tick. tock. tick. tock.

It's mind-numbing, isn't it?

I hate these days where time drags on and on because they leave me open to thought, and thought isn't something I actively enjoy, particularly when the thoughts are about my sickness and the ways to make it go away. On days like these, I wish I was a normal, happy, materialistic, rebellious teenager, you know the ones I mean? The ones who take a million photos of themselves with friends, the ones who party all weekend, the ones who are always smiling and laughing and surrounded by supportive people who rally around them when something goes wrong…

But, sadly, I'm not. I'm the person who sits in her room alone, listening to music and crying because here I don't really have any friends. I have a boyfriend, sure, but he doesn't know what's wrong with me and frankly, I won't drag him down too by telling him. I don't want him to be worried and so I'll keep it to myself. He's probably the only ray of sunshine at the moment.

And then there's my parents. Don't get me started on them. They wouldn't even believe anything was wrong if I was to tell them, or it'd be put down to me being an attention-seeking girl in a phase, I'd just get over it, is what they'd believe. So they can go on believing I'm ok because that's what keeps them sane and if that's the way it's gotta be, then so be it…

People often ask me why I'm different. Why I sit alone and listen to music or why I don't get on well with 'normal' people but I do get on with the 'freaks'. I'll tell them why. It's because people like me don't fit in in society, with the happy people. Sure, I look normal, but I am by no means normal. I am broken and sick and I know that, but noone else does. The stigma placed on people with mental illnesses prevents them from knowing, keeps them in their closed-off little box with their thousand dollar phones and first-class overseas holidays. They simply can't comprehend something that can't be seen. Sad, really.