Seeing all these celebrity suicides is really hard on me. It puts me back in the mindset that maybe, just maybe, suicide could be an option. I wish I could say I’ve never felt that pain. Your body doesn’t want to die; it’s the number one thing it tries to avoid. For me, it’s not a sadness or a despair, but a pure nothingness. Emotions are what draw you out of the state. It’s when the apathy hits that you can’t pull yourself out of your bed because you honestly don’t see a point to it. I’m on medication, I have a therapist, I see a psychiatrist. That doesn’t mean I’m cured. That doesn’t mean I can even make phone calls casually. Mental illness isn’t pretty. It’s not showering and brushing your teeth for days because you’re scared to get out of bed. It’s only eating peanut butter sandwiches for a month because all other food makes you nauseous. It’s forgetting everything from that morning and doubting everything that happened minutes ago. I’ve worn pajamas for weeks. I’ve had to sit down and take twenty minutes to brush my hair because I hadn’t in days. I’m surrounded by loved ones, but it’s still not easy. I wish it was. I wish I had a miracle cure to share with all of you. But here I am, crying because I’m too anxious to leave my house to go to my therapy session at 6. Unfortunately, I spend a lot of time faking it, hoping that one day I’ll actually be as happy as I’m pretending to be.