Some Days Are Really Hard. And on Those Days, I Need You the Most.

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I have bipolar disorder. I was diagnosed about two years ago, but I’ve been living with symptoms of this disorder for most of my life. Since my diagnosis, I’ve seen a lot of misconceptions out there about it. There are a lot of things I wish I could share with people to tell them about what it’s really like living with this disorder.

But there’s one thing in particular I really need you to understand about mental illness:

It’s hard. Living with bipolar disorder is hard for me.

Living with any mental illness can be hard. Living with any illness at all can be hard. Living can be hard sometimes.

But I need you to understand that life is really genuinely hard for me some days (actually, a lot of days). I spend a lot of time trying to explain that I can live a “normal” life despite living with mental illness. I spend a lot of time trying to explain that people who have bipolar disorder are not “crazy.” And even though these things are true, at the end of the day, I struggle a lot.

I’m not telling you this because I want your pity. In fact, please don’t pity me. I’m telling you this because sometimes I feel incredibly broken, and I require a lot of support and love from other people. Sometimes I need a little extra affirmation in my existence. Sometimes it takes everything in me to just keep on living, and in those moments, I need the most support.

So please understand that some days I can barely get out of bed, much less function at school or work or in social settings. Some days are just really hard. And it’s on those days that I need you the most.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

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I Am Bipolar. This Is What I Want You to Know.

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Editor’s note: The following originally appeared on the writer’s Facebook page.

I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever posted anything on Facebook. I’m not exactly sure why I chose today, but here goes. I don’t think anyone will actually read this so I guess I don’t really have anything to lose.

The world can be a cruel place. God, if you believe in God, can play devastating tricks on people. There are many debilitating diseases out there that affect millions of people every day. People suffer endlessly, people die painfully and all the while their loved ones suffer as they watch the inevitable happen. They watch as cruel fate destroys life. They watch as love and happiness crumble into darkness and death.

I believe the ultimate cruelty, however, lies in the silent suffering. The disease you can’t see. The disease that creeps in without warning and slowly, methodically and inevitably kills you from the inside, deep within the depths of your brain. Without explanation, without prejudice and without mercy it consumes you, paralyzing you, forever changing you. Your mind becomes a dictator and you are powerless to stop it.

My name is Chad and I am bipolar. I have been for most of my life. I knew at a very young age that there was something “wrong” with me. I had wild mood swings that left me sobbing uncontrollably one minute, then to uncontrollable rage the next. Alcohol and a litany of drugs were a constant in my life from the time I was 14. “Self-medication” was all I knew. I couldn’t control my mind or my thoughts by myself, but when you are a teenager, what else can you do? I wanted to die, but I couldn’t bring myself to suicide at that young age, so I did incredibly reckless things to hopefully do it for me. That is for another story. It didn’t work.

I am 43 years old now. I have been to dozens of doctors, therapists and psychiatrists. I have been on just about every medication there is. I have experienced every up, every down and every gut-wrenching side affect imaginable. I have been hospitalized, poked, prodded, tested and humiliated. And yet, after all that, here I still am, hopelessly broken, sad, exhausted, alone in my struggle, still wanting to die every day, just like when I was a teenager, just to get some peace. It’s never ending. It’s relentless.

So what is this all about you ask? This is not a cry for help. I am way beyond that. This is to let you know each and every one of you, whether you know it or not, has a friend, has a family member, has someone out there who is struggling — and they desperately need someone to reach out to them. It doesn’t take much, only a few seconds, just to say, “Are you OK?” Three simple words can make all the difference.

Lately, it seems to be a fashionable thing for celebrities to come forward and talk about their private struggles with mental illness. I think that is great. Breaking down the stigma and shame of mental illness should be on the forefront of the American conversation.

I am not a celebrity. I am a regular person who has a voice and I have something important to say — a desperate plea for everyone reading this to share this with anyone who will listen. If you are struggling, you are not alone. Reach out to someone, anyone, just do it. If you know someone who is struggling or you think might be, reach out to him or her today, you just might save a life.

