Elis de Guerre

Let the #LGBTBabes party rage on, my fellow rainbow darlings. You're beautiful. You're supported. You're loved. And you're perfect just as you are.

[CN: suicidality, hospitalization, rape culture, slut-shaming.] We all needed a place to recover, a place where our problems could be addressed and dealt with, a place where we could feel safe. However, the way the women in the ward were treated couldn’t possibly have made us feel safe or comfortable.

I have not been single during this time of year since 2005, my senior year of high school, and now, as a 27-year-old woman, I look into the next month or so of global celebration and see...nothing.

Two months ago, I filed for disability for unmedicated bipolar disorder. I had spent weeks dangling from tiring hands over a spiky precipice – or so it seemed. There were days of crying at my desk, days of inexplicable panic attacks in the face of a normal workload.

I went to my first therapist when I was a teenager. My family was dysfunctional to the point of being non-functional. If a decision needed to be made about custody arrangements, my parents were incapable of making it without me. Instead, I was the mediator (and had been since I was a young child), speaking first to my father on the phone and then relaying the message to my mother.

Whatever you choose to call Trump’s somewhat less-than-presidential-much-less-good words and actions, today is the day to celebrate them by mocking them online. Thankfully (?) Trump has given us plenty of material to work with.

Undoing a marriage costs five times as much as it does to tie one up with a bow, and the paperwork is even longer. I've cried so hard I've thrown up my dinner in a municipal lot, exhausted myself with memories to the point where 7 p.m. seems like reasonable bedtime, and contemplated spending my wedding anniversary alternating between taking a pair of scissors or a lighter to my wedding dress.

When my therapist told me in 2012 that I presented with symptoms of PTSD, I was relieved, but also in disbelief.

My jeans are tight, and show off the curve of my ass. My black shirts are fitted, sometimes low cut, but always flattering to my figure. The only thing that isn't crafted to maximize my appearance are my non-slip shoes. Otherwise, I have to look pretty. Pretty girls get better tips.

It’s a strange day to be writing about how my mental illnesses have made my life better.