Cumbersome

I love my (NINE) readers. They are always so thoughtful and pretty consistent about reading my whacky posts. Thank you for that.

I want to also acknowledge that some of what I write can sound a little kooky and, at times, maybe scary for those close to me. I get it. Reading about someone who you care about fighting a battle with depression isn't easy. Learning that your family member or friend has sat on the suicidal fence is fucked up. I want to remind all (9) of you that I blog because my silence was killing me. I write here because I want to be open and honest about my mental health issues and how I am working every day to get better. 

There are days that I don't want to fight anymore; that I am sick of feelings and having to take my meds. Of waking up to the chatter in my head. Dreading the phone because I don't always know how to respond to "How are you?" I want to be able to say I am fucking fantastic. I am happy and healthy and ready to take on the world. But that isn't my truth. There are days that are wonderful and there are days that are a struggle. That is my reality. 

It has gotten better. The KIT has made a difference. EMDR is helping. My therapist is wonderful and supportive and gets me. My friends and family all show amazing understanding and support. I am grateful beyond words.

If you are reading this and are worried about me, please try not to be. This is my place to get my thoughts out, even the more disturbing ones. It's another form of therapy for me. A safe place for me to just let it all go. 

This is my fight for my life. I pack a pretty serious fucking punch.

xoks