Suicide is devastating, there is no question. For those left behind there are only unanswered questions and hurt feelings. So often we hear “I had no idea.” Take it from someone who has made the conscious decision to take their own life, only to be brought back and given a second chance. In that desperate moment, when all is lost, we are not ending it all to spite the people who will be left behind, we make that decision because we no longer want to hurt the people who are watching us suffer the most. We want to give them a reprieve from the pain and anguish that lingers day after day in the depths of despair and depression. It’s the only way. It’s an awful choice. Just imagine thinking that death is a better option than life. 

I would like to thank anyone who is still reading this. If you take only one thing from this, remember just because someone has a mental illness doesn’t mean they are any less of a human being. You don’t have to be ashamed or embarrassed. You don’t have to struggle alone, you don’t need to be afraid and you don’t have to be silent anymore. 

Life is filled with endless possibilities. We all have our own path. Take the time to make a difference in someone’s life if you have the chance. There is truly nothing that is more rewarding.

Since this is social media, go ahead and share this, get the word out there. This story is not over by any means, it has only just begun.

My name is Chad. I am bipolar. I am no longer ashamed. For many years I have not been afraid to die. I can now honestly say that I am no longer afraid to live.

Thank you.

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Accepting It's Time to Leave My Job to Take Care of Me and My Bipolar Disorder

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Sometimes I wonder if my life is real. Especially when I’m feeling up. I question if it’s all a fantasy. Is my perspective really in line with reality?

I’m planning to quit my job. I’m sacrificing a bit of security, in that throughout the last four years I’ve had numerous hospitalization and taken countless days off. Twice, since May 2013, I have taken two extended leaves lasting three months. It might help that I’ve been at my job 17 years and have been a “model” employee. My perfectionism, workaholism and the fact my identity is wrapped up in my work probably played a major role.

I have two job opportunities in the proverbial hopper. I think they are legit. But, I fear they are not. My anxiety certainly tells me they are not. Paranoia creeps in and I think a new place of work can’t handle my “issues.” Should I be transparent and divulge I have bipolar disorder now? Should I wait? Should I just close my eyes and hope for the best?  Everything is uncertain. I don’t do well with that. It’s fodder for my restless brain.

I do feel like I know my current work situation is not healthy for me. It’s taken me a long time to admit that. I always thought it was my fault I would become overly stressed and symptoms would arise. Turns out with bipolar disorder I am more susceptible to stress, which in turn can trigger either mania or depression. I can attest to both. I’ve reached heights of psychosis that were terrible frightening and lows of depression that were devastating. 

I think it’s important to acknowledge I have to do my part. Utilize coping skills, communicate with my treatment team and take my medication. But, there is also a point where raising the white flag makes sense. Self-care and self-compassion need a place in my life. I can push and push. Pull and pull. Demand I do better. Work harder. Not allow stress to overtake me. But, there’s reality.

I am stressed. I am exhibiting symptoms despite my best efforts. Sure there will always be ups and downs, I’m the first to utter those words… damn roller coaster. But, if I can help myself avoid peaks and valleys, shouldn’t I at least try? If it turns out no matter what I do, this is my lot, this is my coaster… well, that’s for another day.

So, as I envision turning in my resignation letter, it’s bittersweet. I literally grew up at this agency. It was my first career-type job. I was a young, naive 25 with a heart of gold ready to solve the issues that plague social service agencies. I was going to be the best social worker they had ever seen. I’ve made my mark. It’s time to move on and put myself first. 

The hopper I mentioned is as real as it gets. I’ve put myself out there. Maybe it’s a fantasy I get hired, maybe not. It’s a resolution I find a new place for myself in 2017. I listen to my needs. Make time for self-care and self-compassion. Honor myself in a way I never have before. I’m going to let that unfold as it may. No expectations, just intentions this year.

