Mental illnesses are different from physical ones; duh.
Besides the typical ‘people won’t understand’ thoughts my fear is not knowing when and if I will get better.
If you have a broken bone, the doctor can give you a time span in which it will heal. Same for the flu or a stomach virus. You always know what to expect. You usually have this sense of control, with a plan and neat prescription in your back pocket, and everything will be alright in a few weeks.
Not with depression. You don’t know if you’re actually getting better or just experiencing an emotional high. You don’t know how long you will be feeling the way you are feeling right now. There is no plan and no medicine to make you all better. Sure, you can suppress some symptoms.
I haven’t told my parents yet. That I suffer from depression and anxiety, caused by my own sister and my old high school class. Fuelled by my own mother’s drive for success and security. I’ve only been seeing a therapist for a couple weeks now, but it feels so good to be able to just talk about things. To be able to discuss the thoughts I’m having, outside of the never ending inner monologue.
But the more progress I’m making and the more I’m stepping outside of my comfort zone and getting to know myself; the happy me, the smiling me and the capable me, the more I want to share this with my family. I want to tell them, but I’m still afraid. I don’t know if I would be able to sit down with them and talk about all of this, about the intimate details of my life. Or if it would be ok to just write a message, explaining that I’m seeing a therapist.