Trapped within despair,
Gulping to take in air,
Heaviness takes over a gaping chest,
Thoughts become obsessed.
Fear lingers around my soul,
Stopping me from becoming whole,
Throwing me into the giant mess,
Moments that I have long repressed.
It was almost a month ago when she asked me to stop talking about my mental health, which has totally thrown me when I talk about my mental health on my blog a lot.
It’s sort of made me freeze up when it comes to what I am going to talk about here, yes I can talk about other aspects of my life, or what I’ve been through, but I’m still not quite sure what to do.Read More »
I have been rather quiet everywhere recently because I am writing a book, the idea just came to me a few weeks ago and every day I have spent away from here has been a day I have been working on the story.
Yes, my mental health may also be suffering as it does every day, but this novel seems to have just erupted out of me. Will, I get anywhere with the project? Probably not.
I have been staring at a fork in the road for a long time, I am scared to go down any of those roads I have built inside my head, just hoping that one day I will eventually make a decision. I am starting to get tired of all that staring, and I just want to make a decision already.
That, however, is not how recovery works, I could still be at this impasse for a very long time. Instead of forcing myself to make a decision about my life I need to know that it’s ok to stay here, as long as I focus on my recovery.Read More »
She can see the sadness of her new face,
It’s as visible as a tear on newly embroidered lace,
No matter how much she laughs and smiles,
The lady’s face still shows the bitter trials.
Her grief is standing by her side,
Some days she can take it in her stride,
To harness it within her own art,
Before it returns to rip her apart.
She inspired me at a time when I needed her, she felt just as alone as I did growing up, I couldn’t believe a man wrote a book that spoke to my soul at such a young age. Matilda made me want to be a writer, as a child I wanted to connect to other children who felt just as alone as I was, to spread hope that one day it’s going to be ok.
I have created characters in my head as long as I remember, wondering what’s going on inside peoples heads, and making up stories of what their lives could be like. I have been a writer my entire life, that little girl who can’t speak in front of others but leads a rich life inside her own head.
I cannot stop, I feel as if I have been hit by a bus but I cannot stop, because if I stop I’ll think about things and if I think about things I won’t be able to keep going. Is it even worth it? I feel like I am getting nowhere, my mind is in pieces and just when I think I’ve finally cracked the puzzle more pieces get dumped on top of me.
I don’t seem to fit anymore, I can’t find that passion that fuels me, I don’t know where I belong anymore. I wanted to give answers to those people who are going through similar things from my past. But I am not healthy, I don’t have answers, and I definitely do not feel better; pain is all I feel.
