Imagine that a butterfly may not metamorphose just once, but could seek or create a protective shelter at any time, and emerge as something a little different.
I'm healing. I'm not healed. I may never be healed. But the process of healing is improving me.
Our youngest did not learn until she was nineteen that my ex was abusive. And that is darkly one of my proudest achievements.
Am I a good person? I can say nice things and do good deeds, but am I a nice person? Are my thoughts nice?
For some time in early 2013, the only way I could contact my son Stuart was through his paternal grandmother, Donna. He'd gone to visit her for a day or two on numerous occasions. When he'd left home in October 2012, I never imagined he would not return.
Don’t tell me you’re praying for me while you’re putting me through Hell. You don’t know me at all. You know a ghost. The person you accuse me of being is a figment of your imagination, nothing more.
I began responding to a volatile telephone call in a letter. The letter soon became more of a release of pent-up anxiety and anger. I didn't mail this letter. I did show it to my therapist.
Going through old writings, and it's tough. I should have fought harder. I just didn't — couldn't — believe, it would get so bad.
I'm not embarrassed. I'm celebrating. Not everyone gets to see what life looks like twenty years after a suicide attempt. This life is glaringly dissimilar to what I left in 2000.
When my first life ended, I was 28. I was a married mother of two. I worked from home. I had a high school diploma. We lived in a mobile home on a big rural lot. I’d met my first husband at 20. We were married the following year. We had a boy when I …
I’m unapologetic about my mental health journey. I overshare. I know. I’m open in hopes of supporting someone else through what I survived. My illness makes emotions feel stronger. I’ve been called too sensitive; thin-skinned. Sometimes I impulsively delete accounts and start over. Bless your heart if you’ve followed me through a few of those …