My daughter and I encountered an amazing champion the other day. I’ve been wanting to write about our experience, but I’m a little embarrassed we even needed her help. You see, my daughter has bipolar disorder. Normally she runs and jumps like most other children her age. But recently, one of the medications we’ve been giving her to stabilize her moods makes the right side of her body numb. The most noticeable part of this is that she walks with a limp. We’re trying to get rid of the offending drug, but since it will take awhile for the effects to lessen, she lives with the limp for now.

She’s pretty good about not letting the limp get in her way. I’ve noticed that it gets worse when she’s tired or has walked a lot. Knowing this, I was not surprised when she asked me if she could use an electric cart at Walmart on a recent shopping trip there. Since we hadn’t used one before, we asked the women at customer service if she could use one. I was polite and explained my child had a limp. After looking at us quizzically, both employees said no. They told us that the carts were only for adults.

Soon after, I was stopped by a Walmart employee. She had heard the whole exchange a few minutes previously. She felt that we were discriminated against. She informed me the carts were there for anyone who needed them. Then she confirmed this with her manager. I made sure to get the manager’s name so when we went back to get the cart, I could tell the women at customer service.

My daughter and I placed our order at the in-store McDonald’s and waited at the counter. The next thing I knew, our new hero was riding up on the cart. It wasn’t enough for her to tell us she felt we had been wronged. It wasn’t enough for her to confirm with the manager that my child was entitled to a cart. No, this kind and caring lady went further out of her way. She secured and brought the cart to my child.

My heart was singing at the actions of this compassionate woman. She didn’t need to hear our story. She believed us and wanted to make things right. Once we got our food, my daughter happily climbed aboard her new ride. Since my mom had had to use a cart like this in her later years, I knew how it operated. I gave my daughter a quick tutorial and we were off. My daughter was so happy to not have to worry about her leg slowing her down. I stayed close by her assisting her as needed while we shopped. At one point, the cart stopped working so we flagged down another employee who called guest services to bring another cart. I don’t think the employee who initially denied my child the cart was too happy to bring out a replacement cart. She did though.

When we were done with our shopping, guess who was waiting to ring us up? Yep, our new friend. While I was finishing paying for our purchases, I chatted a bit with our helper. I thanked her profusely as I explained why we needed the cart. She wished us well and sent us on our merry way. I’m not certain how long my daughter will have this limp. I hope it won’t be permanent. Whatever the case, I’m glad there our people like the employee at Walmart, who go out of their way to make sure my daughter has what she needs.

The Mighty is asking the following: Share with us an unexpected act of kindness, big or small, that you’ve experienced or witnessed in an everyday place. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.


My son Cole is a competitive swimmer and we attend a lot of swim meets, swim practices, etc. When you attend these events, you meet a lot of other swim parents, and typically the conversations result in questions about other children, including of course, “Does your other son swim?” A lot of swimmers are part of swim families, and all of the kids swim.

Well, not so much in our family. I mean, Bryce swims. He loves the water. Bryce is sensory-seeking – meaning he craves stimulation. Swimming, taking baths, jumping in waves in the ocean – all of those things fully stimulate your entire body. So, yes, Bryce loves to swim, but he is not a “swimmer” like Cole.

Of course, when you answer, “No, he doesn’t swim,” the next questions is always, “What does he do?” It’s not rude or even nosy. It’s just conversation and of course people think that when you have a son as into their sport as Cole your other son must also be into something. So, how do I answer? Sometimes I just say, well Bryce is a video game kid and not really a sports kid. But, I always think, do I need to explain more? Do I tell them that Bryce has tried to participate in sports but it’s so difficult for him? Do I share with them that Bryce has special needs. How do I explain it? Do I go into detail, or leave it at “special needs?” Do I say, Bryce has behavioral issues? That isn’t really correct. Do I say, Bryce is diagnosed with mental illness? Or, do I go into details.

Bryce is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, ADHD, sensory processing disorder, anxiety, executive functioning disorder and has developmental delays. He is probably somewhere on the autism spectrum. I mean sometimes I don’t even know what to say because the list is so long and the list can change.

