If they knew, when they joked that he should be thrown in the loony bin, that I had spent a substantial period of time in one of these veritable institutions, then they might not have waited so eagerly for me to be impressed by their humour –

And if they realised, when they referred to him, derogatively, as ‘mental’, that my diagnosis could put my into this category, then they might have thought twice before trying so hard to be my friend.

If, when they joked about Prescott with his head down the toilet, they’d known that I too had spent over a decade in the very same position, then would they have found the situation as amusing –

And would they still have surmised that people with depression can’t handle responsibility – or that people with eating disorders are vain – or that mental illness is linked to stupidity – had they learnt that the person they were talking to had grappled with all three?

This is how I feel when you stumble over naming the illness or skirt around the edge of mentioning what’s going on –

Ashamed.

And, this is how I feel when you hurry over any reference, or skate over the subject – when it comes up in conversation – as if the words haven’t been said –

Like I’m only half there.
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