I lost my job.
I had to send an email saying I wasn’t better yet: my doctor said no. No, not better yet. Shouldn’t be working yet. Shouldn’t be stressed yet. They had to call and say they couldn’t wait any longer.

I lost my job in the most eloquent of ways. I didn’t hide or sink or slowly fall of the radar. To them, I smashed into a wall with about as much subtlety as a bird smashing into a pane glass window. Visible, absurd, sad, but not quite a scene.

They waited. They tried. They cared.
They care.

Theres no mess, theres no blame. Theres nothing to hate or be hurt about. Theres just the truth: in my life, for me, I crashed like a 747 that couldn’t quite stick the landing. Careening sideways and the wings smashed off the runway, erupting into flames, blowing apart in an instant.

I feel awful I couldn’t get better. I feel awful, in general. I feel awful about feeling awful. I feel guilty I can’t do better. I feel guilty they waited. I feel guilty they cared.

I feel very much like my sick and healthy minds are battling over every response.
Fucke dup perfectionist trauma me is so horribly disappointed with herself. I loved that job. I had a plan. I had a good job with good people doing important things and I loved it. I was going to go to grad school. I had my shit together. I had worked hard. I ruined everything. I am devastated.

Sick me… Sick me is just relieved. Sick me is happy to get better without a timeline. Sick me needs a break. Sick me is so so tired.

And dream future self me is just trying to get by in one piece because turning into a giant ball of negative energy is really not helping anyone let alone me.

I wish dream future self won more often.




I have trouble reading and writing now. I cant concentrate in long enough spurts to absorb information, and my memory is fleeting at best. I will do my best here.

My new meds make me tired, tired, tired. Tired in my bones. I am unsure how much of this exhaustion is medicated, and how much is the natural progression of recuperating from months of being on edge (be it on one side or the other) but for now, all I do is sleep. I feel like my brain is wrapped in bubble wrap most of the time. I cant tell if its because I can never quite wake up, it’s the meds, or it’s a symptom left behind from all the chaos. I get angry and cry easily. Again, not sure if this is a side effect, a side effect of being tired, or a left over symptom. I lose my shit a lot.

I feel like I should rightfully quit my job so they can hire someone else. To be fair. To have someone in the position when they actually need someone in the position. I cant afford to quit my job. At all. I also remember liking it, back when my brain was together and not a crumbled mess tacked together with chewing gum. I cant work. I just sleep, and need to be asleep. I’m unsure what to do next.

I’m out at my parents place. My mom likes it when I’m here when I’m a mess. I know its an anxiety thing, but its also a parent thing. She likes to make sure I’m breathing. It has helped too. I get so numbly bored because I can’t get my brain to function (cant read books, cant follow tv shows, cant work, too exhausted to exercise, cant concentrate enough to cook…) that I spiral down pretty quickly. So its nice to have people to talk to… about anything. Its my only thing left, really. So they drag me with them on random errands.

This is my life now. I miss the rest of it.

I have been having a lot of trouble believing the rest will ever come back. I dont know what else to say about it other than I feel like I need months to recuperate and that I think my body is going to force that to happen even though I cant possibly afford it. I don’t know if I will be the same at the end of it. I dont know what to do.

I would not wish this experience on anyone. It’s not even the symptoms, so much, though all of that was easily the worst part of my life. Its the recovery. The waiting. The being half of yourself. Waiting, dragging the listless deadweight forward on already shattered knees. Just hoping, hoping, hoping something will convince it to emerge from its inebriated slumber… and being prettified of what that would mean.

Is this it, then?



Today is better.
I don’t know if it will last, and I’m choosing not to stress about it.

I didn’t kill myself yesterday.
I was close. I was closer than I care to admit, closer than I ever remember being… including the days spent sitting in the ER.
Many people helped me not kill myself (my therapist, my mom, my brother, a random stranger who commented on this blog), but I did it. I stayed alive, in 60 second bursts, for the entire day. Through a fight. Through urges. Through fits and bursts. I did that.

I have coping skills. I have the doctors, the therapists, the support networks, the people to call, the order of things to do, the small goals. I have the things you are told to build when you end up in the ER. I have the things, and sometimes, the things are still not enough. Sometimes, there are just 60 second blocks, one after another, and you just try to get through each one. Little goals. Tick. Tock.
There is nothing to do but wait it out.

Today isnt like that.
I woke up bad, but not awful. I woke up (goal #1), I swallowed pills (goal #2). Stripped off the sweat drenched bulky sweaters and layers of clothing I had piled all over my body as protection from myself the night before.
I dont remember falling asleep. My body aches all over from the constant clenched tension I’d held in it all night.
I showered (goal #4). Didnt shave. Too much of a temptation (goal #5). Got dressed (goal #6)
I ate a peach: nutrients (goal #7).
I left the apartment (goal #8) and got a package from the post office. I came home and did skype therapy. Therapy makes me feel like I’m working on the problem, so therefore therapy makes me feel better, in and of itself. There no worse feeling that that of feeling like you are doing nothing to fix being horribly, crushingly, defeated.
I made tea. I hugged my roommate (goal #9). I ate vegetables (goal #7).
And then, something weird happened. I felt like maybe going outside would be ok.
I haven’t felt like maybe being outside would be ok in a long time. So I decided to act on it as fast as humanly possible. Ellie stopped by shortly there after so I dragged her to a nearby park with me. it was sunny but not hot. There was a water fountain: I love watching water fountains. They calm me. We stayed there for an hour and then everyone was going to trivia because its Tuesday. I love trivia. I was already outside. I was worried about the crowd because on Saturday I had to leave a party due to a massive panic attack turned suicidal downward spiral. Decided to go and sit at the table with Amber and Nicole because we need to show up like an hour early to save the table. Could leave when a crowd started to form if I needed. We got a good table and I got to sit by the wall… lots of space. Made it through trivia night. Last minute text to my boss and he came down to play, too. Sat in the dark park with my boss after 11pm. Talked about work. talked about life. talked about where things were at. He walked me home. (goals #10-72384238)
I’m going in to sign my contract tomorrow… start health benefits. In a week or two I’ll start working only the hours I feel up to being there, and not being there when I’m not. I’m extremely lucky to have such a supportive amazing workplace. I wish I could just give one to everyone who goes through any of this. I dont know how I’d have survived without it.