Or, do I tell them, well we tried soccer when he was younger. But since Bryce didn’t understand how to play the game, got frustrated and had impulse control issues, he just ran into the other kids. We tried swimming. Bryce made it through two practices before he realized that you had to actually pay attention and swim back and forth in the lane over and over again. So that didn’t work. We tried diving. The description for diving said it was great for kids with ADHD. and it was at the same time as swim practice. Perfect, I thought. That was going really well until we wound up in the emergency room because Bryce got upset to the point where he wanted to kill himself (that is a whole other post). We recently tried an art class. And guess what? Bryce made it through half the class before he decided he didn’t want to do it. But, he calmly came and told me he wanted to leave. He didn’t scream, yell, call anyone names, hit anyone or throw anything. Success!

I know I do not need to tell anyone that Bryce is diagnosed with a mental illness or that he has developmental delays. Yet, many times I do. Why? To explain why it is that he plays a lot video games? Is that me feeling a need to not feel guilty? Probably a little. Is that our society expecting everyone these days to “do something.” Probably a little. It’s also just me telling about Bryce. That is who he is. I also do it because I want to stand up against stigma. I want people to know that it is OK to talk about mental illness. That I am not afraid to talk about it. And, when I do talk about it, other people talk about it. Maybe other people will get help for their child or find services. Because we have had success for Bryce and that is because we do get him help.

So, what does Bryce do? He loves video games, drawing, animals, stuffed animals, jumping on the trampoline and swimming. He loves swimming.

Follow this journey on Think of Happy Things.

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” –Natalie Goldberg

About six months ago I voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric hospital.

There’s a difference between telling people you suffer from a mental illness and telling people you have spent time in the hospital for said illness. The term “psychiatric hospital” is pretty much synonymous with the term “crazy house” to a good majority of people. We’ve seen “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest” so we know what goes on there. People drooling in the corner. Doctors dragging patients to have lobotomies or to undergo electric shock treatments. Every space filled with someone muttering to themselves or yelling. All with that same “crazy” look in their eyes. We see what happens in television or on the big screen when someone is deemed inadequate to be in society. We’ve read about it. We’ve heard rumors about it. But we haven’t actually been in one.

I haven’t been able to write about my experience since I was discharged from the hospital. I’ve tried, but nothing has come out sounding right. I think it might be because I wasn’t ready to talk about it publicly. I was scared of how people might think of me. I’m candid about my major depression, bipolar and anxiety, but for some reason I couldn’t be candid with my hospitalization. I’m still scared to talk about it so publicly, but I think it needs to be done. While the stigma with mental illness seems to be improving a little bit, the stigma regarding psychiatric facilities does not. And so I’ve decided it’s time for me to write about it.

Six months ago I was suicidal, exhausted and terrified of not only myself, but of my life as well. Being alive was painful, and there was only one solution I could come up with to escape the pain. I had reached my breaking point. I’d come close countless times before, but nothing like this. I sat with my boyfriend at the time after two nights of crying uncontrollably in the fetal position on the floor, creating scars on my arms and running barefoot around the block. I sat on the couch with him and looking down at my hands nervously wrung together in my lap and told him I think I needed to call a doctor. I realized I was at the end of the shaky line I always teetered on, frightened to fall, and I was scared of what could happen next.

After finding the card on which my psychiatrist had carefully written all the emergency numbers I could call on the weekends or after hours when he wasn’t on-call, I made a phone call. I made a phone call that possibly saved my life.

“I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore. I just want to stop feeling this way.”


“I think you need to go to the hospital.”

“I think so too.”

“Do you trust yourself to drive to the ER?”


“Is there someone who can drive you?”


“I will give you an hour to get everything together. I will let them know you are coming. If you aren’t there in an hour I will send someone to come get you.”

I knew what she meant. That “someone” would be the police.

