Inch

It happened right at the end of class. In that moment when everyone has their attention somewhere else and nobody notices a single thing. I was standing at my spot by the exit door, waiting for all the nine-year-olds in my classroom to finish putting their belongings in their backpacks. We had just wrapped up the last day of school, and the kids were taking home everything that had managed to migrate from home to school (and not back again) over the course of ten months.

I suppose, from their perspective, I was there one minute and gone the next. I hadn’t technically “gone” anywhere, but I’m certain I was in no shape to be seen. From my perspective, I suddenly felt very hot. Hot and dizzy. I felt another migraine coming on. I closed my eyes for a moment to rub my temples and pray to whomever was listening that it could hold off until I got home and got some ice on my neck.

When I opened my eyes again, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. Ruby Rose, the smallest of all the second-graders in the whole school, was towering over me like some kind of giant. She had her arms akimbo, and she was surveying the classroom. I called her name, louder and louder, until I realized she couldn’t hear me above the overall din in the room. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and let out my famous ear-piercing whistle, which I won’t normally do indoors, but this time I got no reaction. Not from Ruby Rose, standing no more than a foot from me, and not even from Dustin, who is quite sensitive to sharp noises.

Ruby, being the student-of-the-week during the very last week of second grade, took her job very seriously. She knew it was her responsibility to make sure there was a line of students, all facing the same way, with all of their belongings, along the line of blue tape on the floor.

Blue. Tape.

I looked down. Here I am, standing on my usual spot at the head of the line, right by the door, waiting for a gaggle of children to organize themselves and stampede right down this line of blue tape and out the back door. On any given day, there would be no stampede. I work too hard at the beginning of the year, practicing and perfecting our lines. This earns us compliments from other teachers, which in turn earns them prizes. It works right up until the last day, when the excitement overtakes their desire to please the adult in the room, and they run, screaming (literally screaming, they are nine years old) out into the parking lot and into their parents’ loving arms.

But. The. Blue. Tape.

It’s got to be as wide as I am tall. There is a little edge peeling up at the corner, and it reaches right up to my waist. I reach out and flick it, but it doesn’t move. Suddenly, I realize how very large Ruby’s red, sparkly Converse are in relation to me, and simultaneously, notice that they are headed in my direction. Ruby is making a beeline to where I am standing. She appears to be moving in slow motion, but she’s already halfway here and I’m frozen to the spot. I am not even sure where to go. She’s about to open the door, and dismiss students who are seated quietly at their desks.

I am told that the mark of good classroom management is that the students can follow the routines even in the absence of the teacher. They certainly won’t notice me down here! As Ruby reaches her spot she reaches up and flicks the light switch off and on again. Instant quiet. I don’t even have a second to revel in my own brilliance because I know I have to get off this spot and out of harm’s way before she calls the first group to line up. Ruby’s giant foot is only feet from where I stand (inches? my perspective was all off).

I took a deep breath and looked around for shelter of some kind. To my left was a file cabinet, to my right was the sink. The cabinet door under the sink had a space beneath it. The filing cabinet was closer, but offered me no hiding place. I didn’t have long to act, the bell would ring shortly and not even Ruby Rose could hold back the flow of small bodies heaving toward the door. In true Ruby Rose fashion, she was taking her sweet time to choose the quietest group.

With the room on “silent” I tried to call Ruby’s name again. I called her first name, her first and middle together, and then all four of her names (that usually gets her attention) to no avail. She picked table three. My time was up. I ran as fast as I could toward that cabinet door and the blissful space beneath.

It seemed to take forever to get there. By the time I was halfway there, the bell had rung and all hell broke loose. I hit the ground and assumed the earthquake drill position I’d learned all the way back when I was in elementary school. I knew it couldn’t save me from a giant shoe but I also didn’t want to witness that happen, at any rate. Then, I had to cover my ears because of the ungodly noise made by twenty-four children screaming at the top of their lungs. Lucky for me, Ruby did not let anyone run astray of the blue line and somehow, I didn’t get squished.

When the noise had moved from indoors to outdoors, I took a peek from between my fingers (I always wondered why people do that in films. I now know). The room was blissfully empty of pint-size giants. The door was open, the lights were on, and I was left with not one clue of what to do next.

