youarenotalone

It’s easy to fool people when they only see what you want them to.
He knew how to smile in public, how to be charming in a crowd.
He even carried the title of minister.
But behind closed doors, he was violent, controlling, and cruel.

He didn’t just raise his voice—he raised his hands.
He didn’t just make mistakes—he made threats.
He tried to break me in every way: emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

I lived in survival mode—walking on eggshells, never knowing what would set him off.
I endured insults, intimidation, destruction, betrayal, and worse.
He didn’t just hurt me—he damaged things you can’t see.
And he hurt his children, too.

But here’s what he didn’t destroy:
My spirit.
My strength.
My voice.

For a long time, I stayed quiet—not because I was weak, but because I was trying to survive.
Now I speak not for attention, but for freedom.
Because I know there’s someone out there living this reality in silence, wondering if they’ll ever feel whole again.

I want you to know:
You are not alone.
You are not to blame.
And you are not what they tried to reduce you to.

Healing is messy. It’s painful. But it’s possible.
I’m still healing. But I’m standing.
And I’m not hiding anymore.

#survivorstrong #behindcloseddoors #stillhealing #fallinlovewithyourself #youarenotalone #HerVoiceHasRisen

There’s a kind of sadness that wraps itself around you like a velvet fog—soft, lingering, impossible to shake. I’d been moving through that fog quietly, unsure of whether I was feeling too much or not enough.

Then I heard Selena Gomez’s revival of “El Muchacho de los Ojos Tristes.” I’d never heard the original, but this song carried something eerily familiar. It didn’t just play—it echoed. It held me. It stirred something quiet and buried, a sorrow I didn’t realize was still awake inside me.

I’ve felt this before—through music that presses its hand to your chest like it’s trying to resuscitate something. This one did exactly that. It brought up unlived emotions—sentimientos compartidos—grief I didn’t know was mine but somehow felt like it belonged to me. The kind of sorrow that doesn’t ask permission—it just rises.

Since I started listening to it, melancholia has settled over me. Not just sadness—but something deeper. That slow ache that lives in your chest like a ghost of something you never had but still mourn.

I spoke to a friend about it. She said I was experiencing depression. I told her it felt like something else—something heavier, more haunting. I called it melancholia. She brushed it off, said it was all the same. But I disagreed.

Depression is absence. Numbness.

Melancholia is presence. Longing.

It’s grief laced with beauty. Pain that almost feels sacred. It’s nostalgia for a moment in time that doesn’t exist. A hunger for something you can’t name, only feel.

This song didn’t fix me. But it did something else.

It reminded me—I still have a pulse.

I’m still here. Still aching. Still hoping for something. A glance. A connection. A sign that I haven’t disappeared under the surface of my own silence.

I said this to someone:

“I feel like I am the girl with the sad eyes. Diving deeper and deeper into a melancholic state, wanting so badly to find a spark. I want my heart to be shocked back to life.”

And they told me:

“You’re not lost. You’re becoming.”

So this is me—becoming.

Still tender. Still searching. But no longer asleep.

There’s a spark out there. I don’t know what it looks like yet. But I know I want to feel it.

I used to not understand my cousin when she’d listen to sad songs while feeling low. I thought it was like pouring water on a drowning heart. But now I understand. Sometimes the saddest songs are the only ones that know how to hold us.

So if you're reading this and you feel it too, know this: You are not alone. There is no shame in aching. No weakness in longing. Feeling deeply means your heart is still beating.

Let it ache if it must. Let it rise. And when you're ready, follow the faintest flicker of hope. Even if it's just a breath. Even if it's just a song.

You're not lost.

You're becoming.

And somewhere ahead of you—maybe just beyond this fog—there’s a spark.

And this time, it’s for you.

💓💓💓

If this resonated with you, like, share and comment. We weren’t meant to feel this alone.

#melancholia #MentalHealthAwareness #Stillhere #emotionalhealing #youarenotalone #healingthroughfeeling #theacheandthehope #griefandgrowth #musicheals #SelenaGomez #elmuchachodelosojostristes #musicandmentalhealth #becomingnotbroken #quietstrength #louderthansadness #letitrise #melancholia #Stillhere #MentalHealth #mentalhealthmatters #Grief #elmuchachodelosojostristes

How Do You Say "Lost" in Every Language?

I speak four languages fluently. Spanish, Guarani, Portuguese, and English. In college, I took a semester of French and wandered through Paris, piecing together phrases from my lessons, testing the limits of my tongue. But fluency is a fickle thing—it’s not just about words, but about being understood. And if that’s the case, have I ever truly been fluent in anything?

I was born in Paraguay, a country where Guarani became an official language in 1992. By then, I was already 8 years old, but my journey with Guarani had started long before. Long before it was accepted. Long before it was allowed.

My mother forbade me from speaking it. She wanted my Spanish to be perfect, untarnished. Guarani, to her, was a limitation. To me, it was a door. One that led to friendship, to belonging, to a world just beyond my reach.

