My nights sound like reruns and my cat purring, and the click clack of my knitting needles. I became a recluse, I am not one, but it found me, this lifestyle. I have nowhere to go, and going just makes me feel more alone. My money has lost it’s lycra stretch and
I’ve noticed – and I’m also saying this from personal experience – that some people who know someone with a mental illness use exactly that (mental illness) as an excuse to walk away, to unfriend you, to be cruel, to play the victim, to think that we need to be sorry for
I just don’t get it. I’ve had a reasonably good life; I’d almost go so far as to say I’m ‘normal’. I was raised by two loving parents, had plenty of siblings, and enjoyed a colourful and warm childhood. I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs but I was always
It basically goes without saying, but here’s a trigger warning. Reading about suicide when you’re in a rough place can make things real, so take a moment to think about whether you want to read this post. You may or may not have gathered that I’ve recently lost a friend to suicide.
Paradise is seldom a place of palms or pines, waves or peaks spelled out in glassy stillness, breezes warm, cool, fragrant, or crisp; paradise is a space of mind in which relief washes over you, soaking every contour of the scars left by stress while your brain elates in the rare moment that
Shame Shame is an interesting thing. The act of being afraid of what others think of you, and how that actually affects you…what the hell is that? Why is this a thing? Showing emotion is often deemed as weak, or too revealing, or overbearing. The act of emoting some sort of feeling
Anxiety is one of those things. A word people throw around when they are feeling anxious every now and then before some important event or the like. No, that is not anxiety. Or at least not the anxiety that I know, the one that has taken residence in my mind for as
Nearly 30 years it’s taken me. I’ve carried this thing around for a while now. Lurking in the background, sometimes hovering in the subconscious, other times standing right there and yelling at my face. Well guess what old mate fear of not being good enough, your time is up. Because it wrecks
These Are the Words The moment when you reach out for help and receive the boiler plate response such as “You’re not alone” or “things are not that bad” or “hang in there sweetie, it will get better”; am I the only one who feels even worse after receiving that? I feel
I am why I’m not okay. So goes my singsong internal narrative. My fractured voice, me, the real me, struggles: But I am alive. I love. I, more than anything, love a summer night, a downhill, a breeze from the west, a bicycle, about 9:45; Sunday morning slow folk hymns and black tea