Dishes

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Trauma post.

Can you really separate them?

TW: Suicidal Stuffs, possibly mention of completed suicide, who knows where this will go.

I washed my dishes.

I’m out of bed.

I played my game.

I gathered the trash for Wonder Woman to take out.

I’m listening to a playlist called “Wet-faced and hopeful” that a friend put together and sent to me.

And, I washed my dishes.

My sink is always a pretty good indicator of my mental health. Lately though, it’s stayed pretty empty.

I’m fine.

And then I’m not.

And then I’m fine again.

When I’m really not fine, one or two lined Facebook posts come off of my fingers, rapid fire. Normally from my phone while I’m laying in bed, the only place that feels safe when I’m that far in the hole.

It’s hard to type a long winded post when I can’t even hold my head above water.

When my buoyancy is the only thing keeping me alive.

“I’m not afraid of that hurricane,” my aunt once said, “people are only afraid of hurricanes because of the water. I’m not worried because I’m fat. Fat floats.”

Fat floats.

But anyway,

I washed my dishes.

Rubber gloves on my hands because of a nasty cut I got the LAST time I was washing my dishes.

Knives and I don’t get along. Fingers scared from wayward blades.

Ask kidlet the story about the Eversharp Knife sometime. It certainly was sharp.

My brain is still scattered. The remnants of suicidal thoughts still floating around in the back of my head.

I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. When it asked for details it felt pertinent to explain that not only am I suicidal, but that I’ve lost 2 people close to me to suicide, and I’ve been there for both of them.

When you look up the risk factors for suicide, number one is often “Family history of suicide.”

What does it happening twice do to my risk?

But,

I washed my dishes.

Headphones on and music blaring.

Writing this post in my head.

Figuring out what needed to be said.

Figuring out what I needed to get out of my head, through my fingers, into the keys, and onto the screen.

When I’m rapid firing those one and two line posts on Facebook, the comments flow underneath, people reaching out, messages sent, people checking in.

People letting me know I’m loved.

I can’t always feel it. I used to think they were saying it out of obligation. Now I just think I’ve got everyone blinded, or that they are blind or seeing something that isn’t really there.

I still don’t see what’s so important about me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. I need it.

Otherwise I wouldn’t fire off those cries for help.

It would be easier not to. It would be easier to get out of my bed and find the way out.

I fight before I post. I wonder if I’m just whining, just being dramatic, just stirring up a fuss over nothing.

I used to say “It’s not like I’d be able to follow through anyway.”

But now I’ve got two people in my life who have completed suicide.

I know with my own two eyes that it isn’t all that hard. Staying alive is much harder than getting dead.

Some lyrics in one of the songs caught my ears. One of those songs on that playlist that my friend sent over.

A song I’ve heard a dozen times before.

But this time I actually listened.

“When it rains, it pours, but you didn’t even notice
It ain’t rainin’ anymore, it’s hard to breathe when all you know is
The struggle of staying above the rising water line
Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin’
But you’re stuck out in the same ol’ storm again
You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin’ I’m just tryin’ to tell ya
That there’s always been a rainbow hangin’ over your head”

Even when I see that rainbow, there’s often a storm still brewing in my head. A storm made of memories and past traumas. A storm made of worthlessness and hopelessness. A storm made of my history. Of what I see as my future.

I may end up inpatient again. My moods are swinging too wildly and I’m having a hard time staying centered.

There’s nothing wrong with going inpatient, I’m just trying to avoid a holding cell, with patients locked down in rooms because of covid.

Isolation is not the answer, it might keep me safe, but it won’t let me heal, and I’ll come home in the same position I’m in now.

The last time I got put in a fish bowl, where they watch you and keep you safe but give you nothing to heal, I came home and was inpatient again within the week . . . at a different place that was more involved.

So, I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. I’ll ask them what kind of units are available.

A year or two ago my therapist tried to get me on the trauma unit at this hospital. A six week, intensive, inpatient stay.

My trauma wasn’t recent enough though.

I wonder if I just needed something more recent. Maybe they’ll want me there now.

Or maybe just a crisis unit where they can play around with my chemistry and make sure I’m back on dry ground.

Who knows, I should hear from them tomorrow. I guess part of it will depend on what part of me is present when I have the appointment.

