If you don’t understand mental illness, good. Good for you. You shouldn’t have to understand.
If you don’t understand why some people can’t get out of bed in the morning, good. I hope you jump out of your bed every day ready to take the world by storm.
If you don’t understand how someone could drag a blade across their skin, or bruise themselves, pick, probe, burn, then good. I hope you’re never that desperate to feel something.
If you don’t understand what would drive a girl to keep starving herself despite everything she’s lost in the process, good. I hope you stay heavy and present and real.
If you don’t understand what eating everything in your kitchen only to throw it all up solves, good. I hope you always remember that it solves nothing.
If you don’t understand why he won’t just go to rehab or church or find someone who can help him, good. I hope you always remember you have somewhere to turn.
If you don’t understand how she can put getting high above her own children, good. I hope you never fall in love with a substance that only kills you in return.
If you don’t understand how someone can keep swallowing bottles of pills, tying knots in ropes, or standing at the tops of bridges, good. I hope you’re never that desperate for relief.
If you don’t understand how people do it, good.
You’re not supposed to.
It’s all fucking sick.
It’s all fucking mental.
When you say your prayers tonight, thank God for ignorance.