Dancing with bipolar disorder can be exhilarating, fun, devastating, confusing, uncertain… but it’s definitely real. One step at a time. One day at a time. I’ll keep moving forward down the line.

Happy New Year to The Mighty Community I so cherish.

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16 Mental Health Lessons I Learned in 2016

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2016, you’ve been a learning curve to say the least. Here are 16 lessons I’ve learned over the past year:

1. A diagnosis doesn’t define me. I define me. The way I take my coffee with a shot of hazelnut, study passionately, and go on spontaneous road trips: those are the beautiful things that define me.

2. I’m feeling well because I’m taking my medication, not because I don’t need it anymore. Going off my medicine because I feel well will only wreak havoc; I always need to listen to the advice of my doctor.

3. Sometimes people don’t have the words to make me feel better. Sometimes being there and holding my hand is exactly what I need, and the only way they know how to help. Embrace people’s willingness to love and care for me.

4. Resources like a psychologist and doctor can catapult my recovery, but I’m the one who needs to focus on getting well. It’s hard to help an unwilling heart. Embrace help from professionals.

5. Wellness means creating balance for myself. A balance between work, school, social life, and alone time. With bipolar disorder, having any of these areas out of whack can be damaging for me. Aim to create a good, consistent balance.

6. I believe life was not meant to be lived alone, and that we were created for community.

7. When there’s a resource lacking in my community, I can be the one to instigate change and fight for the resource to be implemented.

8. After dealing with unending grief from many deaths, I was always on guard for the next bad thing to happen. Instead, I learned to expect good things.

9. Recovery doesn’t fall into my lap. I have to work hard, run toward recovery. It will take a lot of tears and setbacks, but it is possible. I refuse to give up.

10. Recovery is not black and white. It’s not “I’m unwell” and then jumping over the chasm into the “I am well.” It’s a spectrum of varying shades, and it’s not a jump over a chasm: it’s a million baby steps in the right direction.

11. Academics and school are less important than being well. Maybe I won’t finish my degree in four years, or at the top of my class, or with honors. Maybe I will need a year off to heal or to only study part-time. That is OK. Academics don’t define me. I’d rather pace myself and cross the finish line eventually than suffocate and never finish.

12. Friends will leave when they find out about my illness. Have mercy on them. Harboring anger only hurts me, not them.

13. In the same vein, fight for mental health education in workplaces and schools. Often times the reason people leave is because they don’t know how to handle it. Equip them.

14. It’s OK to pursue passions that are different from what people thought I’d do. It’s OK for me to write books and perform poetry when the rest of the world thought I’d be busy doing something else.

15. I am loved. I am cared for.

16. It took five years to get into this hole, and I can’t expect to get out of it overnight. Recovery isn’t easy, but it’s possible. Surround yourself with people who will make that precious recovery possible.

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To the Family and Friends I've Lost Touch With Because of My Bipolar Disorder

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Dear friends and family,

I’m sorry we have lost touch throughout the years. I have been fighting this uphill battle since a young age. I’m sorry I cause confusion when I reach out to you, and then you never hear from me again. It’s nothing personal. I promise.

Sometimes, when I reach out to people and they seem uninterested by the conversation, the devil on my shoulder tells me I’m not worth their time or they hate me. The last time I reached out to an old high school friend, I got the sense I was a waste of their time. I have been scared to reach out to people because I have a severe fear of rejection. I think about reaching out to you, even if it’s just to say hello and see how you’re doing, but the fear overwhelms me and my body shakes. I let the devil win and tell me I’m worthless and nobody wants to talk to me.

During the past few years, I have met many people who do not understand mental illness and have treated me like trash. I lived in one house where a girl believed everything I must be doing was directed at her. However, she did not stop to think I’m human and maybe something bad just happened.

I’ve experienced manic and depressive episodes since 2012, and I could not comprehend why my emotions were so extreme. I’ve had manic episodes so intense, I should have been hospitalized, but, until recently, I didn’t know that. In all honesty, my social media pages make my life seem more glamorous than it is. I have contemplated suicide since I was 12 years old, and I have been self-harming since I was 7 years old.

