves in.”

“How far are those headlights? They’re going to hit you. Keep going. Don’t turn here. Who cares if it’s another five minutes? Who cares if you’re late? You’ll die if you turn here and you know it.”

I call a tow truck to get me the 30 miles to home during a thunderstorm. There’s nothing wrong with my car. It’s just too heavy with her in it.

“Drive to your parents’ house? You can’t do the interstate after dark. How sad.”

“You’re not even driving and you’re flinching when the car stops short. Why don’t you just stay home and stop being so dramatic?”

And so I do. I stay home. I like being home because home is safe and the kids don’t talk so loudly at home. I can take care of them and myself better when I’m alone. Until my forever love, the love of my life no matter how hard I try to leave it, the big one, gets home.

He comes home at night, when I’m alone. He comes home after a long day with the kids.

He comes home when I catch a glimpse of my body, imperfect and long abused, in the mirror.

He comes home even when I change the locks.

He’s depression and he was here first, goddamn it, and even though the kids take up most of my time, he gets his.

And he’s the one who reminds me that my illness is chronic. There is no cure. “You wouldn’t be where you are today without us. Not without me. You wouldn’t be creative. You wouldn’t be half as smart without me keeping you from wasting your time with other people. You belong here with me.”

I tell him I know that. I tell him I’m sorry I tried to outrun him. I know he’ll always be there.

Because you can be happy and have depression. You can be outgoing and have anxiety. You can do things with PTSD. Because the nice thing about mental illness is that those good days, God almighty, are they good. Everything is so beautiful when it’s beautiful, since it so rarely is. I never take a good day for granted. I know when those three get home I won’t make it if I don’t remember the good days.

depression
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About the Creator

V. Renae

Aspiring YA author specializing in long-form rambling about zero waste, plant-based diets, minimalism, and other hippie things.

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