I’m still not okay, and that’s okay.

But at least I’m safe.

And,

I washed my dishes.

Feel Like Writing

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Chronic Pain post.

And a Really Real Weight post.

TW: Talk of body size and weight.

I feel like writing this morning. I don’t really have all that much to write about since yesterday, but sitting here in the cool mountain air, it just seems like the thing I’m supposed to do.

Especially since I’m the only one awake and the house is silent except for the humming of the refrigerator and my fingers on the keys.

And the occasional annoying tap tap tap of Siah’s nails against the floor. I’m not sure why that seems so much louder here.

Maybe it’s because there’s no quiet banter on the TV, the latest cooking show that we’re binging our way through.

Maybe its because there’s no quiet hum of computer fans, with my dual screens in front of me.

Maybe because it’s just more peaceful up here and her loud tapping breaks the silence.

I feel like it’s wrong for me to be on my phone or my computer, like I’m tainting this beautiful countryside with electronics that have no place here.

And I’m sure others agree.

But I’m learning that it’s okay to just go with the flow, to let my mind and my hands focus on what feels comfortable.

Within reason.

Today we’re supposed to go see a waterfall.

We saw it on our last trip here, traversing the icy steps to and from the beautiful rainbow of water that you could almost touch. Icy lines running down the wall beside us as water dripped down and froze. Icicles hanging everywhere.

But this time I’m worried about the trek, even though it won’t be icy.

My body isn’t used to carrying this extra weight. The thin mountain air makes me out of breath with even the slightest exertion.

Walking to and from the car will sometimes have me winded.

On top of that my normal pain levels are at a new high. On our drive here I felt like my joints wanted to explode, I don’t know the scientific reason, but I’m assuming it’s the change in altitude.

My knee is swollen and sore. It creaks and wobbles as I make my way around. I remarked yesterday that I’m starting to waddle like an old fat woman.

I feel like an old fat woman.

None of the chairs in this cottage seem like they are the right height or size. The sofa is too low, I strain and rock trying to get up out of it. The chairs at the antique table are too skinny, the sides digging into my thighs.

This time I trusted the bench that runs around two sides of the table. I have to sit carefully to make sure something will handle my weight.

“You’re pull up two chairs kinda big” my dad once said to me.

I was smaller than I am now.

But the bench, with its wide, flat, surface, seems to be the answer.

Even though I had to pull the table away from it to fit.

Maybe my body will relax enough that I can make this journey today.

The view will be worth it.

It’s hard writing about my weight, harder than writing about my mental health. I know lots of people who struggle with mental health.

I don’t know many people my size.

Yesterday we saw a commercial that mentioned an airline was keeping middle seats open.

“Where should we go?”

The empty seat would mean I’d only have to buy one.

And the thing is, I know that among most of my readers, most of my friends who take the time to read this far, my weight is a non issue.

People will say “You’re beautiful no matter what size you are.”

And they’re right. As much as I sometimes have a hard time seeing it, I know that I’m beautiful. That’s not what I’m talking about here.

But the world isn’t built for someone my size.

The world isn’t built for someone with this level of pain.

I may not need a wheelchair, but things still aren’t always accessible. And sometimes it’s not reasonable for them to be.

I’m determined to make this walk today. Up and down steps that aren’t icy like they were last time.

I will pay for it later.

As I take pain meds and lay on the couch playing on my phone willing my joints to stop throbbing.

Apparently I did need to write. There’s always something trying to bubble its way to the surface, and today it was this.

It feels good to get it out, it feels good to be vulnerable and transparent and maybe give someone insight into what it feels like to live in my body.

A beautiful body that sometimes feels too big, emotionally and physically.

But I’m allowed to take up space.

And if I say that enough times, maybe I’ll truly believe it.

We Missed Out

This is a Really Real . . . well, a lot of things, post.

TW: Suicidal Thoughts Mentioned. Death Mentioned.

I’m sitting at an antique kitchen table, the light overhead the only one illuminating the expansive and open area.

Wonder Woman is asleep in a recliner in the connected living room. The Mountain Goats are playing quietly on the portable speaker that she was thoughtful enough to bring with us.

I almost fell asleep on the couch, cuddled up under my favorite blanket that I brought from home. Unfortunately I can’t fall asleep without my CPAP. But time slipped away as I laid there with my eyes closed.

