mental illness

In all seriousness, there’s a side to this disorder that isn’t discussed enough because it’s uncomfortable. It’s uncomfortable for those of us who struggle because we’re afraid of being judged, and it’s upsetting and disturbing to hear that a friend or family member is experiencing them.

I know it’s a lie when I tell myself that I’m “simply off” or “maybe I’m just having a few bad days” or “I’m in a funk” or “I must be upset about something, but I don’t know what.”

This is my depression. It returned the other day. And it spoke to me.

Loving means giving up control. Releasing something to the universe. It’s not prescriptive. There is no place for black and white in love. It’s the ultimate grey.

I normally go through PR music tracks as I work, listening while I type up an email or proofread a piece.

I have sought out solitude my entire life — up until pretty recently, it was a hard thing to come by. 

While I laughed at her old-school idiom, once she explained the concept I knew she was right. I was making a bigger deal out of things than was necessary or appropriate; she just didn’t understand that it wasn’t a choice.

Here’s the thing about depression: it cycles. Even when I’m on medication, going to therapy and doing everything I’m able to do in order to stay healthy and keep it at bay, it bleeds in and out of my soul.