You won last night. I would say I hope you’re happy, but of course, I already know you’re not. Even though you left in a huff, satisfied with how you escalated things, I know you’ll be back. This morning I got the fight back in me and I’m mad about how you behaved. It seems silly to be communicating like this, but I wanted to get this letter out to you before you came back, so that you know where we stand going forward.

I talk about going to the doctor, being diagnosed and admitting to having a problem as the first steps towards feeling better. I also would be lying, if I said I was okay with my illness. I go through spurts of being exceedingly angry with myself. Mad at my brain. My body. My genetics. But mostly, I am mad at the disease.

Most people can never truly understand the currency of anxiety. Each letter typed is worth about 3 negative thoughts. Now before you get worried about the negative-thought-to-word conversion rate, perhaps wait for me to lay it out below. And if you’re that concerned, maybe it’s because you would like to know what the conversation will leave you with in your own struggle?
--Photo by Tristan Gassert on Unsplash

Imagine a big storage case, with a ton of clips sitting inside and when you recall one, your brain works like a vending machine to dispense it to your consciousness.

With flashbacks, or in my case, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the vending machine is broken and releases too many clips out at once, or starts dispensing them without someone placing an order, at the wrong time. Anything I have lived through can be easily accessed at any moment. Good or bad memories—the brain is dispensing without regard.

With 6.9% of Americans reporting to have suffered a depressive episode in 2012 alone, we shouldn’t be saying things like, “what now all millennials are depressed” or “you just need to think positively more”. Instead, maybe we can research the problems and find a way to help those who need it, become comfortable receiving help. Not doing so, leaves people waiting longer to get better. And for those of us who do get help, it feels like you’ve joined a club so secret, even its members don’t know who’s in the club with them.