Sometimes I get angry. No, scratch that, sometimes I get furious. And some days it’s about homework, or stubbing my toe, or slow walkers in school corridors – but a lot of the time I get angry about my mental illness. And that’s okay.
My whole life, I’ve had anxiety. When I was 10, anxiety became the depression, and depression became suicidal thoughts and feelings. I’ve always felt like I need to bear my illness gracefully – be thankful for what I have, soldier on, always look on the bright side because people have it worse. And it’s true: so many people have it so much worse than I do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t get angry.
I get angry that my heart is in my throat when I answer the phone. I get angry that my brain doesn’t produce the right chemicals at the right time. I get angry that I lost so much of my childhood because I was too frightened to do things – that I had to grow up so fast and learn to cope with overwhelming feelings of depression as a little kid.
I’m angry about mental illness and I’m angry about all the time I’ve lost.
I can be angry and thankful, bitter and kind.
It’s okay to be angry, as long as it doesn’t consume you. Anger like that is a hard feeling to shake.
WTF Anxiety 