To this day, I don’t see the point in life, and I’m tired of pretending. I have never fit in anywhere, and my whole life I’ve felt invisible. I have trouble trusting new people. So if I have opened up to you, then I trust you.

These past few years have been nothing but trouble from terrible landlords to terrible neighbors. I was already afraid of trusting strangers, but now I just hit my panic button. Finding safety is an ongoing process, and I don’t think I will ever find safety in a rental.

I am sorry if I have reached out to you and not responded or forgot your birthday. Please, know I do have the desire to be your friend, and I would love to hear from you. I’m just in a fragile state and trying to recover from a couple suicide attempts. I am just learning how to live a “normal” life with bipolar 1 disorder.

If you don’t feel you want to be friends with me anymore, I understand that and I am grateful to have shared moments with you. I come with way too much baggage and even I don’t want to deal with it all. Just promise me you will remember the good times we’ve had.

If you are willing to stay and try to understand, then I thank you so much. Words cannot express my gratitude. I may not be able to see you often, but I will try my best to text you and see how you are doing. The road to recovery will be tough and a constant battle, but I am glad to have you by my side. Please, do not always judge people based on their actions without considering what else might be going on. Remember, everyone has problems. Be sensitive.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. You can reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.

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Wincing at a Too Bright Sun: Carrie Fisher, Bipolar Disorder and Me

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I like to think I am brave.

Of all the qualities a person can possess, benevolent bravery is the one I most admire.

I love the kind of bravery that lacks reason, that makes those of less conviction shake their heads. I like a person’s boldness, compassion and desire for justice to be so consuming, they have no choice but to be brave, even if it doesn’t always work out that well for them.

Carrie Fisher was brave.

God, was she brave.

There is so much I could say here, so much about Carrie, about heroes, about pain. But everything I could say has been said in the past few days, and more eloquently than I could muster.

And frankly, right now, it’s just too hard. It’s way too hard.

For many reasons, Carrie was one of my heroes — you don’t have to dig too deep to wrap your head around that. Chubby nerd girl likes sassy space princess — it’s hardly breaking news.

However, there is a bit more to the story.

In memory of Carrie, and days before the start of a new year, I am going to share with you the most intimate secret I hold.

When I was 13 years old, I saw my first psychiatrist. In that session, and what would come to be every therapy session that followed, I did my best to establish myself as an extremely self-aware and mature individual — after all, you can’t be crazy if you are aware of it, right? I spoke about myself as if I were another person, as if I were my own mother, laughing softly and shaking my head as I explained what Jessica had done just the other day. Of course I didn’t use the third-person, but that same sense of utter detachment from your own life, that certainly shone through.

Did I have any obsessions, she asked. Oh yes, I replied. My life is obsessions. I dance between them, a Cinderella too enchanted to notice it’s well past midnight and my carriage is rotting out front.

She continued to cycle through all the questions, knowing precisely what diagnosis she was leading me to admitting I had without ever explicitly stating it. With each step she took forward, I took one back, smiling absent-mindedly as I neared the edge of the cliff.

At the end of the hour we shared together, her grip on her clipboard and mine on my delusions, she told me that while bipolar disorder generally manifests in the late teens to early 20s. I, for whatever reason, had been thrust quite forcefully onto the fast track. With age, she said, everything I was trying to laugh off would become much harder. In short, I was mentally ill.

One more step back.

I’m falling, but there is no sudden thud to stop me — no ground.

I smile politely because that’s what I do.

It’s fine, I say, I can learn to laugh harder.

As I buckled myself into the passenger’s seat, I told my mom I never wanted to go to therapy again.

I didn’t like feeling transparent. I didn’t care to admit someone might have a better grasp on me than I did myself. My battle for control over every and all things, most of all myself, had kicked off — and I was pissed to find myself already on the losing side.

