Mental illness is a sneaky, sneaky bastard, y’all.
If you’re a regular reader hereabouts, you may or may not have noticed a decline in output. Well, there are reasons for it.
Here I am, minding my own business, happy as a clam, starting to work out again, writing, making plans for the future, pretty much having the best summer ever, and… bam. The feeling of dullness, the desire to binge, the self-loathing, the fatigue, the constant almost-crying. All of it just slams back.
If anyone ever tells you depression is easy to beat, they’re lying to you.
It’s bizarre, the place I am right now. I’m not… unhappy. It’s as if there’s a dampener on everything I’ve been feeling, and that dampener is also messing with my writing. I can feel all the words percolating just under the surface. I can feel them just dying to get out. And I can feel the physical pain, along with the frustration and sadness and a million other things ready to burst out of my chest every moment I try to let myself form those words, and do those things I know I want to do.
My husband and I have a safe word for if either of us are ever in trouble, and half of me wants to break down screaming it.
The other half just wants to keep on fighting. So that’s what I’m doing.
I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. It affects my life every single day.
I will never let it control me like it did before I was diagnosed.