Ruby’s giant head popped back in the doorway and she bellowed, “See you later, Ms. D!” before pirouetting out the door and into the summer sunshine.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #fiction #shortstories #shortstory #storytime #originalworkbyme #writing #story #writer #writingcommunity #writers #writerscommunity #fiction #art #storytelling #author #shortstorywriter #reading #stories #write #amwriting #creativewriting #storyteller #words #wordporn #read #life #literature #microfiction #shortfiction

Fiction

I started writing this blog because I needed to heal. “Writing it down” is my way of organizing something I don’t completely understand and haven’t always had a somewhat difficult relationship with: my feelings. I’ve spent so much of my life disconnected from my feelings, trying to numb them with drugs, diving headfirst into someone else’s so I don’t have to experience my own… Now that I’m finally healed enough to feel, I still have trouble identifying basic human emotions in myself.

I’ve spent five years now exploring my feelings. Splaying open my skin and allowing strangers to peek inside. I’ve rehashed the past over and under until I have something of a handle on it…

My Feelings.

I took a break from submissions after two years of (mostly) weekly posts. I wasn’t intending to, I didn’t plan it, but it happened.

Now, I am turning a corner.

I’ve cleared my head of so many cobwebs. I’ve revisited my past until it doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m not angry anymore. I’m past blaming others for what happened to me. I now have the tools to ensure nobody ever has that much control over me ever again. There is no more resentment, only peace.

(Here I must make it absolutely clear that I didn’t do this all by myself. Writing was a part of my healing, but only a SMALL part of it. I have a robust support system. I have good medical and I can afford to talk to my therapist weekly. I had the means and the ability to get my own home so I don’t have to depend on anyone). I am aware of my privilege and how this has helped me through this process.

I am turning the corner to fiction. I’ve laid myself bare with non-fiction. I’m ready to finally open the folder full of half-baked story ideas (yes, that is the real name of my fiction folder) and put them out in front of eyeballs. I don’t know what has held me back in the past. What was I afraid of? It’s not “good” enough? I won’t “finish?” Doesn’t matter.

Thank you for being with me throughout this journey. I’d love it if you stayed for the fiction, but I’ll be honest and say I very likely won’t notice if you don’t. I’m doing this for me.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #

Published!

• 

What Doesn’t Kill Her: Women’s Stories of Resilience, Release date June 1, 2021

I am excited to announce the publication of a collection I had the honor of participating in. By, Harridan and Strumpet Books. The book was edited by two Harvard Educated women writers, Kerry Garvin and Elisabeth Sharp McKenna

#whatdoesntkillher #harridanandstrumpet #grit #perserverance #neverthelessshepersisted #mynameisonabook #tellmystory

Hate

The opposite of Love isn’t Hate. Both are feelings of passion. Both states can cause regrettable actions. People who have been repeatedly abused or neglected have difficulty telling the difference. A child, for instance, who is ignored all the time may learn to “act up” to get attention. Someone who has never known affection may not be able to distinguish positive from negative attention.

The opposite of hate is indifference. I have jettisoned more than one malignant narcissist from my life. Each one has continued to reach out to me in underhanded and sneaky ways. Sending me coded “gifts” in the mail, cryptic messages, reaching out to my friends… If I react at all, I’m giving attention to the person, which must mean I’m still in love and I can’t get them out of my head (so they think). No reaction, no input, means I don’t care anymore. It turns out I have to care about someone in order to hate them.

I hated my dad for a long time. Then one day, I didn’t hate him anymore. I knew it when he phoned one Sunday morning and instead of letting it go to voicemail, I picked it up. I know better than to try and tell him about my life, he’s never interested and only changes the subject to how miserable he is. I didn’t react. I didn’t try to talk him out of his misery, I just honored it, “Is that right? Fancy that.” The call lasted about as long as they usually do. Afterward, I noticed how free I felt.