Now the music has ended and I hear Wonder Woman snoring ever so quietly. The tap tap tap of Siah’s nails against the old linoleum floor. I wish she would relax and lay down some place, the constant noise of her nails makes me anxious.

I’ve wanted to write all day, but couldn’t quite figure out what to write about. I didn’t want to interrupt our quiet time together anyway.

My brain has been quiet for over 24 hours. The dreams and nightmares I had last night just quietly passed by, without the anxious reaction that they normally cause.

I didn’t realize how loud my brain has been since I went to my dad’s house, nearly a month ago. First there was worry about caring for him, and then there was the trauma of his death.

I mentioned to Wonder Woman earlier that I felt more connected to her than I have in awhile. Not because anything was wrong with us, or because we’ve done anything differently, but because trauma takes up so much emotional space that it’s hard to find room to truly connect.

I would notice how loud it was and how much space it was taking up when it was distressing. The times when my Facebook posts were quick and terse and scary. The times when I wasn’t sure I’d make it through this. At those times the noise is apparent.

But during the times when it’s just there, when I feel like it’s quieted down and is just gently simmering in the background, I didn’t realize how much space it was still taking up.

I suspect that some day I’ll look back on this vacation and see that it’s still taking up a lot of space.

But right now it seems quiet. It’s quiet enough that I can lay still and awake on the sofa with my eyes closed. I don’t feel the need to fill every moment with, something, until I pass out full of medications at night.

But there’s still a quiet thought in the background. Something completely unrelated to my current trauma, but a reminder that past traumas are always with me.

I walked into a game and toy store that sells wooden toys and puzzles and games. It’s a store that we came to last time we were here and I was so glad to see that they were still open, they had just moved one street over. I was talking to the owner, a woman who talks about so many different things because she’s just happy to have company for a few minutes. I told her, “My son is nearly 21 now, but this is exactly the kind of place I would have brought him to when he was a kid.”

Back when Parker was alive.

I wish we could have come to a town like this. I wish we could have experienced the long drive through the mountains to get here. I wish we could have seen the sun set over the rolling hills in the distance. I wish we could have seen how different the colors are, just from the difference in elevation.

I wish.

And I feel guilty for thinking about Parker, and thinking about old times, and thinking about how things were . . . while I’m on this amazing vacation.

But those times make me appreciate what I have now.

Don’t get me wrong, we’re still pretty poor, and it takes family help for us to experience these sorts of things, especially when it’s been a month since I last worked.

But this is a different sort of poor. This is the kind of poor where I can afford to buy something I forgot when I was packing for the trip. The kind of poor where we can stop for something to eat on the road instead of packing a cooler.

I’m sad that Parker died without experiencing this kind of poor with me.

I’m sad that Kidlet grew up without experiencing this kind of poor with me.

My bottle squeaks as I open it and Wonder Woman jumps awake to make sure I’m okay. I feel bad that I woke her up from that peaceful evening nap.

But she’s already fast asleep again.

It’s so quiet here. The music has stopped playing, the dog is finally resting on the carpet, and I can hear the bugs outside. I hear the wind gently blowing through the long grass in the field just beyond the little cottage we’re staying in.

This is a kind of peaceful that I don’t get to experience often.

And my brain is quiet.

I wonder if Wonder Woman jerked awake because she was afraid that she’d left me alone too long.

But the suicidal thoughts are quiet.

We talk of future trips and visits overseas and she says “But you have to stay alive that long.”

We’ve eaten at a restaurant within a local resort and Wonder Woman mentioned that she could see us vacationing in a place like that when we’re old and want everything close by.

“But you have to stay alive that long.”

I feel guilty that she even has to say that. I feel guilty because I know those thoughts tear us both apart. They aren’t just scary for me, they are scary for everyone around me.

But they are quiet right now.

I shiver slightly as the cool night air blows through one of the still open windows. I don’t want to get up and close it because I don’t want to disturb her again.

We’re both experiencing a sort of peace here that we rarely get.

I know there’s always the possibility that the peace will be broken before we leave. I don’t get to decide when trauma will speak up and remind me that it still exists.

