Life with mental illness
I lie here scrolling through instagram. Every picture reminds me I’m not enough. I was never enough. I was supposed to graduate this year. Caps and gowns draped on people who I once walked alongside. But I swear they forgot me when I left. Every picture they share, my heart shatters a little bit more. …
I’m angry. Maybe I should be relieved. Or happy. But I’m angry. I’m angry that I texted my friend. I’m angry that she came over. I’m angry that I opened the door. I’m angry that they called the ambulance. I’m angry that they kept me alive. I’m angry that it didn’t work. It didn’t work. …
It's hard to understand what people experience when they are going through depression. You can't see the same darkness they see. You can't feel the same weight they do. You can be the most empathetic person in the world but you will never know the exact things going on in their mind. As someone who …
To be honest, I hate that you can’t tell that I’ve had an eating disorder. I hate that my body has changed so much from when I was once sick. I look back at old pictures and mourn over the loss of visible bones through translucent skin. I often will tell myself that I wish …
My brain is sick. Very sick. I hate to admit that. It’s not physical. You can’t hear me falling apart. You can’t see the lack of chemicals. There is no evidence of the life I live aside from the stories I tell and the art I create. There is no way to know I’m telling …
This is a reminder to me as well as anyone one else. It is okay to not be married or be in a relationship. Wedding season is among us and as we get older, many of our friends have been captured by love. Their priorities have changed and they no longer live as an individual …
I am an artist. Just as many have been before and many more will follow. It’s not just a skill or a talent. It is life. Every part of who I am is incapsulated by the desire to create even though in my eyes, I’m not even good. Colour. Movement. Words. Life. Nothing can escape. …
I wish I could say that being at home is a dream come true. That I spend each day creating art and making music. That my heart is filled with joy and the only tears that fall from my eyes are because of happiness that is exploding out of me. Peace. Hope. Comfort. But in …
10:00 pm. The doors open with a strong breath of air. Rushed chatter and muffled weeping. A place filled with both hope and grief. I go up to the desk and with trembling hands and a shaky voice I whisper the reason I'm here. "I'm suicidal." Shame. Embarrassment. Guilt. Emotions rush through my veins in …
