#hashtags

Depression. Anxiety. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Mental illness. These are words that are becoming mainstream. Apparently, you're cool if you have a mental illness. Depression means you're strong or brave. Anxiety means you're with the times. PTSD means you've lived through some shit in life and you should be proud of that.

It's trendy to label yourself with one (or all) of these mental illnesses. You don't need a real doctor to diagnose you, do you? Because you know what it feels like. The people who have told me this—and they have told me this—tell me Anxiety is just worrying all the time. They tell me Depression is just being sad about a bad day, that Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is being scared.

If that's all you think it is, then let me tell you right now, and it's probably going to sound a little harsh, but you don't know the half of it.

It's people like that who make people like me—who have been diagnosed by a doctor—seem like we're hard to believe. You've never been through depression until you've felt the walls around you, no matter where it may be, sink closer and closer into the little space you have left to breathe. The walls are written with reminders of why you are so damn sad, of why you can't get out of bed, or why you suddenly cancel plans.

If you look close enough, it's written in your own blood.

The thoughts that run through your head when this is happening is usually unrepeatable. The reason for that is because you don't want anybody worrying about you. That's why you have the mask. You wear the mask that automatically tells people, "I'm fine." Behind it, you are screaming and begging for help. You're not asking anyone in particular, you just hope anyone will rip off the mask and see what's really going on.

Spoiler alert: ninety-nine percent of the time, no one does.

It's up to you. You have to be the one to take it off. Once it's off, the thoughts come out. What thoughts, you may ask? The ones that are telling you to kill yourself. The voices that are telling you that you've suffered enough pain, that it's okay to just put the gun in your mouth and take a deep breath. You slowly start to realize that those voices are just an echo of your own. That's probably the worst realization of it all.

Let's get to the loudest, most obnoxious thing of all time...Anxiety. Anxiety is the combination of all of your most hated sounds playing on loop, set to the highest volume setting. There's no way to turn it off, but you can lower the volume. How you do that is completely up to you. For me, it's watching movies and writing, escaping from my world and into another. Playing video games doesn't hurt, either because my brain shuts off for that little bit.

Now, I want you to imagine the most annoying child you can think of. I'm talking about the anti-christ. They're running around, clothes dirty from rolling around in the mud all day, stinky, not listening to their parents. They're knocking over priceless antiques and mocking you. Imagine they're mocking you for something embarrassing you did two years ago. No one remembers it, but this child does and they are reminding everyone about it.

This anti-christ child is what it's like in my brain every single day. If you want to know what they look like, they look like you. This child is an image of yourself. There's no way to calm them down, no way to make them just take a nap and start fresh in the morning. This child never tires and they keep going and going and going, around and around and around until you want to put a gun to your head and pull the trigger.

If you imagine the noises and the child all happening at the same time, then congratulations! You are officially looking into my head. Just add the Depression and you've almost got the full tour!

Let's dig into PTSD. Now, people think that in order to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you have to be in war, or in some sort of life changing accident. That isn't true. It comes in all forms. Mine might seem silly to some, but it's genuine ( and once again, diagnosed) and it sucks.

On August 27, 2018, I had to put my dog of almost thirteen years down. His name was Oscar. It was—and still is—the hardest thing I have ever had to go through. I've dealt with loss since I was seven years old, but this (in my twenty-three years of life) was the big one. Don't get me wrong, I know I'll experience more tragedy than the death of a dog, but as of right now, I've never known anything like this. 

After he was put down, I wanted to die. I didn't know a life without him. I could say I raised him, but really, he raised me. Our bond was so strong, nobody could simply call us 'best friends', so they called us brother and sister. There wasn't anyone in this world he loved more than me and I know that.

The traumatizing thing about this is that I can't find myself to get another dog. It's been less than a year, but I don't like not having a dog. It just feels unnatural. Today, my mom and I went to the shelter and we saw this beautiful Husky. Long story short, we couldn't adopt him because another family did. I was upset, but it wasn't about not getting the dog. It was because it made me miss Oscar more than I have in months.

The worst part was, when I thought we were getting this dog, all I could think about was the pain I would go through again when we would have to put him down in ten plus years. I kept thinking back to how Oscar was once that energetic puppy, but then he got to be slower and in pain and how I would have to watch that happen again. I can't do that.

Of course, it isn't just about not being able to adopt another dog. I have dreams every night that make me wake up so depressed, I refuse to go back to sleep. I relive the day he was put down and feel the same horrifying pain. Sometimes, in these dreams, he ends up still being alive and I am beyond happy about it, but wake up without him here. Nearly every night, I wake up in a cold sweat and calling out for him.

My brain is constantly buzzing about him. Actually, his death was the straw that broke the camel's back. See, I've been depressed for years. Ever since I got bullied at the Catholic School I went to for sixth and seventh grade. It got bad my Sophomore year of high school, but it slowly started getting better. It lingered over me like a small grey cloud, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.

The more I noticed Oscar was getting more and more sick, the bigger the cloud grew. I don't want to say his death was sudden because we had known for a while that he was going to have to be put down soon, but it was sudden for me. I had less than twelve hours notice. Less than twelve hours to say goodbye to the dog who has been by my side everyday for twelve years.

So, once he was gone, so was I. The mask shattered and the cloud grew big and ugly and completely engulfed me. I decided to get help and it was the best decision I have ever made.

Having all of that weight on your shoulders is excruciating and exhausting. It is literally weighing you down. Your shoulders hurt and your body feels heavy, your bones ache and your knees are about to give out. From 2008-2018, that's what I experienced. I still do from time to time, but I have things that help me lift it.

I am the strongest person I know because of what I go through everyday and how I handle it. I'm still on this Earth and it has taken some serious strength to get here. I feel like I have hiked the steepest trails, climbed over Everest and crawled across broken glass that was sprinkled over a blazing trail of hot coal just to get here.

So, please...stop making me a trend. Stop making us a trend and start paying attention more. Don't coddle us, don't tell us "everything is going to be okay" or any other bullshit we don't need to hear. If you want to help, then help raise our voices so we can be heard. Don't make us into hashtags.