But right now I’m going to sit here and enjoy the sound of the bugs, and the feel of the cool breeze coming in the window. And I’m going to listen to Wonder Woman peacefully sleeping.

And I’ll deal with everything else, when it gets here.

Haircut

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I’ve needed to get my hair done since this all started, months ago. My normally shaved sides were 3 inches long. My bright and vibrant unicorn hair was faded to a muddy pastel.

I couldn’t believe how much it was destroying my self image. Not only had I put on a significant amount of weight, but now my hair, something that was normally raved about, was unkempt and gross. I stopped working to bring out the curl. My hair lived in days old ponytails, the long sides tickling the inside of my ears.

But I had made and cancelled a hair appointment before. I had set up plans with family for an outdoor hair cut and that got cancelled too.

There was so much anxiety holding me back. Anxiety coming from every direction. I’m anxious about catching/spreading COVID. I’m afraid to leave my house.

But it also masks an underlying situation. My agoraphobia is rearing its ugly head again. My anxiety is becoming more than I can easily live with. I’m out of practice with pushing through it, so that mental muscle has atrophied.

My world has closed in upon itself. Even taking the dog out is scary and uncomfortable. Leaving my front porch seems like I’m walking through quicksand. The world is large and scary and feels dangerous.

And this is where COVID comes back in. The world is dangerous right now. So telling my brain that it’s safe, feels like a lie. But not feeling safe is what makes the agoraphobia worse.

Every anxiety imaginable comes to the forefront when I need to leave.

I’ve been here before.

Multiple times.

But I know the only way out is through. Pushing myself to go when the last thing I want to do is open that door.

So I pushed, and my bright pink and purple undercut is back. My smile is just that little bit bigger. My face feels a little less round. I feel like myself a little bit more. And this morning it was a little bit easier to push myself out the front door for a frivolous trip to Starbucks.

There needs to be more (socially distant) frivolous trips in my future. I need to work that muscle again.

I’m tired of being scared.

Wait, Weight, Wait

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Health post.

TW: Weight/dieting/exercise. Mention of suicidal thoughts with no intent or plan.

I hate my body.

It’s making me hate who I am.

And I’ve had a few realizations in the last couple of days.

First, I remembered that I’m on a high dose of Abilify.  It made me gain some weight at lower doses but the weight gain has gotten so much worse at this increased dose. I think it’s a big reason for my whirlwind eating, and my craving of sweets.  It’s the medicine that keeps the suicidal thoughts under control.  We had to increase the dose when I was in the hospital, and we increased it again as I finished up with partial.  I think it may be time to look into decreasing the dose, or changing to a different med.

Also, I realized I hate my body right now. I hate how I look.  I hate how I feel. I hate how hard it is for me to interact with my environment.

I spent the last, however many, years looking at old pictures of me and comparing my round puffy face to the slimmer version it had become.  I constantly said how much I never wanted to be that fat and gross.  How horrible it was that I ever got that way.

How horrible I was.

It’s really hard to take good care of a body I hate. It’s hard to stick with changes because I don’t really feel like I’m worth it.

I also feel like nothing will change, and like I’ll always go back to this weight.

That thought makes the suicidal thoughts start. The idea that I can’t change this, and this is the body I’ll live in until I die, is hard hard stuff for me.

Often, when I think too much about forever fighting to stay mentally stable, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.

Now, when I think too much about forever fighting to keep my weight under control, I think that death would be better than fighting for the rest of my life.

I started to list the things I was doing and trying to do, but honestly, those won’t matter until I go back to loving myself where I’m at.

I hate that I could say “I deserve to take up space” when I was 50 lbs lighter, but now I feel like I don’t deserve the space I take.

I hate that I could see how beautiful I am at one weight, but I can’t see my beauty now.

I hate that I feel like I need external validation.

I hate that the same people who praised me for losing weight, will judge me for gaining it back.

I hate that some of them will feel they can speak that judgement out loud.

I hate feeling like this.

I hate being like this.

I hate me.

 

See you in my dreams

This is a Really Real Widow Post.

Parker was in my dreams last night.

I was in some class, where we were all sitting on a giant bed together instead of desks, and the teacher had McFlurry’s delivered for everyone.

Don’t ask me, fucking weird ass dreams.