And then I was numb. In a monotone voice I told my boyfriend what she said. I didn’t know what she meant by “get everything together” so I just held my dog for awhile and told him I’d be back soon. And then my boyfriend drove us less than a mile to the hospital. Two of my best friends met us there. After waiting only a couple of minutes my name was called and I was escorted through a side door secured by an electronic lock. The nurse told me to remove all of my clothing and put on what can only be described as paper pajamas. She told me to give her my purse and my phone. I asked if I could give them to my friends and she escorted me back through the doors and out to them. It was then I realized what I had done. I realized she had to go with me out there because I could have decided to bolt. Change my mind and run out the sliding doors. What she didn’t realize is that I was too exhausted to do that. The thought didn’t even cross my mind.

She escorted me back through the secure door, and I started to cry. I was still numb, but I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t feel anything, but I couldn’t stop crying. I cried as they took vials of my blood and took my vitals. I cried as I lay on the hospital bed that gave me the creeps. I cried when my friends were allowed to come back, one at a time, to see me. I cried until I felt there was nothing left in me. And then I cried some more.

I cried, but I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel any emotion. I was too exhausted. So I just laid there. I lay there as my thoughts circled around and around. I lay there in a room with three other people in it, placed right in front of the doorway. No privacy because I had to have eyes on me at all times due to the nature of my visit. I spent two and a half days and two nights. After what were the longest almost three days of my life, a bed was finally open at the psychiatric hospital and I was going to be moved over there.

All I remember about the rest of that day was that it was raining. I remember it was raining and I was only wearing socks. It was raining, I was only wearing socks, and I had to walk across a parking lot. I had to walk through the ER parking lot where students, visitors, doctors and a variety of other people could see me. I remember pleading with God to not see anyone who knew me. And then I was taken onto a small bus with one other person. It was the guy who was in the hospital bed outside my room who snored so loudly, 24 hours a day — so loudly that I was worried someone would suffocate him with a pillow. I later found out he has schizophrenia and hadn’t slept in days because of the voices in his head. We sat in silence as we were driven a few blocks away to a back entrance and up to the inpatient side of the psychiatry hospital. I was taken to the third floor, and he was taken to the fourth floor. I remember being terrified that this third floor ward would be just like the psychiatric ER. I remember sitting at the end of the hall as they explained the rules and I filled out the intake papers. I was then showed to my room where I looked around at its empty walls, devoid of any sort of personality or evidence that another person was ever in there. I had nothing. The clothes I had on didn’t meet the requirements of allowable items on the ward. My shoes had laces and my shirt had buttons. So I sat there, in shock, in the paper pajamas I’d had on for three days in a body that had not been washed in four days and a mind that had been broken and twisted until it had become unrecognizable to its owner.

I was finally able to move to walk over to the phone available for patients and called my mom to tell her I needed a pillow, some clothes and my stuffed animal. And then I sat some more. I sat in my room until clean clothes arrived and then I was able to shower. A nurse stood outside the bathroom door while I showered. I was still on suicide watch. I stood under the stream of water, which I had made as hot as I could get it, hoping to scald my skin enough to feel something and to clean this reality off me.

By that time, our dinner had arrived. I sat at a table alone, feeling the same way you do the first day of camp when you don’t know anyone, so you sit down at a seat and hope someone cool will sit next to you. A girl with long brown hair sat down next to me. I remember thinking how beautiful she was and wondering why she was there. I quickly found out and learned pretty much every conversation on the hall would cover first things first: why you were there, what was wrong with you and what meds you were on. She told me she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. And she was coming down off methadone.

That night, I went to sleep feeling a little less frightened. When I woke up in the morning I felt disoriented and unsure of where I was. I dragged myself out of bed as the sun was coming up. There were a few other people already up and milling around or reading the newspaper or working on a puzzle. I sat in a chair, quiet, and watched the sunrise and thought I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I learned this is what mornings on the third floor felt like. A quiet understanding and silence as we bathed in the first warmth of the sun for the day.

Our days consisted of a structured schedule marked by meals, group therapy, meeting with our teams of doctors, visiting hours and talking. We all talked. Really talked. When there’s not much to do besides color, put together a puzzle or watch whatever the person who was in charge of the remote had put on, you talk. We talked about our past. We talked about what it felt like to have a mental illness. We talked about our fears, our hopes, things we had never breathed to another person. We became a family. A dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. I slowly began to feel something. Halfway through the week, a nurse took us out to the little patch of grass and garden behind the walls of the hospital. It was free time and the weather was warm for October. After throwing the football with a few of the guys, I laid in the grass with the girls. I felt the sunshine on my face for the first time in days. The talking felt lighter out there. It was understood that we didn’t have to talk. The silence was comfortable. We were disappointed when we had to go back inside for dinner, but we left feeling lighter, having gained a little hope for ourselves.