Todays a good day. Maybe tomorrow will be too. Maybe it wont. But I’m grateful for the pause; the reminder. The intake of air.

Silently screaming


I never thought learning that suicide barriers had been installed on the MacDonald bridge walkway would be this disappointing.

I’ve been looking up the statistics… Because that’s what I do. I like facts. And the facts are that slitting your wrisits and swallowing a bunch of pills have a very low success rate. Like less that 1 in 6 succeed. Nearly everyone with a gun or cyanide does but I don’t really have access to those.

Which is a good thing.

So jumping off something really high has pretty good results, but I don’t think I could ever convince myself to jump off a building into concrete, so the thought of water at the bottom was nice.

I’ve always been terrified of drowning but the fall would break all my bones anyway so I feel like I’d be knocked unconscious first.

But there’s barriers and people and I’m not very good at climbing fences so.
I guess drowning is the next best option. Just fill the pockets full of rocks and walk like virgina woolf.

I wonder if I could do it.



Things have changed.

I know this should be the easy part. The part where I just simply recount the past couple weeks of soul crippling depression in bits and fragments… some sort of counter part to the ‘psychosis’ post from a few weeks ago. But it isnt. Its never easy for me to admit this half of the spectrum; the one I feel like I should be able to control. Its been here longer, and it takes up much more space inside me. It is a part of me in a much more tangible, recognizable way: the pitch, pitch black.

Last week, I was forcibly taken to the ER because I was suicidal and the people closest to me were gravely concerned for my well being. I’ve hinted and mentioned and touched on this fact, and the circumstances leading up to it in bits and pieces. It was (is?) a bleak period for me. there is something so inherently difficult to explain here… some coming to of an innate, constant reality that just broke me.

As a mental health advocate, its an incredibly taboo thing for me to say, but I’m going to say it: the realization that I was, in fact, bipolar, or at the very least not “just” anxious has been, at times, unbearable for me. It is not that I don’t value people with these heavy diagnoses. I do, I really, truly do. people that have these problems and cope. That make it through their lives and do what they want to do, who be who they want to be, who are good, amazing, wonderful people who better the world. The people who have such strength and fortitude to survive: they are my heroes, in every sense of the word. But lately, or maybe always, I have a deep seeded doubt that this is something I can ever personally accomplish. And that is crushing.

I cannot pretend my mental illness is not a burden: it is. it is painful. it is heavy. it is a boulder that sits on my chest and the only thing keeping it from crushing through my rib cage is the strength of my finger tips and sheer force of will. It is not easy. It is not pleasant. It is not without struggle.

I spend a lot of time fighting to not be defined by that struggle. A lot of time. So it is painful for me to admit that in the face of recognizing that that struggle was something serious, something permanent, something that wont necessarily improve with continuous hard work and diligent effort… it broke me. Looking at the state I was in, and knowing, unequivocally, that there was nothing I could do to stop it, to stop myself from being back here again, that I was already doing everything anyone could suggest… was devastating.

I work hard at being mentally healthy.
I go to therapy. I work on things that my psychologist tells me to work on. I have insight into why things are happening and what is causing what. I do my best to reason and talk through things. I use all my CBT training. I have a psychiatrist. A good one. I take the pills I’m told to take. I go to my appointments. I modify my diet. I do the stupid routines and sleep hygiene. I work. I try. There is literally nothing I could be doing right now to work any harder at this, aside from being better at doing nothing at all.

And this still happened.

This horrible, crushing, terrible thing still happened.

I cant work it away.
I have always been able to work it away.

As stupid, or misguided as it may be, having a diagnosis of depression and anxiety, as opposed to bipolar or schizoaffective, or whatever label it ends up being, made me feel like I had more control. It made me feel like I could work my way through it. It made me feel like if I just tried harder I could get somewhere, because I have always held that sliver of hope. That hope that so many people have lost.
But, for some reason, for whatever reason, the bipolar label makes me feel like I’ve lost that. And the switching of labels.. the oh your bipolar, oh nevermind you’ve got anxiety, oh i meant ptsd, oh no, “just” depression… it feels like I was robbed of time to adjust.

I know its just a word. A label meant to help those who help me; not one to define me or who I am. But it matters. I have very separate emotions attached to each. and they may be unreasonable and they may be the byproduct of stigma and internalization of bullshit, but they are mine and i have a right to work through them.

I have a right to be devastated by apparently old news. I am devastated by old news. My finger tips can only hold some much weigh before they give. The boulder is going to fall, some of the time. My ribs are going to have to learn how to take it.

I have a right to be tired. I have a right to let myself be crushed.