“Dude, just relax!”
This one guy says this to me on a regular basis.
And each time I hear it, I grip my utensils just a little bit tighter.
We’re just sitting around eating a meal.
No big topics. No controversial music choices. Just food in face.
We’re talking about something mundane – laundry, maybe – when I remember I have a thing related to the laundry – some socks that need to go in the wash?
SO I softly swear and make a mental note to do so after the meal.
The dude notices and with a big, shit-eating grin, tells me to “just relax, bro!”.
I say nothing.
And it happens again
And that time, that one time, that’s it.
I’ve had enough.
I blow up at him.
I yell about how telling someone with anxiety to “relax” is like telling a drowning man to stop drowning. From the safety of their private yacht.
It’s insulting and upsetting and I think I’ve used this phrase before?
And he says hey it’s cool, I had depression in high school. I know what it’s like.
And I say hey, I don’t care, stop telling me to calm down.
Stop telling me to relax, chill, take it easy.
I can’t. This ain’t a choice.
And if you tell me that you’ve had depression and you know what it’s like and you still have the nerve to tell me to not feel how I feel, then I will stab you with my fork.
And we eat the rest of the meal in silence.
Later, we have a chat about bipolarity and the meaning of a “chronic illness”. And he apologises. His experience with depression was one of a battle, something to win. Not something to manage and endure. He didn’t know.
“Sorry bro.”
It’s okay hombre.
We all got our stuff.
And I’m sorry I threatened you with cutlery.
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[shirt]