Taking Mental Health Seriously… No, Seriously.

I am your mind.

And I am a joke.

The punch line that precedes the rim shot.

Bah dum, dum.

You laugh at me like some street corner beggar on the morning shift, watching as the suits make their way to their nine-to-five lives. Just sitting pathetically upon my perch with my tin cup and my beggarly gloves.

“Excuse me, sir? Would you happen to have the price of a cup of coffee?”

Bah dum, dum.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It just comes and goes. I sweat a little. It’s no big deal.”

That’s what you say to people. That’s the narrative you’ve created for me. A cute little turn of phrase.

How dare you think of me that way?

You’re just scared. Because when it comes right down to it, you have no control over me whatsoever — and you’re afraid that if anyone ever knew that, they wouldn’t come within five feet of you.

They’d look at you like that hobo, plopped down outside a dingy café with your torn gloves and your soot-encrusted face, and they’d cast niggardly gazes in your direction as they walk gingerly along with their soy milk latte’s and buttered croissants.

“Spare change?”

And yet you tell your friends that I’m your fool… your foil — your ne’er-do-well.

But, we know the difference, don’t we?

Bah dum, dum.

You’ve done your level best to get rid of me — to drug me into oblivion.

Atavan, Paxil, Prozak, Zoloft, Effexor, Cyprolex, Wellbutrin, Lexapro, Citalopram— the list goes on and on and on.

None of it really does whole hell of a lot of much. Does it?

And yet the pill parade keeps on a coming like the fucking march of dimes.

Bah dum, dum.

I’m no charity.

I’m your reality.

And you live to fight me and I thrive on it. Makes me feel so powerful. Like I could crush you.

Your irrational choices have really worked out well for me.

Seriously, thanks bunches.

You continuously find ways to punish yourself, which — and I’ve got to be honest here — is incredible to watch.

Because it saves me so much time and energy. It allows me to gain strength with very little effort. Not to mention it being an endless source of entertainment.

“God, I wonder what he’ll do this week. Last week you could have filled a bathtub with his sweat and tears.”

I’d PVR you if I could.

You’re better than the Superbowl and the Westminster Dog Show combined.

You’re a pay-per-view waiting to happen, my friend.

Bah dum, dum.

Yet, here’s something you’ll never understand, and this is the truth.

No bullshit.

All I’ve ever wanted is to be accepted — to be loved and cared for. I crave compassion.

Not unlike yourself.

If you ever stopped for a moment and just acknowledged the fact that I’m part of you.

Just as your heart is, or your lungs, or your legs or any other part belonging to a man (to paraphrase Shakespeare).

I’m one with you.

And the more you take steps to wage war against your own mind, the stronger I become.

But it’s all meaningless, anyway — because, at the end of the day, I’m still nothing but a joke to you.

Bah dum, dum.

3 thoughts on “Taking Mental Health Seriously… No, Seriously.

      1. That is okay David. Actually, I did regret some of my choice of words the following day. I did have mental health (months at the Royal Ottawa Hospital) issues including a one year weight gain span. These issues had occurred in my late teens into the early twenties linked to perhaps none verbal father/lower school bullying/life long speech issue.

        Thus your blogs hold much weight so to speak. Your words drill into ones thoughts yet, in parallel, allow strong elements of healing.

        Hope all is well.


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