I was invited to visit Frank yesterday. And I did. Frank is a sweet old man. He seems to have changed little, except...
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.
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'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 …
I wanted to have at least a rough draft ready by September. And then all the things happened. Further I lost the habit of taking my meds daily. Not proud. Just honest. Flailing, a bit.
What's worse than feeling all the things too much? Feeling nothing.