The night before I left, I sat up late with the people I had become closest with and I shared with them how frightened I was. How scared I was to leave the safety and controlled environment of the hospital. How scared I was that I wasn’t ready. And they understood. They understood and they gave me confidence. They gave me strength. The next morning I packed up my belongings I had been sent while there and the letters the other patients had written me. I put on shoes and marveled at how strange it was to feel something so solid around my feet after only wearing socks for a week. I hugged everyone goodbye and cried. I didn’t know if I’d ever see any of them again.

I signed my discharge papers and the doors closed on the third floor ward. I noticed every little noise, every little breeze, every little sensation. I held my dog tightly as he licked my face, and I didn’t mind his terrible breath at all. I rolled the window down and felt the wind and sun on my face, and for the first time in a very long time I was excited to be alive.

There are times when I regret my decision. I can’t lie about that. I hate that I feel that way. That I feel as if the experience has ruined my professional life. That if I hadn’t been honest about why I was absent, things would be so different. It’s unsettling to know that in places where there needs to be less transparency and more discussions about mental illnesses, there is none. And worst of all, it’s not understood. I hate that I’ve had to learn I can’t be honest with everyone about it, which makes me feel ashamed of who I am. Even though it’s not something I chose.

Most of the time though, I am grateful of my decision. I don’t know if I would be here to typing this if I hadn’t made the decision to commit myself. I feel grateful I did, and that it was the first step of many in gaining control over the disease that has controlled important parts of my life for so long.

Follow this journey on Twenties in Ruin.

If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: What’s one part of your or your loved one’s disability and/or disease that no one talks about? If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

There is one thing that really makes me angry, and that is how mental illness is wrongly portrayed in the media. Usually people with mental illness are painted as incapable of living a “normal” life, that they’re a bit odd and don’t fit in with society. Most commonly and most dangerously, people with mental illness are depicted as frightening and violent. Of course, this makes me frustrated because I know these portrayals are untrue and add to the stigma we fight hard to eliminate.

But recently, new depictions of those with mental illness show movie and TV characters as eccentric geniuses, desirably quirky, cute and vulnerable, or that their mental illness is a trendy fashion accessory.

While this is better than stereotyping people with mental illness as violent, this still makes me angry because it trivializes mental illness. It’s also dangerous, but in a different way — it makes an undesirable health condition seem desirable and even an advantageous trait. Though I live a “normal” and successful life as someone with a mental illness, I can tell you, mental illness is not desirable. Mental illness is not trendy or glamorous. Mental illness is devastating, debilitating and deadly.

I have bipolar affective disorder, which means I have episodes of depression and episodes of mania. I have periods of stability in-between episodes. I’m only 25, but I have had a tumultuous few years thanks to my mental illness, involving suicidal depressions, psychotic manias, long hospital stays and electroconvulsive therapy. I would give anything to have a life without these interruptions and to not have to worry about how my illness may impact my future.

Mental illness is not something to be desired. There is nothing trendy in not washing for days or not being able to get out of bed. There is nothing to be desired when your thoughts are going so fast it is scary and you cannot concentrate, or when you talk with such speed that no one can understand you. It is not attractive when the only legal thing that immediately slows you down is a cigarette. Neither is waking up hung-over because you drank yourself into oblivion the night before.

The hospital is not trendy. It is a facility to keep people from intentionally or unintentionally harming themselves. It is not glamorous to spend weeks in hospital; it is upsetting because you have to put everything on hold.

The public breakdowns are not cute; they’re embarrassing. During various hospitalizations I have been so agitated I tried to break windows, tried to escape, paced for hours, cried hysterically, lay comatose on the floor and was sedated and put in seclusion. I assure you the distress I felt was not trendy.