But then after class I went to the office and Parker was just standing there.  She saw me and got one of her big smiles (the ones that make her eyes squint).  We talked for awhile. Mundane conversation that I can’t remember the details of. I knew she was a ghost and at one point I asked her “Why are you staying here instead of being with me?” And she asked “Who says I’m not with you?”

I’ve been thinking about her more lately, which is why I had a dream about her, I’m sure.

I’ve been remembering little things that I haven’t thought of in years.

She didn’t like mint toothpaste, so I would search for other flavors and buy 3 or 4 tubes at a time. We were so happy when Crest came out with an orange flavored, but eventually they discontinued it.

I’ve used mint toothpaste since she died, just switched without realizing it, but I might go look for another flavor next time.

I’ve also remembered the specific way she liked her boxers and bras folded. She didn’t care how I folded anything else, but those two had a specific way of being folded.  I used to laugh, they’re fucking underwear, who cares, as mine would be half balled up and thrown into the drawer.

But since she died I fold my underwear just like that. Something I didn’t even realize I was doing until just recently.

There was more to the dream. Friends I haven’t seen in forever, friends I’m growing distant from.

At some point it changed completely and Wonder Woman was there. I wish I could remember more about that part.

Being a widow is strange sometimes. Remembering the little things that catch me off guard.  How did I forget that. How did it slip from my memory when it was such a big deal for all those years.

It makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten.

What else is missing.

Besides her of course.

I’m happy that I’m living this particular life, but sometimes it really hurts that she’s not here too.

But then I remember this version of life only exists because she’s gone.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

So, I’ll just be happy for that rare moment that she pops up in my dreams. That moment when I get to see the smile that goes to her eyes. That moment when I get to see her face light up one more time.

I miss her.

Work, Work, Work, Work, Work

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

My brain is doing much better.  I’ve walked and gotten out of the house and set up a plan to get my eating under control. Taking some control back has helped a lot. I felt like I was just stuck in the same loop and couldn’t get off that path.

But work is still a struggle. I haven’t done any real work since Monday. I’ve done the bare minimum, keeping fires from starting.  I did talk to my boss, which was a huge thing for me, and he reminded me that nothing is an emergency, I can take the time I need and get my brain back together.

But my brain is mostly back together, and I still haven’t been able to pull out the stacks of paper that need entering. I haven’t been able to scan the papers that need scanning. I haven’t been able to file the papers that need filing.

I definitely haven’t had the creative brain to create new ads and write new copy.

But this is a start.

Getting my feelings and my struggles out of my brain and onto the screen helps me gather the focus I need to succeed.  Work is super important to me.  After years of being unable to be productive in that way, it makes me feel like a functional adult.

It’s a bit of normality among my disabilities.

It’s a huge accomplishment.

Taking off most of this week means I have to go back to leaning on people for financial help. That’s hard, even though I know I’m so very lucky to have people to lean on. There has already been a reduction in hours due to the state of the world and it feels unfair that I slacked off this week.

But I’m not sure that I had a choice. Without taking a break I would have sunk further and further and honestly, I’d like to avoid the danger zone.

Now it’s time to pick up where I left off, to get back into the swing of things, and to do what I know I’m capable of.

I appreciate everyone that lets me be heard. I appreciate everyone that comments.  I appreciate the fact that getting my words on the screen not only helps me, but helps others as well.

I’m very grateful for my life as it is now, even with the ups and downs and struggles.

I’m grateful to be alive.

Now it’s time to get some work done.

Out of Sync

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

TW: Talk about weight.  Talk about suicide w/ plan.

The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.

I mean, I’d rather not want to die.

But it’s a beautiful day and I want to die.

I can’t fucking move in my body without getting out of breath. I’ve gained back so much weight.

I don’t want to lose it because of how I look.  I know I’m beautiful no matter how big I am.

I want to lose it because I’m uncomfortable in my skin. I can’t function at this size. I can’t move around in bed, I can’t walk up stairs without huffing and puffing, I can’t walk around the block without everything hurting.

I’ve been here before and I don’t want to be back.

And I can’t stop eating. Part of it is medicine but a bigger part of it is boredom.

I can’t stop eating.

I want all of the things and I want them now and sometimes, most of the time, I’m tearing myself apart while I’m eating, beating myself up for not being a better person, for not having more self control.