So, I learned it in secret. A tiny act of rebellion, a desperate grasp at connection. I don’t even remember how I found a Guarani dictionary, but I did. And I poured over it, memorizing the words like they were spells, hoping they would conjure a place for me among my peers.

But language does not guarantee belonging.

I learned Guarani because I wanted friends.

And I still had none.

I was the weird one—too much, too intense, too hyperactive, too… wrong. I wouldn’t understand why until decades later, when at 29, I was diagnosed with ADHD. And now, at 41, I am certain that I sit somewhere on the autism spectrum too. But back then, I had no labels. Just rejection.

So, I turned inward. If no one would speak to me, I would listen.

That’s how I learned Portuguese—not in conversation, not in friendship, but in isolation. My bedroom became my sanctuary, my television my companion. I grew up on the border of Brazil, where six different Brazilian channels played for free, their voices filling the silence where friendships should have been.

I absorbed Portuguese like a sponge, the way I had with Guarani. But this time, not out of rebellion, not out of hope, but out of loneliness.

Guarani was the language I learned because I longed for friendship.

Portuguese was the language I learned because I had none.

At 16, I left Paraguay. The United States swallowed me whole, and suddenly, English wasn’t a choice—it was a lifeline. I learned it the way one learns to swim after being thrown into the ocean: desperately, without grace, without a moment to think.

And yet, no matter how many languages I carried in my mouth, I still found myself misunderstood.

Fluency is not the same as connection.

I could translate words, conjugate verbs, construct perfect sentences. But the rhythm of human interaction, the invisible rules of friendship, the art of simply belonging—those things never came easily to me.

Instead, I became hyper-focused on romantic relationships, believing that love could fill the spaces friendship never did. But even there, I faltered. I was present, but never fully invested. I loved, but never stayed. No relationship lasted beyond two years. The pattern repeated itself in jobs, homes, entire cities. I was always moving. Searching.

And then, there’s the greatest irony of all—I speak multiple languages, yet I struggle to communicate.

Not because I lack the words. I have too many words. But I never learned the ones that matter most—the ones that make people stay, the ones that make them understand me, the ones that turn conversation into connection.

How do you say “lost” in every language?

Because that’s the word I know best.

#MyStoryMatters #sharingmytruth #breakingthesilence #unspokenwords #writingtoheal #neurodivergentvoices #adhdawareness #AutismAcceptance #invisiblestruggles #mentalhealthmatters #EndTheStigma #lostintranslation #languageandloneliness #youarenotalone #healingthroughwords #Findingmyvoice #fromsilencetostrength #writingthroughpain #multilingualmisfit #fluentbutmisunderstood #thepowerofwords

Receiving my official diagnosis of recurrent major depression and anxiety hit harder than I expected. At first, reading the doctor’s note for my leave of absence felt surreal, like it was about someone else, not me. It was only days later, when I read it carefully, that I fully realized that person was me. Coming to terms with having a mental health disability was painful. I had to mourn the diagnosis and the idea of who I thought I was. It’s still hard to accept, but acknowledging it feels like the first real step toward healing. ##MentalHealth #Depression #Anxiety #Diagnosis #healingjourney #selfawareness #MentalHealthAwareness #youarenotalone

You know that feeling when you invite a few friends over for a relaxed evening, but somehow the entire neighborhood shows up, and suddenly your house is a disaster zone? Yeah, that’s my brain most days. But instead of friends enjoying wine and charcuterie, these guests are my mental health diagnoses — and trust me, they’re the worst dinner party guests.

I didn’t invite them, but here they are, barging in unannounced, throwing my emotions into chaos, and eating all my metaphorical snacks. Let’s meet these uninvited guests, shall we? Maybe you’ll recognize a few of your own.

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD): The Emotional Drama Queen

BPD is the guest who brings passion and chaos in equal measure. One minute, they’re declaring their undying love for everyone at the table; the next, they’re flipping the table because someone forgot to compliment their casserole.

Life with BPD feels like starring in a soap opera — intense emotions, high stakes, and zero commercial breaks. It’s exhausting, but at least it’s never boring.

Depression: The Shadow That Steals the Light

Depression doesn’t burst through the door with grand gestures. No, they slip in quietly, dimming the lights and making everything feel heavier. Suddenly, even getting off the couch feels like running a marathon through quicksand.

They’re the guest who lingers after everyone else leaves, whispering, “Why bother cleaning up? It’s all pointless anyway.” But I’ve learned to fight back with small victories — washing a single dish, opening the blinds. Depression hates sunlight. Pro tip: let the light in.

Anxiety: The Over-Caffeinated Event Planner

Anxiety means well, but their frantic energy is contagious. They’re pacing the room, triple-checking the seating chart, and asking, “What if no one has a good time? What if everything goes wrong?”