I do love my dad, I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I just don’t have anything more of me to give to him. He was the “fun” dad when I was growing up. I have a lot of good memories, and I get to keep those moments. I used to worry that I’d have some kind of regret that I didn’t spend so much time with him at the end of his life, yet I also must remember all of his life choices led him to where he is. I am not responsible for his life choices. I am worthy of being treated with respect. If he can’t offer me that, I don’t have to inconvenience myself to assay any future guilt I may suffer.

indifference

My dad is in the ICU again. It happens at least once a year, actually it’s been about two years since his last visit, so I guess he was due. I got the call this time. It’s usually my uncle calling me, but I guess dad changed the emergency contact to me. I don’t know why, the last time I talked to him, I told him I was “done.” It means I’m no longer helping him, no longer giving him my energy. He’s one of those energy vampires, and they really like draining empaths.

I told him I was “done,” because he used me to open a checking account so he could steal eleven thousand dollars from the nursing home he was staying in by lying to the social security office. I wish I was making it up. I am done. I’m not done speaking to him, ignoring him and cutting him out of my life is too much effort. It takes too much energy, and I’ve given him enough of that. The opposite of love is not hate, it takes passion to hate someone. Just as nervous is the same thing as excitement, wearing different clothes… No, the opposite of love is indifference.

I’ve had a lot of emotions about my dad. When I was a child, he was my hero. He was the most amazing, fun, and creative dad. When I was a teenager, we had violent fights as I was adultified by his codependent and addictive behaviors. When I graduated college, I married someone who turned out to treat me just like he had treated my mother, because I didn’t believe I deserved any better than that. It took me training as a therapist to realize I had lasting effects from growing up with a mentally ill and self-medicating father. I know he loved me, I know he still does. Of course I still love him, too, but I don’t have anything of me left to give him. He did the best he could. I can’t ever fully understand his reasons for never getting help, but I know part of it was toxic masculinity. So, I am done.

He called me on my birthday, but for some reason, I didn’t get the notification for two days. It started out alright, “Happy birthday, I love you,” the kind of birthday message one might expect from dad. He then started apologizing for not being the “kind of man” he wanted, “not being strong enough” to hold the family together… and more of gaslighting’s greatest hits. A few weeks later, I got a phone call one afternoon. I answered the phone instead of letting it go to voicemail. I let him say what he had to say. I didn’t react. I didn’t tell him it was “OK,” I didn’t tell him he was wrong, or right. I said nothing at all. When he was done, I said, “Bye, dad.” Indifference.

I had a dream about him. He came to visit me, in my home. Not his physical body, but his astral body. He was looking at all my things and telling me how nice my place was. I thought about calling him to see if he was still alive, but it’s just as likely he wouldn’t return my call, so I didn’t want to ask the question. Then, I got the call from the nursing home. He’s been taken to hospital with low oxygen and lethargy. I called the hospital and spoke to the ICU nurse. He’s changing channels and complaining, so he’s feeling just fine. I alerted the fam and got on with my day. Indifference.

Someday, he’s going to die and I’ll write a check for his ashes. Until that day, he’s not taking any more from me. He’s had enough.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #ICU #dad #gaslighting #indifference #noregrets

Pain

Has it really been a month? I guess I needed a break. I was taking some time to myself to focus on me.

I remember when my chronic pain started. I was sixteen years old and working on my homework at a little desk in my bedroom. There had been a nagging pull between my shoulder blades for a couple of days, but now it felt like a giant knot under my right shoulder blade. I had been diagnosed with scoliosis when I was in elementary school; my dad had it so my sister and I had regular ex-rays. One might assume that my dad, having also grown up with scoliosis, would have made an effort to teach us ways of managing our workspace and habits so we have less pain and more mobility. Unfortunately, my dad didn’t take good care of himself, let alone another human, so here we are.

