I have a story. A story about life with a mental illness. It is not a feel good story to instill feelings of hope and happiness.

It is a real story. Told by someone who is living it.

I don’t want your sympathy. But I would like your attention. Because there are others fighting life-altering battles that are fought behind closed doors, and often alone. I don’t need well-wishes. But I would like your attention. Because this is real life.

Rewind the calendar back to December. Things are happening like they normally would. Nothing out of the ordinary in terms of thoughts, feelings, or life events. My life appears to be in order. But the sky is growing darker, and the winds are picking up. There is a storm brewing.

At some point shortly before Christmas I was working through the “warning signs” section of the WRAP (Wellness and Recovery Action Plan) program that I have been participating in. As I wrote down different warning signs, I realized that I was displaying a lot of them. I felt the storm coming. I decided to do all I could to hold the storm back until Christmas was over. I felt the storm was inevitable, and part of me was really looking forward to it. I wanted to be free from the responsibility of taking care of myself. I wanted to feel the storm’s full force, like I did when I was younger. I wanted, once again, to be the storm.

But not at Christmas time. I wanted to soak up the last morsels of peace before the demons are back. Before I open the gate and let them in.

Christmas was a special time this year. I think I was able to appreciate things more because I felt like it was the last moment of calm before things started to fall apart. One last warm beam from the lighthouse before I face the maelstrom. The maelstrom that changes my world from rational to irrational, from civilized to barbaric.

Christmas comes and goes, and then the waves are upon me. But I am not fighting.

Instead, I am the waves, the wind, the roaring waters. I am the wildfire, I am the ice. I am disorder, dark and violent. I fight against the light, against anything that contributes to wellness.

This is me. The dark version of myself. This is the monster that I can be. The monster that I can hate, or the beautiful disaster that I love, that I hunger for.

When I am the monster, I serve the monster. I protect it from the world because I know that the world will try to take it away from me. Through facts and figures, encouragement and support, they will try to remove the monster, to restore the old me. And more likely than not, I will end up working with them, to restore wellness and eliminate chaos.

The monster stays under wraps for the purpose of self preservation. I know that some of its power will be lost if it is exposed to the light, if anyone else knows of its existence. So I don’t share my dark fantasy world with others. It is mine, to have and to hold. To protect.

This article is an act of absolute betrayal to myself. And I am sorry to write about it.

Since Christmas ended I have worked my way up the scale of destruction. My self harm activity has been higher than it has for years. My bruised hand has been making friends with the fridge and the hefty metal kettle bell in the basement. I carry wounds up and down my arms, and across my stomach. A collection of incisions and a few burns. I have been on a mission to destroy myself. It’s as if I exist in a completely different world. One where peace is the enemy, and wellness is a curse. I have been creating pain, and it has been satisfying.

When I say I have a mental illness, it goes beyond what you learn from a google search and a click on WebMD’s website.

There they can’t tell you about the actual thoughts that go through the minds of the people who are ill. But I can. Because I live it. I strive to be able to manage my illness. But I am not immune to my illness. And sometimes I identify more strongly with my illness than I do the other parts of me. My illness is part of me, and at times it consumes me.

It’s ugly, it’s messy and unpleasant.

But it’s real.

It’s part of me.

And that’s what makes the battle difficult.

And what is left, now that I have talked openly about these parts of me?

Grief. Sadness over the fact that each time I share something, I lose some of the darkness. Some of the chaos.

For better or for worse, these things have been as friends to me. Fibres of my being. It pains me every time I must cut parts of them away.

It is quite late at night as I finish writing this.

I will not fall asleep in chaos tonight.

I will fall asleep in peace.

Because I know that peace is better for everyone in the end.

Even me.

I am not a monster.