It started as a tickle in my throat. A twinge of pain in my eyes when the sun peeked through the blinds. All these little things piled up into their very own mountain, and no matter how far I climbed, it just kept getting taller.
When I get to feeling down, I find that sometimes it’s simply because I’ve fallen behind on the little things that bring me joy. Taking just a few minutes out of each day to make sure I’m doing these little things helps to keep my spirits up. Although these points are quite basic, they’re also the easiest things to forget about in the everyday rush of life.
I want nothing more than to write. I want what I write to be encouraging… but I also want it to be real. There are some days that no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to conjure up anything positive to write.
Pardon my language, but this week was total bullshit. Sure, it started on a good note. I finally got my first tattoo. I did quite a bit of writing for the blog. But somewhere along the way everything just fell apart.
2016 was the year I finally made the decision to try medication for my mental illness. I’d been in therapy for a full year and it had helped tremendously, but I was still lacking the serotonin needed to make any real progress. I did a ton of research, asked as many professionals for their input as possible, and cried a lot.
The whole process was very overwhelming for me due to one question. What does this decision say about me?
This is not the original post I had planned for today, but after experiencing a rather crippling depressive episode, I decided to write this instead. Because somewhere out there someone is tucked away in a dark room under their blankets, scared to open their eyes and face the demons awaiting them. Someone is afraid to die, but much more afraid to live. Someone needs to hear this and know they’re not alone. They need someone to tell them the baby steps to recovery because it’s hard to think for yourself when your mind is working against you.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”