Shawn Mendes Imagines

I'm not okay

I just had this idea as its mental health awareness week and also bc its a year since the Manchester attack 🐝

*trigger warning - I'm going to start putting these in more as its more important than I thought, so if anyone was triggered by anything I wrote previously and I didn't put a warning then I'm sorry ❤. This story goes into detail about mental health, depression and self harm.

CONTEXT - 'Manchester' is a story I wrote earlier, this is a semi continuation of that x

Your POV

Every single day. 365 days. 52 weeks.

Shawn would come home every single day, I'd give him a look asking if he was okay, and every single say, he would utter the same words.

"I'm okay."

Something like that has a huge mental impact for anyone. Its traumatic and terrifying, not to name the countless othee emotions Shawn must've felt. I'm only focusing on Shawn. Never forget the people who tragically lost their lives, or were injured. That's physically and mentally. Don't forget the mental scars.

Shawn had scars. They were invisible to every single person but himself. He wouldn't talk about it. I've not managed to get him to open up, even a year on. They say time heals, but for Shawn it didn't.

Sometimes, the mental effects of a situation aren't felt for weeks or even months after the event. That's what happened with Shawn. At first he was okay - ish. He thought he could deal with it. But he couldn't.

It had destroyed him from the inside. Everything tore him to pieces, it killed him.

However he was still breathing.

22 May 2018. 22 31pm. One year. 365 days. 52 weeks.

It was like a routine. I gave him the look. This time things were different. He took his Youth hoodie off, tossing it to the side. The moonlight revealed his eyes - red, puffy and swollen.

Shawn was distraught.

He built up walls. He wouldn't let anybody near him. When he was upset, he would stop me or anyone else from providing him contact comfort.

Even before he spoke, I knew things were different.

"I'm not okay." He managed to croak out before he lost it.

"Hey, come here." I get up from the sofa and pull his shaking, broken, painful body into my arms. His knees gave in; slowly, I eased him onto the floor, pulling him into my lap.

His arms wrapped around my waist, almost desparate for comfort, something that had stopped happening recently. I pressed his head against my shoulder as he let out every single tear that he had been holding back.

For an entire year, he had told me that he was okay. That he didn't need help. Deep inside we both knew that wasn't true. When he released 'In My Blood' we all, including fans, realised that it was a cry for help.

That's what happens when you're depressed or anxious or suffering from any other mental illness. A lot of the time, you don't tell people that you're literally dying inside, however you leave small signs.

Small signs. Like mentioning you've not slept well, or having no appetite even when you're very hungry, hoping, praying, that somebody would notice that you're hurting.

Not even the strongest can keep going alone. There comes a day when you just can't keep hurting inside anymore; all that bottled up pain needs to be let out. Its like filling up a balloon with air. You keep pumping or blowing air into it but eventually it can't stand all that pressure and it bursts.

This is exactly what happened to Shawn today. He couldn't keep it inside, no matter how hard he tried.

"I've got you, let it out." I whisper softly into his ear, rubbing his earlobes.

Suddenly, Shawn's head falls to my lap. The tears don't stop though. I begin massaging his scalp, knowing that it usually calmed him. But not now. Today was different, there was too much pain. He had put up with too much, he was done fighting. So, instead of telling him to calm down, I let him cry.

Crying isn't a sign of weakness. It shows you're strong enough to say you're not okay. Tears are strength.

"I'm sorry..." he cries into my leg, his self harm scars visible on his bare torso and wrists. There was a huge scar on his leg that needed stitches.

"It's okay, do whatever you need to and I'll help." I coo, kissing his warm forehead. He must have a fever. "Come on, lets lay you down and then if you want to, you can talk. But only if you're ready." I help him stand, his entire body shaking. He almost falls due to weakness, but I make sure to hold him tight.

I get him into bed, covering him with the duvet. Laying beside him, I gently lift his head onto my chest. His arm goes around my waist. He had run out of room to cut on his wrists, so he cut on the top of his arm. I brush my thumb over his scars, reassuring him that he would, someday, be okay.

"I feel so bad... all those lives lost and it was my fault." He says, it was evident in his tone that he was hurting and that he didn't want to say more.

And that's okay. You can't force somebody to open up. They have to in their own time and when they're comfortable talking.

"Its not your fault honey, I know you may feel like it is but its not. They were there to enjoy themselves and to see you, it was the fault of whoever did it, not you honey." I say into his ear, trying to make him believe it. The guilt was destroying him bit by bit.

"Thanks Y/N. I just wish it never happened."

"I know honey, but you need to focus on yourself now for a while. From now on, you're going to cuddle with me for twenty minutes a day. You don't have to say anything, but the comfort and company will help you."

"I love you Y/N." He lifts his head up to kiss my cheek, before letting his head fall to my chest.

"I love you so much." I whisper into his hair, kissing the top of his head. "Shawn, what's the most important thing you've done this year?" I ask, taking my fingers through his curls.

"Survived."

Hope you liked it xx 🐝