The constant fighting with family when unwell is not glamorous and neither is feeling alone. As hard as loved ones try, no one can completely understand how hard it is to live with mental illness. This loneliness can feel like isolation at times.

The crying is not cute. Crying so hard that your eyes become puffy, that you have snot pouring down your chin, that your sobs turn into grunts and your body uncontrollably shakes is unattractive. And this crying can go on for days and nights.

Having to take medications to function is not “hip.” It can take years to find the right medication and the side effects can be terrible. It is not trendy to be unable to walk straight, to have double vision, to have vivid nightmares, to always have a dry mouth, to feel sedated, to wake-up every night drenched in sweat, to have wild tremors and to have your head down a toilet continuously vomiting.

Being talked down from the edge of a cliff is not trendy; it is soul-destroying for everyone involved. It is not cute to lose touch with reality. It was not cute to see things nobody else could; it was confusing and disturbing to say the least. The paranoia is not quirky; it is downright scary when you think people are following you, so you don’t trust anyone – especially those who are trying to help. Those times were not fun and I was not being eccentric, I was severely unwell.

The terror that mental illness brings is not trendy; it is real. There are no words that can describe what it is like to be in the suffocating grips of an acute episode of a mental illness.

There is nothing trendy for family members who have to care for loved ones struggling with mental illness. There is nothing glamorous about the destruction that mental illness brings. The reality of mental illness is destroyed relationships, job losses, financial losses, disrupted studies, lost futures and lost lives. There is nothing trendy in the stigma and discrimination sufferers of mental illness still face; it is unfair and a disgrace.

Portraying people with mental illness as dangerous only contributes to the stigma and makes the fight for fairness harder. But portraying mental illness as trendy or as a cute quirk trivializes the damaging experiences of suffers — it’s an untrue representation of the devastation mental illness can cause.

Mental illness has the potential to kill, and there’s nothing trendy about that.

The Mighty is asking the following: Tell us a story about a time you encountered a commonly held misconception about your mental illness. How did you react, and what do you want to tell people who hold his misconception? If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

We’ve all had friends who have had a bad influence on us. But the kind of friends I made are different. They are in my head.

I met my boyfriend, Bri (bipolar) first. I can’t even remember when we became friends or how. Looking back, I remember Bri being in my life as early as third grade, but I never knew how much of an impact he would have on me then. Right now, Bri and I are closer than ever, but we fight a lot. We are always on and off and I never know where we stand. Sometimes Bri makes me really happy and sometimes he makes me really sad. There is no in between. Bri introduced me to Deb.

Deb (Depression) became my best friend. She was always introducing me to new people and habits as well. With these new friends, I didn’t need anyone else. Of course, Deb did make me feel really sad, but she was my best friend and I didn’t want to lose her. Deb made me not care about anything, which I loved. Deb didn’t like when I talked to real people though. She liked when I stayed in my room by myself. I began drifting from reality quickly because my real friends thought I did not like them anymore. I was closer with these friends in my head so I no longer needed real people in my life.

Before me and Deb became friends, Deb was friends with Sue (suicidal thoughts). Deb introduced me to Sue and we all became very close. Sue was always on my mind. Sue liked to play games with me though… She liked to come and go but she let me know that she was always there. Sometimes she was right there giving me hugs and sometimes she was with other friends, but I knew she would always be there for me and this gave me a sense of relief, which I needed after becoming friends with Annie.

Annie (Anxiety) was the type of friend you didn’t want to be friends with. The only reason I had to be friends with her is because she was friends with all of my other friends. We did not like each other though. However, since she was friends with all of my other friends, I had to be nice to her. Annie always put me down and told me I was ugly and that I would never be good enough. She made me scared to talk to people because I was so self-conscious. I always tried to be good enough for Annie, but nothing seemed to impress her. Sometimes when she got mad at me, she would attack me and make me cry and cry and cry. She would repeat all of the negative things in my life over and over again in my head. She would then make it hard to breathe because she would make me cry so much. When she attacked me, my mind would race with negative thoughts and it was hard for me to win the fight she was starting with me. These fights usually lasted only a couple minutes, but seemed like a lifetime in my head. Annie made me so self-conscious, and made me care what people thought, even though Deb made me not care about anything at all; It was like a war inside my head.

