Here we go again, my fake promises I can never seem to fulfill. Once again, I told myself I would TRY (key word try) to blog daily, what did I NOT do?
Moving on. My week has been a week of ups and downs, unfortunately I ended it by me having a mental breakdown at school. I rarely cry at school. And when I do, i cry in the bathroom, get myself together, and come out smiling. But yesterday was different. Like I said, I rarely cry at school, so when people saw me crying it came as a shock to them. They were concerned. How come I wasn’t my happy self today? They wondered what was wrong, but there is no use in talking to people. It wasn’t just sobs, it was crying out LOUD, shaking uncontrollably, my chest felt as though it was closing, I couldn’t breathe, my chest had this burning sensation, my head was spinning. I’m usually one to want someone to hold me when I’m crying or feeling sad. But this time, I didn’t want anyone to touch me, no one was allowed to come within a feet of me. I felt physically sick. I was convinced I was going to suffocate to death.
I’m saying this because as I sit here, I’m contemplating whether or not I should go to this party. Keep in mind the only reason I DO want to go is because there’s going to be drugs, and alcohol. More self destruction. That’s all this week has been filled with. Me self destructing. I’m physically drained and for the first time in months! This is going to be such an easy no for me.
I just realized I haven’t really written anything on my blog for a really, really long time. There are so many reasons why. That’s sort of an overstatement because I’ve never really written anything that much. With that being said though, I had plan to make it a regular daily maybe weekly habit of mine. But, Depression is a bitch. Anxiety is it’s father. There were and are so many days that I just don’t want to get out of bed and face the world. I’ve been calling out of school “sick” a lot lately. And for someone who rarely gets sick, It’s hard to keep saying, “oh, I’m sick”, ya know? But that’s way easier then calling out and saying “oh yeah, I’m taking a mental health day today because of my depression and my anxiety has skyrocketed and I just want to stay in bed and cry, while contemplating whether or not I should or should’t take the entire bottle of pills that’s on my dresser right now.” people don’t know how to react when you tell them you’re depressed. And to be quite honest with you, that is okay, I’m not looking for some sort of sympathy from anyone, I’m not looking for anyone to feel sorry for me. I just wish I was able to be honest and say, “hey look, this is what’s happening, this is what I’m thinking of today”, ya know?
Truth be told, there is nothing remotely pretty or poetic about slit wrists, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, or any form of mental health. there’s nothing to romanticize in the unpolished, desecrated skin. nothing to glamorized in the struggled sobs that scraped the insides of your throat raw and hollowed you out with every choking hiccup. you’re not a temple like they want you to believe, you are a sickness, you are a ditch attempt at filling the void.
Some days are better than others, like today—everyday isn’t going to be like today, and that is okay.
If emotions were colors, then everything is black and grey.muffled and faded. Not washed away, just faded. I found solace in the darkest place. When people found out what I had been doing they asked me why?, But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home. They have no idea what its like to seek safety in other people, for home to be where ever you lie your head. I was Scared to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it. But the feeling is only temporary. After a while, it goes away. And I, am myself again.
Here is the latest installment in my series on eating disorders. If you haven’t read the others, here’s what’s up: A passionate girl named Gabriela approached me and asked me if she could share her story. She is a great advocate for those with mental illness, particularly girls with eating disorders. She is currently in the […]
via Guest Blog: Dealing With The Stigma Around Eating Disorders — Slay Girl Society
I’ve tried writing this several times and it just didn’t make sense. I’m not too great with words, so just bear with me as you read this. So, I’ve dealt with a good amount of anxiety over the course of my seventeen years. Recently, it’s increased and I’ve picked up bad habits as a way […]
via Dealing with anxiety?(or not lol) — Buzz
Practice writing sad things when you’re happy. And practice writing happy things when you’re sad.
via Practice — Lonely Blue Boy
the stigma sounding mental illness is not only repulsive, but extremely in lack of a better term, fucked up. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had false statements and remarks installed into my brain. That only a certain race can do this or that. I’m not one to discuss politics or racial discrimination because I’m always so terrified about the backlash that I might get, and I never wanted that negative attention. But If expressing how I feel, and bringing to attention something so important that is so dear to my heart, may cause some backlash… that is okay.
I’ve suffered in silence, and for a really long time, I thought that was okay. Having an Eating Disorder, suffering from self-harm, depression, and anxiety, and having every single voice in your own head telling you that you’re not good enough. That you should just go ahead and end your own life because that is so much more better then facing the harsh reality of life. And having other people look at you and tell you that you can’t cut yourself, that you can’t have bulimia, there is no way! and most of all, that you cannot be depressed… you start to believe it. For 3 years, I suffered and never said anything to anyone. Because I’m not white. I mean, after all…. black girls know how to eat… black girls like being thick or big. Having a mental illness is already draining, having to keep it a secret, you beat yourself up about it constantly! and then having the people around you tell you can’t, and how could you? this disorder is for white girls and white girls only! you’re only trying to act white by starving yourself, eating until your chest is going to explode just to stick your finger down your throat and release your demons and the thoughts and memories that hunt you the most.
by you listening to a different kind of music does not mean you’re trying to act like a different race, by you dressing a different way does not mean you’re trying to act like a different race, and having a mental illness of any kind does NOT mean you’re trying to act like a certain race. No matter what you look where or where you come from or who your parents are… none of that matters. Mental illness does not go through a crowd of people and pick out who’s white enough to have a mental illness of any form.
because not ALL BLACK GIRLS KNOW HOW TO EAT.
Relapse is hell. You were doing okay for a while, then suddenly, you’re not. So you beat yourself up about it, the anxiety that follows a relapse is the hardest. You start to feel even more lonely, even more trapped. That little spark that you were holding onto for dear life, goes away. And for the first time in a while, you’re reminded again of what total darkness feels like. You scream, but no one seems to hear you. You’re stuck. All the lies, all the excuses, all the avoidance. It all starts ALL over again. But no one sees through those lies, no one knows.NO ONE knows… And for once again, you have to smile, grin and bare it. For no one knows the pain.
Sometimes I get lost in a maze of my thoughts that I forget who I really am. As horrible as it may sound, no one can save us, we have to save ourselves. We have to dig deep down inside and find that little strength and courage to keep us going. It’s just a spark, but it is enough to keep us going. It’s hard when you have to go through something all alone. When the problem are the voices in your head, those voices you have no control over.Those voices that tell you’re worthless, you’re not good enough, you’re too fat, you’re too skinny, you’re not smart enough, you will never be good enough, your friends secretly hate you, those voices that are constantly reminding your that you’re a disappointment to your family. But for some reason, you have to be the one to fight that monster all by yourself. The raging monster inside of you. You have to be the one to fight it. how can I?
Depression is like cancer, in the sense that it spreads through your veins, and into your bloodstream. Taking over your body. You become a slave to your own mind. Every single thought isn’t your own. You scream into the night as the voices fill your head with lies, whispering fibs. Screaming that EVERYSINGLETHING is wrong with you!
Why? You want to know why?
Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they’re tight.
Smoke gun powder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling your ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore ad worst of all, “a disappointment.” Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don’t want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and drink and cut because you need the anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it’s too late because you’re mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can’t stop it.
Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you.
“Why?” Is the wrong question.
Ask “why not?”