The pain usually centered from underneath the scapula, and often also radiated up my neck and head. I had incredible tension headaches that would smash right through over the counter medication. I found new and creative ways to crack my back and neck joints. Drinking alcohol sometimes made it better and occasionally worse, but the reward was enough to keep me drinking, just in case. I smoked a lot of marijuana as a teenager and in college. After college, I discovered Xanax. It didn’t really do anything for the pain, but made it so the pain wasn’t important anymore.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve had the sensation of “cracking” at my sternum when I do a back bend. I first noticed this during ballet class. I asked a few others, but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. It didn’t seem to be harming anything, and it rather felt like a release, so I leaned into it when I felt it coming. In fact, I learned to pop it on command! Thirty years later, I have ribs that regularly dislocate. Is it related? perhaps. I have regular chiropractic visits now. It’s important to maintain healthy alignment. I don’t have to go days, in pain, with a dislocated hip or rib. I practice yoga daily, which also helps. I’m constantly mindful of how I walk, stand, sit, enter and leave a car, carry packages and bags… mindfulness for me is no longer just a practice, but also a mindset, a lifestyle.

Chronic pain is a funny thing. Everyone’s body and brain react to it differently. The way my body reacted was to suppress it. I have a really high tolerance for pain. I guess this is because I’ve felt pain in my bones for almost three decades. Maybe it’s also part of my PTSD. When I was living in an abusive relationship, I was terrified to show the slightest hint of weakness. If I cut my finger while I was cooking, I would hide it, or face a barrage of reminders of how stupid and useless I am. I certainly wasn’t going to admit my back hurt.

I’m starting to learn how to admit when I’m hurting and ask for help. Yes, I’m a “grown up” and I can take care of myself. It’s also okay to shout when I hurt myself, or cry when I’m sad. I’m not going to lose friends by telling them I feel bad and I need support (if I do lose friends this way, I didn’t really need them in my life).

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #pain #chronicpain #scoliosis #PTSD #drugabuse

Seen

I used to love being seen and all of the attention I would get. I knew how to get attention from boys, all the movies I watched taught me exactly how I get their attention. I was always interested in girls and boys, but boys were just so much easier. I knew from movies how to act around boys I liked. But there was nothing at all to tell me how to act around girls I liked. The way lesbians were portrayed in media at the time was either as a joke, or as a way to get attention from men. I remember dancing seductively with straight girlfriends of mine, but only to get male attention on the dance floor. What I didn’t realize at the time, was the rush of attraction I was feeling was more about the women I was with than the men that rushed up to interrupt it.

I had a couple of girlfriends in high school, if you could even call them that. we had sleepovers, and we messed around a bit. But they never wanted to be friendly in public, or talk about it with anyone else, so I soon learned it was something to keep secret. I thought maybe this was the way girlfriends showed affection, as if sex with a woman was more like a handshake than an expression of romance.

Now that I’ve been through what turned out to be a traumatic relationship, and I’ve been living with PTSD for 5 years, I am less inclined to get attention from men. I’m actually offended at the clumsy way they make incredibly rude comments and expect me to smile and laugh about it. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to make a narcissist happy that I’m tired of all the work I have to put into petting a man’s ego and acting self-depricating enough that he believes himself to be superior… The whole thing is exhausting.

I do, of course, realize not “all” men are like this. I know, I’ve met them. But they are still products of a patriarchal society where even the kindest of them are used to being “on top.”

I first realized I was attracted to women when I was in second grade. I was getting into figure drawing and I would draw these voluptuous and curvy women. I was fascinated by the female body. I looked at my drawing one day and thought to myself, “Does this mean I’m a lesbian?” I was horrified. I didn’t want to be something different, the butt of a joke, the androgynous “Pat” from Saturday night live…

Even at 7 years old, I knew what a lesbian was. I didn’t know anything about bisexuality, or the spectrum of sexuality that we see today. All I knew was I didn’t dislike men. As I grew older, I learned that men really liked me. So I figured I must be straight, as there was no other option. But most of all, I was afraid of being different, being singled out. All my girlfriends talked about boys, so I did, too.

I guess I got in the habit of being with men. I wanted a family, and that just wasn’t a possibility for two women when I was coming of age. Now, I’ve had my family and my girls are all grown up. I’ve grown in other ways, too. I’m no longer content with the status quo. If something doesn’t fit for me, I work to change the circumstance, not change myself. I’m more in touch with myself and what I really like, who I am attracted to. I’m not as stuck in trying to “fit in” all the time and I’m learning to share my opinion, even when others may not agree.

