A Freelance Photographer and Writer,
living in London, who doesn't have a clue what is happening nine times out of ten,
and enjoys having an existential crisis at least every two weeks,
It’s always sunny in Philadelphia and cheese a bit too much.
Instagram + Twitter: @gothicpeachh
A rather open and honest letter about mental health. (it’s about to get dark y’all)
I won’t lie, I’ve spent maybe the past four to six hours sitting at my desk starting at a blank screen, whilst my mind goes at approximately 90 mph, and if that isn’t the perfect metaphor for mental health, then shit dude.
In all fairness there really isn’t a good way to start a letter about this, I mean for example I’m currently eating cold pad thai listening to Off The Wall at 1:23am on a Thursday night, feeling more numb than a tube of numbing cream. (Ha yes my life is just that thrilling, strap yourself in its going to be a roller-coaster.)
I’m sure for quite a few people, this is a returning and common feeling. Considering that one in four of us suffers from some form of mental health problem. However, on another hand for others, it’s not such a common feeling. I’m sure things and talking about this thing or multiple things that are constantly swirling around in my mind, is pretty simple for a majority of people. But for me? Yeah not so much, and that oddly reflects how I feel about my own mental health, and how to speak/deal with it because for a long time, I just haven’t spoken about it and turns out if you do that, things get real bad and explode like a big old pot of pasta.
Again I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds it tremendously hard to speak about my struggle with mental health, because let me tell you, boy it’s a fucking struggle. Mental health issues have been a part of me and my life, for as long as I can remember from having a nana with problems, to my sister and even to my mum and dad. Mental health effects literally everyone I know in some way or other, and that’s not a whole load of people. Mental health has been a part of me and the person I am since I was eleven, maybe even younger but my Elephant Man mind can’t go back that far. When you think about it that’s a might long time, eight years. Eight years that I’ve ever so slightly been a bit of a mess, eight years of not really talking or dealing with it, which has only just changed of three months ago, but with a mild drinking problem and an even bigger drug problem, you can imagine it hasn’t been the best, nor the worse eight years, not that anyone’s battle with mental health is you know, a barrel of laughs.
I’m not sure what has seemed to cause this, oh so wonderful manic depressive episode, that I’m at present dealing with, or you know trying to. Maybe it’s because I’ve had the day from hell at work, and I feel like I’m going to be 45, and still working there, and I’ve done none of the things I keep saying I’m going to do, you know like stop eating so much cheese and become the next Lena Dunham (Just a less problematic one). Am I still going to feel this uncomfortable in my own skin when I’m twenty six? It seems that everyone around me is content within themselves, in their own skin and finally doing something that they want to do, and love. I feel now that there’s a secret added pressure to impress people, to look like I actually have my shit together, and that I’m not the human equivalent of crumbling ryvita.
Maybe it’s because now I’ve hit the tender age of Nineteen, and again everyone around me is finally to starting to figure out, what they want to do and are so happy with the choice’s they’ve made, and here I am not having the faintest idea of what I want to do, or whether I’m going to amount to anything, and become the person I so desperately I want to be seen as, not that there’s anything wrong with not having things worked out like I fully support the “help what is happening, fuck it I don’t care I’m just gonna roll with it” lifestyle, but when it seems like you’re the only one, not with your shit together, it’s kind of terrifying.
Because the sad truth of the matter is, I didn’t ever think that I would still be here, and when you think like that, you kind of don’t plan for the future, if you told kind of overweight chubby, stupidly insecure emo Libby, with the jet black hair, because she so badly wanted to be Wednesday Aadams, if you told that girl, she would still be here four years later, she wouldn’t of believed a word you said, and you know what? Nineteen year old Libby doesn’t really believe it either.
With all things considered when you’ve been and very much still struggle so much with mental health, for a stupid amount of time, you don’t think ahead or even plan for the future. It’s all about surviving, hell just even getting through to the next day, without doing something drastic, no one tells you how rough, how ugly mental health can really be. It isn’t the way the media or even certain people seem to think it is. Mental health isn’t an episode of 13 reasons why. Life isn’t the virgin suicides, although the cinematography is 10/10.