When I was a kid, after my dad killed himself, my mom started struggling with a serious case of depression.

I’m not going to go into detail because that’s not my story to tell, but it was pretty debilitating to her for a long time.

If you had told me 15 years ago that I would talk to my mom everyday, tell her I love her, call her when I was in need, I would have never believed it.

When my mom got sick, I didn’t understand. I was grieving the loss of my father, and then suddenly felt like I was also grieving the loss of my mother. I was angry at her. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t the same anymore. In my pain, in my immaturity, in my selfishness, I wasn’t able to realize that I wasn’t the only one hurting. I failed for years to recognize what my mother had to go through, and the lengths she went to to protect us, all while experiencing unimaginable pain. I couldn’t see that his death didn’t just leave me without a dad, it left her without a husband. It left her without support, without a second person to raise us, without the person she thought she would be with forever.

It wasn’t until I experienced the crippling sensation of depression myself that I was able to understand that the things I saw were not my mothers choice. It wasn’t until I couldn’t get off the couch for hours at a time, and struggled to even heat food in the microwave for my children that I realized that depression isn’t something you can just “pick yourself up from”.

I harbored so much resentment towards her and blamed her, but the truth is, what I really felt like was that I wasn’t enough for her. That she didn’t love me enough to just “be ok”. I was so self centered that I couldn’t comprehend that her illness had nothing to do with me.

I had to live the reality myself. I had to get to a place where my own children, who I loved more than anything, weren’t enough for me to just “be ok”. My love for them had nothing to do with the chemical imbalance that was happening inside my brain.

Not being able to show my mother that empathy, is one of my biggest regrets.

I wish that it didn’t take experiencing the symptoms myself for me to have shown empathy. I wish I could have put myself aside long enough to understand and support and love her through it.

Mental illness is not something we get to choose. We don’t get to decide when it will reel its ugly head, and we don’t get to just decide to feel better. Mental illness is a disability, one that is so extreme that it causes people to kill themselves rather than experience it any longer.

No amount of love for someone, no amount of passion for a job, or positive thinking can change the way our brain decides to function.

Mental illness is an unfair, crippling reality for so many of us that can breed an incredible amount of guilt. It has nothing to do with being strong enough, or loving someone enough, or pushing through.

It kills people.

If you are struggling, and experience what it’s like to have someone invalidate your diagnosis, I am so sorry.

It’s a terrible thing to have to suffer so deeply, and then on top of that be met with people who shame you, judge you, or question you because they don’t understand.

The same ideas surround the reality of being an addict.

There will always be people who don’t see addiction as a disease. Who view addicts as people who are selfish and choose to destroy their lives and lose everything they love.

If you have felt that from someone, please know you aren’t alone.

You aren’t weak because your brain doesn’t work the same anymore. You aren’t a bad person because you have an illness that you didn’t choose to have.

If you haven’t experienced the burden of mental illness or addiction, and you make someone else feel that it is their fault or their choice, please educate yourself.

Talk to a professional, listen to people’s experiences, do your research.

For a long time I let my insecurities block my compassion because I couldn’t focus on someone else’s pain over my own.

It’s not a choice. As adults we have a responsibility to treat our disabilities. We have a responsibility to do the work it takes to get sober, to get help, to get on meds.

But sometimes, we just can’t. It has nothing to do with effort.

I don’t believe my father could have just “tried harder” or that his love for me should have been enough to keep him alive.

My father lost the fight inside himself, he didn’t choose to.

That’s the reality. Sometimes people get better. Sometimes they can’t.

If you believe anyone would choose to experience the pain that I have experienced, that my mother has experienced, that my father experienced, maybe you need to look inwards.

Maybe you need to ask yourself if you really believe they aren’t trying hard enough, or if deep down what is happening to them makes you feel that YOU aren’t enough.

If you have been invalidated, you aren’t alone. Your pain is real. You have an illness, and you deserve compassion, forgiveness and love.

There are people out there who will support you, regardless if they have lived it or not.

Find them. Hold them close.

And the rest?

Honestly, they can just fuck right off.