This is my journey. It may have taken me some time to come out of my adolescence and finally start seeing myself clearly, but I am finally here. I am proud of what I’ve accomplished over the past five years. I’m finally to the point where I’m willing to forgive myself for staying in an abusive relationship for so long because I thought it was the right thing to do (at the time). I made decisions based on the information I had available at the time. I have made impulsive decisions and seen them through because I am stubborn. Yet I continue to grow.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #seen #lesbian #queer #sexuality #journey #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care

still

What a fantastic word “still.” So many shades of meaning. I could stand still, not moving, or I could be “still” binging this series on Netflix…

At this very moment, I’m thinking about why I’m “still” having so much trouble functioning in the world. I mean, there is a worldwide pandemic, I’ve just lived through four years of the most terrifying presidency I can remember (and I remember Reagan), the world is actually scary, so all of us with anxiety have something real and tangible to be scared about so it’s all a little more real and raw than usual. So, putting all that aside, I’m still unhappy with my progress; I’m still emotional and raw and I’m still reacting with my reptillian brain. It’s damned inconvenient.

When I say “still,” it’s because I left my abuser five years ago, and I “should” be better by now. We all know what Albert Ellis says about that, “don’t should on me and I won’t should on you.” The point is, there is no such thing as “should.” I am where I am supposed to be. I was in an abusive relationship for fifteen years. I was raised by a narcissistic parent who was mentally ill and self-medicated with drugs and alcohol. I am going to need some time to learn how to re-connect with society.

I was an outsider for so long.

My abuser kept me on the outside. It was us against the world, which did actually sound romantic to me at one point, but I soon began to lose my own identity the more enmeshed we became. Every social encounter was a “test” and I never knew if it was me, or the other people involved who were being tested. I never found out the rules of “the game” or how “to win.”

The irony was not lost on me (although I could hardly communicate it to) the person that had zero social skills was often lecturing me on how to interact with people. But the rules were always changing. Just when I thought I had met a requirement, the expectation would change. I often used to say, “I didn’t get the memo.” Gaslighting is very hard to explain or pinpoint, but this is one example. My partner would constantly harass me and tell me I’m horrible at something I was in fact good at. It wore down my self-worth until I doubt my own abilities, my thoughts, even my memories.

So, I’m “still” having trouble making phone calls. I “still” get anxiety and put off things I don’t want to deal with. It won’t be like this always and forever. I’ve grown a LOT. I’ve learned so much. I do have far to go, but I’ve come a long way. The panic attacks don’t last as long. They don’t take over my body completely and leave me sobbing on the floor. I feel it starting and I start to breathe. Pacing helps if I need to think. The point is, I have tools in my toolbox now. I’m finding new tools all the time to add to my collection. My daily mindfulness practice helps.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #still #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #gaslighting #mindfulness

Mindfulness

I am currently working on being more mindful in all areas of my life. I started using the Headspace app. I soon realized I wasn’t going to get anything out of it unless I made it a regular practice. So I made an effort to practice every day. Then I noticed I wasn’t going to get anything out of it unless I actually did the activities described in the meditations. I can sit still for 20 minutes. But if I’m letting my mind wander the whole time, if I’m giving in to fidgets and itches, I’m not really being mindful. The more I practice the more I realize I’m only going to benefit if I make mindfulness a part of my every day all day behavior. It’s not enough to be mindful during a meditation session, but that activity trains my brain for being mindful in general.

I started teaching mindfulness to the elementary age kids I teach and the teachers I teach with. I would go on and on about the benefits of a daily practice, only I hadn’t really started that for myself. I was teaching mindfulness on a daily basis, but I wasn’t practicing it myself. I have seen the benefits in the children at my school. They are able to access their emotions, they have the words to describe them, and they feel comfortable taking a breath when they are feeling angry or stressed. I’ve even heard multiple students tell me that they teach mindfulness skills to their families (this makes me SO PROUD).

But, like I said, I hadn’t really started a daily practice for myself. When I realized I was being a hypocrite (and any kid will tell you a hypocrite is the worst of the worst) I decided to start. When I first started my mindfulness practice, I had the hardest time making it about me. I would hear a phrase that I would like to use in my mindfulness sessions with the kids, and I’d stop my session to write it down.

