On a dark day

It isn't always what you see when scrolling through posts on Instagram whilst eating your breakfast. It's not the media's warped version of being locked up in cords and chains and it's not bottles of orange tablets on the side of your kitchen counter.

It's the pain of your heart falling out of your chest, the struggle to get out of bed with weights on your feet and needing sticks for your eyes to keep them open. It's the struggle to chew and swallow every mouthful of porridge even though it's got your favourite syrup in it. It's the want to make the right decision, but being in so much turmoil on the inside that you can't see in front of your face.

It's the worry of being a burden on others and yet wanting someone to come and shake you to see if you're still alive and the thought of not taking another breath and yet wondering what your children would look like smiling back at you.

It's the questioning as to when things will get better, when staring back at you in the mirror is someone you can no longer recognise when writing yourself letters and running out of pages in your journal with all of the words that escape your head.

It's wondering how you're going to get through the next day, let alone the week when each step brings you more stress onto your shoulders. It's the pain of people leaving, tenfold.

It's the ship in the ocean with the waves crashing over the boat, the sea salt sticking to your skin and the water filling up the deck. It's the isolation in that sea that you're told keeps you safe. It's the big red brick walls which are built to heaven and back to keep you protected with the reinforced steel to stop people from getting close to you. It's the theft of sunshine and the country lines into the darkness. 

It's also the strength, the light and the truth. It's the big dark monster which has an achilles heel which only courage can contain. It's the untold story that people carry on their back when walking the mountain. It can be big, bold and beautiful. It is a test that never seems to end, but it has an attachment of achievement that is only known to those who live with it. It carries with it a hidden power, bigger than those who have never experienced it. In the end, it can be the smallest dot on the wall surrounded by colour. It can almost be invisible, it can be cured. Most of all as if I never knew, there is nothing stronger than someone mental illness has flowed through.