Feb - Between Mental Illness and Kindness
Since I began struggling with mental illness,
I’ve often felt resentment toward it—but never shame.
No one is truly free from it.
It only takes the right reason, the right moment -
perhaps, the flame simply hasn’t been lit yet.
Because my condition has caused me prolonged pain,
yet in turn,
it has also granted me unexpected gifts.
I’ve become more sensitive—
so much so it’s sometimes painful—
but also more attuned and delicate.
As a result, I can spot small beauties in everyday life,
deeply appreciate the tiniest acts of kindness,
and open my heart to love with greater ease.
Sometimes, everything around me sparks inspiration.
My capacity for profound thought and introspection has grown.
Chasing the causes of despair, or reasons I dislike myself,
inevitably leads me inward, allowing me more moments of
self-reflection—
and thus, expanding my inner world.
So, I’m not ashamed of my illness.
But other people are ashamed of it.
They’re simultaneously curious.
They judge me by that singular fragment of my identity,
as if it were a price tag.
I hate how casually they mention my diagnosis,
how easily they frame me, consume me, define me.
In crowds, I often feel weary and empty.
On days like this, I want to write a piece of pure venom—
a foul, emotional excretion rather than an essay.
From the first consonant of the introduction to the final period,
I want to stuff it with nothing but hatred.
I got hurt by you. I trusted you.
You knew how much I liked you.
If you hadn’t acted that way, I wouldn’t have fallen so low.
You ruined my whole autumn, you know?
Or:
What you did wasn’t love.
Of all the hearts I’ve held, yours was the most brutal and violent.
Because you tried to label it as “love,” I often ended up feeling pathetic.
If that’s the only kind of love I can receive…
I regret the time wasted on useless thoughts.
Hatred, disgust, curses, excretion, rage—
anyone can do that.
It’s laughably effortless.
Every shifting shade of feeling, expressed unfiltered, at every moment—
not hard at all.
But choosing not to do that—
that’s my creed.
Even when I’m overwhelmed, busy, hollow, breathless—
I want to remain kind.
To be gentle to the souls I care about.
To give nothing but kindness and genuine warmth.
Still, on days like this, I can’t help but doubt—
what power does love even have?
Love doesn’t pay the bills.
It’s a fragile thing, easily broken, prone to disappearing.
A mirage in modern society—nothing more.
So I must battle these thoughts often—the doubts that everything is ultimately meaningless,
that nothing ever truly matters or serves a purpose.
I genuinely hope those who hurt me find happiness.
And those I hurt—may they be well too.
In a life without me, I hope they still live peacefully—and vice versa.
When I say this, people assume I’m lying,
or think I must be a very good person.
If that’s “being kind,”
and if it means I’m not among the wicked—
then I wish others would try being kind, too.
I want to be kinder to others.
Secret Garden
Ruminations
05:48
ⓒ 2025 Moussy
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.