But she was right. It got harder.

Allow me to share with you some of the lessons a black-haired 15-year-old girl learns beneath an oversized black hoodie:

Aspirin thins the blood stream, makes the pills you take more effective. The right combination mixed with a chemically-imbalanced brain, and three days will fly by, no sleep required. What a brilliant girl I was, to find the cure to anxiety all by myself — to find a way to take back the eight hours everyone else gave away so freely. Oh I could draw, paint, sing, read. When the moon rose, so did my own starry-eyes. I could breathe.

But what about when you come down, when the mania gives way to depression? My next brilliant discovery? An exacto-knife can carve exact-o-ly what you want, wherever you want it. I fancied myself a scientist, reveling in my findings and dissecting my own skin.

Sometimes the solution to counteracting the lows wasn’t that extreme. Overeating and oversleeping became some of my favorite pastimes. I tried training myself to lucid dream. If I had my own fantasy land to sculpt, I thought, maybe I could make it better than the one I was in. At least I was making up all the hours of sleep I neglected to get.

I never found a cure for the anger, though. I never found a way to return to my body when the yelling started and the bookish girl turned feral without any signs of provocation. Sometimes I would speak so fast it felt like it couldn’t have been me doing the speaking.

What did I do, my mother once asked me, what did I do to you to make you resent me so fiercely? Why are you so fucking angry?

I don’t know, I fumbled, hands in my hair. I don’t know.

My greatest discovery during these formative years? There are few things more frightening than standing idly by as you witness reality and perception sever ties.

There reaches a point when you realize things don’t line up. When you realize your life is abnormally contradicting — that your being is abnormally contradicting. And, if you’re like me, you ignore it. You ignore it for as long as you possibly can.

You become so confused by your own ambitions, your own choices. What you fail to realize is that you can’t make up your mind when your mind makes up you. So you live life in lists, trying to piece together what it is you’re doing, what it is you want. The problem is, the author switches every few weeks. How do you preserve ambition? How do you remain optimistic once the other side starts putting ideas in your head? How do you know what you want — what you are?

Incessant questions — questions and prose. That’s how my mind works.

I think constantly but never consistently.

There is only one feeling that seems to carry over: an insatiable longing. Love me, understand me, help me, see me. No matter what state you are in, it is absolutely vital that you are recognized, that you are loved or wanted.

Perhaps it also helps to have “daddy issues.” I don’t know my biological father, and when your mind works the way mine does, it simply equates to he didn’t want me. And after the way the next one treated me, it appeared he didn’t want me too much either.

Have you ever had a parent look you in the eyes and tell you, in passing, they don’t like you as a person? I have. The air never fully goes back into your lungs.

Ultimately, the question is, if the people who are supposed to love you don’t, who ever could?

This mentality leads you to dark places.

But it starts off innocently enough!

You love. You love so hard — people, your friends, your family, the underdogs of the world, the characters in your books, movies and games. You want to help, you want justice and you want to personally ensure no one feels like you. If you can be a savior, a hero not unlike the ones you read about, you will be loved in return. You might even be worthwhile. That would feel nice, you think.

It’s not hard to love this much, really. Not when you have a sensitivity that is equal parts startling and intimidating. If anything, it might be harder to be loved by me.

Sometimes though, you don’t love right. Sometimes you are too angry to love — sometimes, you’re too sad. And sometimes, you just vanish. When you have bipolar disorder, you are an excellent illusionist — your audience never really understands quite what you’ve just done.

The next step in attaining love is to give. You give to the point of sacrifice. You resent any amount selfishness because you resent yourself. Your own validation simply will not do. There is no self-care, no self-love, that will make you accept yourself. So, you feel that if you give enough, people will perform that task for you.

You exhaust yourself in people and tasks because that is the only way you can find your own self-worth, if only for a fleeting moment. It’s not that you think you’re lacking, ugly, or anything like that — it’s a little more complicated.

