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.


Mixed states are the very definition of insanity. When you have all this energy but all you want to use it for is being depressed. It’s during the mixed states that the anger is at its worst – it’s like my brain is frustrated with the state of chaos in which it finds itself so it channels that into a nagging feeling of being really pissed off – except you have no idea why.

Why. That’s such a double-edged word. I have reached the end of my tether with people asking me why I’m depressed.

What’s wrong? You seem down.

I am.


Because depression.

And then the inevitable next question: What’s making you depressed?

The chemicals in my brain are making me depressed. Sure, the state of my physical health adds to that, but the root cause is that my brain can’t figure what the fuck it’s doing with my emotional state.

Let’s have a depressed day! We’ll celebrate with not getting off the couch except to overeat followed by some suicidal ideation! How’s that sound?

That sounds like a fucking hoot, let me tell ya.

Oh, wait! I’ve changed your mind! Let’s be manic and spend so much money your checking account gets overdrawn then follow that up with risky hypersexual behavior that you will definitely regret later!

Awesome, thanks.

Actually, I can’t decide. So let’s do BOTH! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Fuck you, brain. All I want is some normalcy. Some predictability. Some boring, everyday, routine. But, no. Throw in the fact that I am now in a rapid-cycling hell that makes it impossible sometimes to even have a single day of feeling one way or the other and it’s just too much bear.

The burden is overwhelming. I carry this weight, this ongoing battle in my mind on my shoulders and each day I hunch over a little farther. Soon, I won’t be able to walk anymore – crushed beneath its load, gasping for breath.

I don’t recognize myself anymore. I used to be awesome; driven, focused, smart.

I used to be me.