There’s a pale, diffuse light creeping in. Little by little. It started when I unburdened myself of the secretive shame of these thoughts and feelings that have overcome my soul.

I told my husband. No, that’s not it. I had been “telling” him all along, but not to the extent that these blog posts delve into my psyche. So, I finally cast my fear aside and let him into the funhouse that is my brain. Almost instantly, I felt better. No, not completely. It wasn’t a cure. It was simply a few pounds of weight taken off the mental barbell on my shoulders.

It’s so terrifying to admit to someone you love exactly how fucked up you are. There’s a not-necessarily-unfounded concern that telling your significant other you sometimes drag safety pins across your flesh to feel better will make them run far and fast away. And then what?

I don’t have an answer. My husband responded with an amount of love and concern so great I could not help but feel a bit better. It was as though I poured some of my darkness out into his hands and it ran through like sand. I felt lighter, and he was no worse for the wear. I am blessed.

I encourage you to find someone you trust and share your struggle. Even if it’s a helpline or website. Share your burden and it becomes lighter.

It’s still dark. But there’s some moonlight now. And I’ll take it.


I close my eyes and imagine the blade sinking into my arm. Not my wrist, my arm. I don’t want to die – I want to bleed. I want the thin, sharp blade to pierce the chubby, smooth, pale flesh of my arm and I want to watch as the line turns red, then forms tiny mounds of shiny crimson blood that get bigger and bigger… then when they can no longer withstand the gravity, slide down the side of my arm, tickling me with their relief.

These tiny streams take with them the darkness. Each drop falling onto the floor takes a minuscule pixel of the black that has invaded my spirit and carries it away, leaving behind a pinpoint of light.

But I can’t do it. All I can do is imagine it. Is it because I’m weak? Or is it because I know it won’t actually help, I only want it to? Perhaps it’s both.

Unfortunately, I won’t know unless I try.

Unfortunately, I may never try.


I don’t know what’s worse – irrational anger or irrational sadness. Or maybe it’s the fact that they, so often, happen in tandem; my psyche like a metronome, clicking from angry to sad to angry to sad in a hellacious rhythm of torture.

What will it take to stop being gang-raped by these demons, my happiness violated repeatedly by these brutish thoughts and emotions. Feelings that are supposed to be therapeutic, cathartic – a form of release – are mutilated and used as a form of punishment. For what, I do not know.

It’s so fucked up because – are you ready for this? – I don’t know if I want it to stop. Sometimes I feel like I’m more myself than ever when I’m caught in this double team – feeling everything so acutely and deeply.

I almost don’t know how to enjoy smiling anymore. I used to feel joy as deeply as sorrow, but each time it returns it’s a little duller and a little less engulfing. The entire time it’s with me, I’m waiting for it to leave. It’s like attachment disorder – I’m scaring it away before it has a chance to leave me on its own.

I guess you already knew I’m fucked up. I’ve never kept that a secret. I wonder if there’s anything that will come as a surprise anymore – to me, or to anyone reading this.

Misery is my fucking security blanket, keeping me safe and warm in my despair. If I can’t beat it, I might as well learn to love it. Or at least try to make sense of these demons clawing at me.

Where’s my safety pin?

There are so many voices in my goddamn head.