You don’t compare yourself to others, you compare yourself to the impossible you — the godlike creation you are certain you could be if only you weren’t so weighed down by all the… well, reality.

Just imagine, placing yourself on the highest pedestal you can find, just so you could shake your head at yourself — just so you can knock yourself down. That’s what it feels like.

You must be the best. You should be the best. If you just tried harder, you could be happy. If you did better, you could be great.

So do better, you scream at yourself. Do more. Be more.

Some people take advantage of this opportunity.

Some people hurt you.

And you accept it because you know it was your own foolishness that made it happen — your need to please, your pathetic need to be desired.

Even if you did say no. Even if you try to stop it.

One of the worst things is even when this longing seems like it should dissipate, it remains. Things you can’t have? You want them more. The people who hurt you? You get caught in them. Even if 99 percent of the world were in love with you, your life would be putting on a show to attract the other 1 percent. Even if they boo, you keep on smiling, dancing until you bleed through your tap shoes.

Hence the term “insatiable longing.”

So, after I was sexually assaulted, everything grew worse.

Sitting next to a pile of your vomit by the front door of your apartment is not a good place to be, but that’s where I was — too afraid to leave my home.

I ended up withdrawing from college. When family members asked, I told them I wasn’t cut out for it.

One of the hardest times in my life was listening to various family members shame me for my failure while already hurting so deeply. But at the same time, it felt easier to add this new found guilt and shame to my existing supply than to admit to being violated.

I can be shitty. It’s harder to admit the world can be.

So with no school, no drive, no will to leave your studio apartment, you mope. Mope and sleep. Sometimes write. Definitely overeat. You find ways to comfort yourself. You find ways or you die.

Dying doesn’t sound good. You think about it a lot, but it doesn’t sound particularly good.

Notice how I switched to using “you” rather than “I”? That, my friends, is a coping mechanism.

I don’t think I am certifiably suicidal, whatever that means. To me, the thought is more of a oddly-shaped tetris block that falls down on occasion. You shuffle things around, try to bury it effectively, and hope that if you line things up right, the thought will disappear. It never feels particularly scary, the imminence of fatal thought. In fact, it took me way too long to realize this wasn’t a way “normal” people think. The average person doesn’t think, “OK, bills are due on the 15th and also, don’t swerve into oncoming traffic.” That’s just “crazy,” right? This is why sad people shouldn’t listen to sad music, it normalizes the insanity. But it just speaks to us, you know?

I think what’s scarier is the statistics — they really get you, those wolves disguised as percentages. My life expectancy is 10 years shorter than average — we have all the various conditions we are more likely to develop to thank for that — 15 percent of us die by our own hands, 50 percent attempt to and 80 percent think about it. If those numbers were in relation to the general public, it would be fucking mind-blowing. Can you imagine? Watching so many people struggle, so many people flicker out? When you’re bipolar, that is your population — that is your reality. My three uncles who killed themselves are the reality. I’ve gotten pretty good at reaching awful, and, at times, unwarranted conclusions, but even my more rational side agrees, it’s a bit grim.

It’s not all bad though! Researchers say those with bipolar disorder are linked to having much higher intelligence, creativity, empathy and verbal proficiency than those without. So hey, maybe you don’t spend weeks crying, but I art good. What can I say — sucks to suck.

The thing is, with bipolar disorder, so much of life is spent wincing at a too bright sun. It’s all too much — how you feel, how you act, how you are. You are never sad, you are devastated — never hurt, betrayed. This applies to positive feelings too. Fine? Fine is no good. Are you wondrous? Is this the greatest thing you’ve ever seen? There is no small-talk, only grand emotion and sweeping statements.

Hell, even my writing is melodramatic.

Simply put, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl.