Living with anxiety is like being at a party where the DJ only plays alarms, and your drink is spiked with pure adrenaline. I’ve found that deep breaths and grounding exercises can quiet their endless chatter. Sometimes, you have to say, “It’s okay. We’ve got this.”

Bipolar Disorder: The Relentless Roller Coaster Enthusiast

Bipolar Disorder is the guest who starts the night dancing on the furniture, only to end up sulking in the corner an hour later. One moment, they’re the life of the party; the next, they’re shutting off the music and telling everyone to leave.

It’s unpredictable and exhausting, but I’ve learned to keep grounding tools handy — a solid routine and trusted friends help me ride the highs and lows. Life with Bipolar isn’t boring, that’s for sure.

ADHD: The Chaotic Energy Generator

ADHD is the guest who can’t decide if we’re baking cookies, playing board games, or starting a dance-off. They leave half-finished projects everywhere, turning the evening into a whirlwind of distractions.

But ADHD also brings creativity and spontaneity. When I can harness their energy, magic happens. The key is balance — channeling their enthusiasm without letting it derail the whole party.

PTSD: The Hyper-Alert Guard

PTSD is the guest who stands by the exits, constantly scanning for danger. They flinch at loud noises, tense up at surprises, and never fully relax.

Their hypervigilance is exhausting, but I remind myself they’re just trying to keep me safe. Grounding techniques and therapy help reassure them that, in this moment, everything is okay.

OCD: The Perfectionist with the Clipboard

OCD is obsessively wiping down counters, aligning coasters with the table’s edge, and insisting the napkins are folded just right. Their need for order can be relentless — and sometimes helpful — but it can also take over.

I’ve learned to remind them that it’s okay if life gets a little messy. Perfection isn’t always necessary.

Insomnia: The Guest Who Won’t Leave

Insomnia is the night owl who insists on telling stories at 3 a.m. when all I want to do is sleep. Thanks to them, I know every late-night infomercial and the exact sound of my ceiling fan.

I’ve started setting boundaries — no phones in bed, calming routines, and, when all else fails, writing down their ramblings to clear my mind.

The Lesson of the Party

Here’s the thing: these houseguests aren’t leaving anytime soon. I used to fight them, resent them, and try to evict them from my mind. But I’ve learned the key isn’t to get rid of them — it’s learning to host them without losing myself.

Some days, that means setting boundaries. Other days, it’s finding humor in the chaos. But every day, it’s about remembering that I’m more than the sum of these diagnoses. I’m not just the host of this wild party — I’m the one calling the shots.

Why Share This Party?

Because chances are, you’ve got a few houseguests of your own. Maybe they’re different from mine, but the chaos, the noise, and the moments of feeling overwhelmed? That’s universal.

Talking about mental health helps break the stigma. It reminds us we’re not alone in this messy, beautiful journey. So here’s to embracing the party — even when it gets a little loud.

Let’s Talk:

What houseguests live in your head? How do you keep them in check? Drop a comment below — I’d love to hear your story. This is one party where everyone’s invited.

Corey Welch

Author, Mental Health Advocate

#MentalHealth, #MentalHealthAwareness, #MentalHealthJourney, #MentalHealthMatters, #MentalHealthBlog, #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder, #BPD, #BipolarDisorder, #Depression, #Anxiety, #ADHD, #PTSD, #OCD, #Insomnia, #AddictionRecovery, #MentalHealthAdvocate, #HealingJourney, #SelfCare, #MentalIllness, #youarenotalone

From Low to Rise

In the depths, I felt so small,
Drowning in darkness, ready to fall.
But a spark ignited deep inside,
A whisper of hope, my heart’s guide.

With each small step, I found my way,
Rising from shadows into the day.
Though scars remain, I stand tall and free,
A journey of strength, reclaiming me.
In the depths, I felt so small,
Drowning in darkness, ready to fall.
But a spark ignited deep inside,
A whisper of hope, my heart’s guide.

With each small step, I found my way,
Rising from shadows into the day.
Though scars remain, I stand tall and free,
A journey of strength, reclaiming me.

#MentalHealthAwareness #PoetryCommunity #healingjourney #TraumaRecovery #Inspiration #resilience #emotionalhealing #Selflove #RecoveryIsPossible #youarenotalone #mentalhealthmatters

We all have to remember this.

I will also “turn a light on” for each of us and we can all be a light for each other.

I can also switch on my my battery-operated, flameless, safe for my 2 kitties, candle for you.

#DistractMe #MajorDepressiveDisorder #Depression #inspire #Inspiration #Selfharm #Grief #SuicidalIdeation #SuicideAttemptSurvivors #SuicidalThoughts #Suicide #Anxiety #ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder #PostTraumaticStressDisorder #PTSD #MightyTogether #youarenotalone #alone #Loneliness #TRDSupport #TreatmentresistantDepression #MentalHealth #BipolarDepression #MajorDepression #MDD #ChronicIllness #RecurringDepression #GeneralizedAnxietyDisorder #PersistentDepressiveDisorder