I’ve made some progress since then (I just hit 100 day streak, according to the app). I still have those thoughts, “hey, that was good, I want to use that!” But I just file that away with all the other thoughts that are interrupting my rest and try to focus back on my breathing. Brains are amazing thinking machines. I come up with all kids of fantastic solutions when I’m meditating. I’ve noticed that sometimes I remember the things later, and sometimes I don’t. The important thing is I am taking the time for myself.

So, meditating is about me. It’s about resting my brain and allowing my mind to go to that light and airy place where I don’t have to make any decisions, solve any problems, or be anyone’s support. It’s a time in the day where I can be completely selfish. I don’t have to think about anyone or anything I have to do. I can just… be. It is a moment of only existing, with no responsibilities, no regrets… It’s not a place of “no thoughts,” believe me. But Andy (the Headspace guy) advises it’s more like looking at a blue sky. Sometimes clouds float by, but that doesn’t change the fact there is a blue sky out there (that’s a paraphrase, here’s exactly what he said).

Mindfulness isn’t only about meditating. It’s about paying attention to your space and interaction with the world. One good example is being mindful while eating. Another favourite is mindful walking, (from, cosmickids.com). The videos and and scripts are just to get started. Once the practice becomes a daily habit, I can be mindful in everything I do.

One of my best examples of being mindful is slowing down, even when I’m late, because I know rushing is only going to mean more mistakes. If I’ve lost something, I have to take a break from looking. Even a few breaths is enough to break the mindset. Once I’m free of the negative thinking I was doing that led to a thing being lost I can look for it, but more thoughtfully this time.

Mindfulness would be the opposite of mindlessness, to which we have attributed the less unpleasant term “impulsivity.” I work with many students who have difficulty with attention and focus. I practice mindfulness with my students every time I meet with them.

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #mindfulness #meditation #impulsivity #adhd #slowdown #relax #calm #headspace #cosmickidsyoga

Medication

I didn’t realize it had been two weeks. I was aware of missing last week, but I (incorrectly) thought it was the only one. It’s been an interesting two weeks. Today is Wednesday, Nov 4. Everyone has had their chance to vote, it’s just a matter of counting. I also started a new medication two weeks ago. Depression medication. I’ve always avoided it because it comes with a period of slow titrating (gradually increasing the dose) because of the common and unwanted side effects.

For instance, it could make you sleepy, or jittery. So take it in the morning or the evening, depending. Sometimes I feel like I’ve had too many coffees, all of a sudden, in the afternoon. I’m tired all day and when it’s time to go to sleep, I can’t turn my brain off. I get stomach aches when I take it and although I’m starving all day long, nothing sounds good and even if I get food I sometimes don’t eat it. Until late at night when I eat all the sweet things in the house.

Two weeks in, I’m still having some symptoms. I know it takes a while, I have to tolerate a small dose (get enough in my system that the side effects subside) and work my way up to a level that will start to have an effect of my emotional state.

This means that a medication that is supposed to help me feel better is going to make me feel worse for a few weeks before it starts working on my emotional symptoms. This is true for anyone who tries depression medication. Unless they are properly educated by the doctors and the pharmacists, people who already feel crappy are likely to give up on a medication that initially makes them feel worse.

I know it takes time. I have noticed a change in the side effects, I haven’t really noticed a change in my mood, but I do feel hopeful because I’m making an effort to take control and change my situation.

I put off depression medication for a long time, although it has been suggested to me by medical professionals from whom I seek care. Not only because I knew it was a journey of discomfort that I wasn’t prepared for at the time, but also because of the messages I’ve kept in my head that were left by my ex. depression medication, in his opinion, was a sign of weakness. He didn’t like pills of any kind. He never forgot to call me “pillhead” when I took my birth control pill every morning.

But here’s a question: why is it such an uncomfortable journey? Why is one of the common side effects gaining weight (which might make one more depressed?) Why do I have to feel worse before I feel better? What about the people that already feel so bad they can’t afford to feel worse?

#happinessinavacuum #wordpress #wordpressblog #medication #ptsd #abusiverelationship #emotionalviolence #recovery #anxiety #depression #mentalhealth #healing #validation #balance #self-care #sideeffects #pillhead