A week ago I was discharged from the hospital for a stomach ulcer. Technically it’s two but only one bleeding one that resulted in me yakking approximately a third of my blood all over the entrance of a bar (that had only been open for a week I might add). I am fine now, minus an annoyingly bland and restricted diet that requires me to fight against 6 years of eating disorder recovery, but at the same time I’m frustrated.
I’m not frustrated with the fact that I have an ulcer or have to cut out all of my comfort foods and caffeine and alcohol, but more so the fact that everyone else is making this a bigger deal than I am.
When I was a kid (and I’m sure many kids with mental illnesses can relate) I wanted a physical ailment to get people to care. I was popping 13 pills a day in eighth grade trying to lower my daily panic attack average to <15 and no one understood that. I didn’t parade my diagnoses around at all, but to the friends I had mustered up the courage to be vulnerable to and explain what was happening, they didn’t fucking get it.
Sure, I get it, preteens aren’t the most intellectually advanced when it comes to explaining the complexities and realties of OCD and panic disorder and depression. But still, it was something that was important to me and I just wanted to feel seen and heard.
I didn’t want and I certainly now do not want any kind of pity or sympathy, just to feel like my openness wasn’t going to waste.
As I’ve grown older and obtained a bipolar diagnosis and gone through plenty of supplements and meds and doctors for an almost 22-year-old, I’ve realized that I don’t crave being seen as much anymore — at least not in more intimate settings.
And this goddamn ulcer has solidified that to me even more.
I have opened up here and there about some “scary” symptoms of bipolar that have arisen in the past year or so and while in the moment people have been receptive, that moment is fleeting. That is not meant to bash on any of my friends because a lot of what I am going through is hard to wrap your head around when you’re not going through it. I also don’t talk about it a whole bunch so it’s not something I can or would be upset about because I get it.
But at the exact same time, after I have repeatedly said over and over again that I am fine and I want to move on from the big hullabaloo and just heal and get on with my life, everyone seems to think that this is the time for them to cash in on their sympathy cards.
One of the reasons I don’t feel the need to talk about every little nitty gritty detail of how my mind is fucking me up, is because I don’t need every other conversation I have to be about it.
I get that everyone means well but it's frustrating to know that one of the only reasons they are checking in for this is because it’s tangible and scary for them — and they don’t even consciously recognize that. It’s not their fault but I’m also not going to spend my time trying to explain that to every fucking person.
The only positive I can see from this is that at least 13 year old me was proven right. People do care more about the physical than the mental no matter how hard you try.