Sometimes, I find this perspective makes keeping friends hard. I am fortunate to have so many beautiful ones whom I get the pleasure of loving so deeply, but I constantly feel like a burden. I feel like it all gets to be too much, the whole crazy, sensitive, artsy, impulsive girl thing. While it seems to be a crowd pleaser on film, it doesn’t translate well to real life- especially when you don’t look like Natalie Portman or Zooey Deschanel. It’s just exhausting, for both parties.

I can’t even count the number of times I’ve essentially been told I am too much — that I need to calm down, lighten up or stop being so dramatic or intense. Numerous are the times my enthusiasm for things was mocked, or people merely watched, a little bit dumbfounded, as I spilled all over, without so much as budging to get a paper towel. So much of it is people just don’t know what to do, how to make you OK.

The awful thing is, whenever this happens, you feel the need to apologize. You’re the one who is embarrassed, and it’s your brain that will be playing that moment on repeat for months. You’re the one who greets depression an old friend.

With time I’ve gotten better at controlling it — which basically means I’ve gotten better at existing, really. I try to stay focused at work, though it is, at times, hard. I’ve been back in school a year and a half and am, somehow, earning the best grades of my college career. Panic attacks happen now and again of course, and I say things I regret and reveal far too much constantly. In fact, I’ll probably spend a few weeks regretting this little tell-all. Oh, and God knows I will always have sweaty palms — a constant reminder of my underlying anxiety.

But, what I’m trying to say is, it does get better.

And then, yeah, it gets worse. And then better, and then worse and then better and then worse…

But, what’s important, is that you hang on to the “better.” You have to hang on it or else it’s just all the “worse,” and it’s no way to live. The “worse” doesn’t want you to live.

Different medications help, but at a cost. The fun part is, you never know what that cost will be. With this one, the doctor smiles, you won’t want to kill yourself but you’ll gain 20 lbs. It didn’t work? Try another! Now, you won’t cry in bed all the time, but you won’t be particularly happy again either…

Decisions, decisions.

The best is when they jot down the prescription name, look at you and tell you to make sure you call them if you feel like killing yourself in a week. What do you even say back to that?

Thanks? Will do?

It might seem like this is all dark, but rest assured I am fine right now. You develop a sense of humor.

Sometimes, I picture each pill I’m taking is putting a little hole in my brain, killing a little bit of me. It’s not true of course, or rational, but if you read all the way to this and were expecting a bit of rationality to magically appear, you might just be as “crazy” as I am. Kidding. Kind of.

This past year, I haven’t been the best about taking medicine; it’s been rough, and I, naive. However, as a second act of bravery, my first being penning this small novel of a post, I have an appointment January 17 to get back on a prescription, because let’s be honest, do you want to see me go without medication under that monster of a man’s presidency? Me neither.

It feels so lame to say it, but ~I am not my illness~. It’s more just another little fact about me that influences my actions. Another example? I love dogs, and will literally always pull over to help a stray. I mean, you could judge me solely on that fact, but it’d be kind of strange, don’t you think?

At times, this post got dark. What I need you to understand though, is so do I. Me pretending this part of me doesn’t exist is bullshit — it’s too hard, life is too short and honestly, being silent is ridiculously unhelpful to anyone else struggling alongside me. Or to anyone who doesn’t understand how this works.

So, this is my truth — or at least part of a truth. The biggest truth I have, certainly. You can’t expect me to go listing all the horrible and/or stupid and/or illegal and/or impulsive things I’ve done. I haven’t the time or mental stamina to spill 23 years of intensity, and believe or not, I like to keep some of my secrets tucked away.

Maybe I’ll write a book someday. Some work of fiction about a person who is not me, in a time that is not now, in a place far away from here. Maybe the secrets will be there. But for now, they remain with me.

You know what the wildest thing about me is though? Never in a million years would I change myself. I mean, maybe I’d shave down my thighs a bit, but you get the picture. And if you suffer with any form of mental illness, you fucking bet I don’t think you should change either. I don’t and I never will. In case no one has told you this, you matter. You matter and I love you — with all the intensity my love has to offer.

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.

If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or text “START” to 741-741

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