To fight this war, I needed a lot of alone time to think to myself. I thought about a lot of stuff and this war in my head made it very hard to focus on reality. My grades began to drop because I couldn’t concentrate on anything except my new friends. I was addicted to the way they made me feel (even when they made me sad) and wanted to understand my friends better.

One day, Deb, Bri and Sue were all against me and told me to kill myself. Annie was in on it too. They told me that nobody would care if I was gone and they were trying to help other people by making me disappear. They also said it was in my best interest to do this so the war in my head would end. I overdosed that day. I was put in the hospital with people who were also friends with Deb, Annie, Sue and Bri. They had more friends than me though. These people were also friends with Ed, (eating disorder) Cat, (self-harm) Ana, (anorexia) Mia, (bulimia) Addie, (ADD) Owen, (OCD) sophie, (schizophrenia) and Izzy (insomnia). Me and Izzy clicked right away.

After multiple episodes of overdosing, I grew angry with my friends for having such bad influences on me. However, at this point, these were the only friends I had anymore after isolating myself from my real friends. My real friends became enemies to me because they did not understand me anymore. Maybe this is why they say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Because I was finally starting to realize the friends that were in my head were mentally abusive. They made me block out people and brainwashed me into thinking they were there for me. They took a toll on the way I acted towards the people I needed the most in my life. I had lost touch with these people because of my mentally abusive friends.

If you are friends with any of these demons, or know anyone who’s friends with them, please understand these are not the right friends to have. They are mentally abusive and it took me so long to realize this. Even though they are so controlling and hard to get rid of, it is possible. They come in to your life unexpectedly and maybe unwanted at first, but then change you into a different person. You will begin to think they’re there for you but really, they are against you. Find the motivation to make new relationships with real people. Medication can be another solution. And most importantly, talk to someone you trust. I found that is the biggest step to stop being controlled by terrible friends.

If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.

The Mighty is asking the following: For someone who doesn’t understand what it’s like to have your mental illness, describe what it’s like to be in your head for a day. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

I will always be a little bit strange. A second-­guesser of even my most obvious traits and talents. I will often wonder when I will crack… again. And settle for the normalcy only a person like me can have. I search constantly for a sign — some signal to alert me I am finally free from powdered fantasies encased in pale, yellow shells. I slide on by, hoping my stride doesn’t snag on a nail too soon. You may see me in my glory, in my happiness and in my joy, but I will always refrain from committing fully to celebration.

No, it’s not fair that at times I doubt my clout with my own rationality, and, at times, I start to think, “Is this really me? Is this really me?”

Built on the backbone of pills, held on by a balance not quite my own. Four years and eight months of memorable moments. One giant hope this identity of mine really belongs to me.

I will crumble when your words twist into 3,000 meanings at once. My brain overloads, and I ponder which meaning you wished me to imply. The air in the space around my head compresses, and the cells inside lose color as I lose sensibility. Frequent chatter, not of tongues, but puny particles pecking at my brain, preparing for a battle that need not exist in the first place.

Are you listening? Because although at times these words I speak may not dole out the perfection I wish they’d supply, my heart has always been in the right place.

silohette of crystal

Please know if I end up not the person I say I am, I am the person I mean to be. It’s a constant struggle between reality and sanity. One I do not wish to fight, but neither silence nor surrender is an option.

Expectations of comprehension, I do not have for you. I know the extent of your compassion and the length of your arm. If it is warmth I seek, I trust you will give it to me. I fear not frost, nor sleet, nor stone when I am with you. But I will understand a need to leave.

For the baggage I carry is not for you. And it clings to my back like a banged ­up tattoo. And I don’t even know where it’ll go when I’m through… with being afraid of loving you. And when I’m done with this obnoxious disease that refuses to knock with courtesy… when I can brave life without these pills that pardon me for all my ills… oh, if that day were to come. Oh, if that day were to come.

I’d be needing baggage none.

The Mighty is asking the following: Describe your experience of not quite fitting under one specific diagnosis or a label your community identifies with. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

Real People. Real Stories.

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We face disability, disease and mental illness together.