BROKEN BONE WISHES

When I was a kid I’d envy people with broken limbs whose injuries were marked by gleaming white plaster and recovery made faster by well-wishes from friends with coloured pens.

Because not all brokenness can be seen and I was fourteen the first time I tried to prove to myself that mine was real tattooed frustration across my skin just to watch it heal and to feel okay about feeling.

I was sixteen the first time a doctor suggested pills and the strong Kiwi girl in me said

“no thank you, I can handle this”

I was seventeen when I changed my mind. The doctor said I think you’ll find these effective by about week four.

By then I was about ready to claw my way out of my skin and into my own nightmares, the doctor said “maybe we’ll try a different drug”

See, that was eleven years and five types of medication ago and I’m okay with that my mental health is just one high maintenance flower that needs more attention than the rest of the garden so I don’t need to harden up, chin up, or pull my socks up on anyone’s terms.

New Zealand needs to learn that therapy isn’t a swear word, and no, depression doesn’t match your white picket fence but it sure-as-hell will strangle all your plants if you don’t stop ignoring that it’s there.

We need to stare mental health square in the face And talk about what’s in our heads or we’ll have another generation wishing on stars for broken bones instead.

RENEE PRITCHARD Wellington, New Zealand