I couldn’t get out of bed today,
my homework from yesterday lays unfinished,
eyeliner smeared on my eyelids
because I couldn’t perk up the motivation
to even wash my face last night.
But, as I scroll down my Facebook newsfeed,
I wonder if I’m doing depression wrong.
Four statuses about how people “can’t take anymore,”
two selfies of themselves crying,
a picture of someone’s cuts.
Each post filled with supportive comments,
of how things with get better if they keep trying.
I used to weigh eighty pounds,
the enamel on my teeth is eroded
from heaving up the heaviness haunting me
every second after I ate.
I hear girls talking about how they “wish”
that they had an eating disorder
so boys will carry them around,
so they’ll have a thigh gap.
Every time it causes a relapse,
and I don’t feel as perfect as people say I should
when I’m laying in a hospital bed.
Though you may claim to be so depressed
because you failed your math test,
or to be completely anorexic
because you skipped lunch today,
this is not mental illness.
Mental illness is
lying to those who love you most
about when the last time you ate was,
wearing long sleeves in the summertime,
failing your favourite classes
because even thinking about all the work gave you panic attacks,
having to bring a list of medications you’ve been on to every doctor’s visit
and explaining what each of the awful side effects did to you.
If you want attention buy a puppy,
call your grandma,
hug your sibling for christ’s sake.
Mental illnesses are not identities to assume
whenever they benefit you.