If it were cancer, there would be flowers, cards, and covered dishes.
Instead, it’s a secret passed from my mom to me in soft whispered words. It’s vague words to brush it off, shuffle it into the closet, hide it under a rug. Accident. Fine. Just wanted a break. It’s hiding it from grandparents. It’s keeping it from nosy neighbors. Because a mother protects her son and I protect my brother. Because it isn’t cancer, it’s depression. Because depression doesn’t bring flowers, cards, and covered dishes.
If it were cancer, I would be allowed to be worried.
Instead, I’m told not to worry. Everyone goes through ups and downs. Everyone gets depressed. He’ll be fine. He just needs to cheer up and not stress so much. Because it isn’t cancer, or pneumonia, or strep, it's depression. Because depression isn’t really an illness, right?
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Instead, I get a vague phone call from my Dad saying he had an accident, but is doing fine. Except hospital and fine don’t co-exist so, I spend my 30-minute drive home from campus in tears and beg to spend another two hours in a car just so I can see him. Yet, I’m told I can’t. Because it isn’t cancer and I can’t miss class. Because even if I could my brother wouldn’t want to see me anyway.
If it were cancer, I wouldn’t be nervous to write this essay.
Instead, I’m terrified my words won’t be good enough. I’m not quite sure it’s what my brother would want, but at the same know it might just be what someone like him needs. I write it anyway. Because I need to put these words on the page. Because it’s a story that deserves to be told. Because it isn’t cancer, and it doesn’t have the voice it deserves. If it were cancer, I might not have my strong belief in the importance of mental