I fucking hate this.

I had a good relationship with my body. I had a good relationship with food. I had a good relationship with my needs.

And it all fell apart. And while it was falling apart quarantine happened and it just destroyed that relationship entirely.

Intuitive eating no longer feels possible. Movement is hard and clumsy.

The idea of fighting my way back down from this size seems insurmountable.

And it’s making me want to die. The idea of being stuck in this body like this, makes me want to die. The thought that I’ll never be able to get this under control, makes me want to die.

I laid in bed last night calculating which medications I had available to me. Which ones I could scrounge up around the house even though most everything is locked up, out of my reach.  Would it be enough? Would I slide away peacefully like Parker? Or would I just end up in the hospital, alone with my thoughts? Eating myself through days and days in the psych ward.

I kept myself in bed and eventually drifted off.

I woke up this morning with the dread that I had to drag myself out of bed. I hate my body, I hate feeling it move.

I called out of work, even though i work from the same desk I’ll spend my day at anyway. I just can’t mentally function today.

Great, another thing to beat myself up over.

I’m fat. And I honestly don’t mind being a healthy, move comfortably, good relationship with my body, kinda fat.

I do mind being like this.

It makes me want to die.

The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.

I don’t wanna

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

I don’t wanna.

I need to work, there are things to be done.

But.

I don’t wanna.

I need to put my meds together, organized so I can take them each day.

But.

I don’t wanna.

I need to make the dog’s eggs, so she has yummy breakfast for the week.

But.

I don’t wanna.

I need to clean the kitchen, dinner needs to be started.

But.

I don’t wanna.

It’s just an I don’t wanna kinda day. I’d rather be in bed, or playing a video game, or crafting. I’d rather shut my brain off. I’d rather do nothing.

But I won’t.

I’ll work, and do my meds, and cook eggs, and clean and start dinner.

Because it’s what needs to be done.

I just wanted to put this out there today, get it of my chest.

Because.

I just don’t wanna today, today.

Not Again

This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.

TW: Talk of suicidal thoughts with plan, also mention of weight. After writing this I feel safe.

About 10 days ago they put me back on a medication that in large doses could kill me.

When I first got the 30 day supply, I knew immediately that I needed to lock most of it up.

But I never did.

And each time I would take one, I’d think “I need to give most of this to Wonder Woman to put away.”

But I never did.

And sometime last week the thought shifted. Instead of “I need to give it to her to put away” it became “This really is enough to do the job quickly and quietly.”

And every time I took one, the thought of taking the whole bottle crossed my mind.

Again.

And Again.

And Again.

I wasn’t even suicidal. It was just an intrusive thought.

Until today.

Until the moment where the switch flipped.

I’ve slept a lot today. I woke up super early so when I finished work I took a nap.

And when I finished my late lunch I took a nap.

And then I ate again and napped again.

I woke up from that nap and while laying there, a thought train started.

“I’m letting myself down because I can’t walk tonight. I’m so fat right now and losing this is going to be really hard.  But at least I’m thinking it’s possible instead of wanting to kill myself over it. It’s kind of nice to be able to think about being fat and not immediately want to die over it.  I’m glad I’m in a good place right now. I’d rather be fat and alive than skinny and dead.”

“But those pills are right there, and it would be so easy.”

“And Wonder Woman is busy for the next few hours.”

“And life is just so very hard right now.”

“And look at how much weight you’ve gained in such a short period of time, you’re repeating the same pattern all over again.”

“And those pills are right there.”

“And you’d just go to sleep.”

“You’d die quietly just like Parker.”

And I got out of bed just in time to see Wonder Woman go in and shut the door for her meeting.

“Those pills are right there.”

I knew I needed to say something. Shine a light into all of the dark spaces. Open my  mouth and shut these thoughts up.

“Those pills are right there.”

I took Siah out and checked the mail. I hopped on Facebook, opening message windows and closing them, willing myself to reach out, if not to say that I needed help, just to check on someone else and start talking to someone.

“Those pills are right there.”

Those pills are still right there. But writing about it has helped a lot.  I shined some light into these dark spaces. I feel safer now.

So quick it can go from “I’m fine” to “I’m not fine.”

So quick it can go from “I’m not fine” to “I’m fine.”

But that space in between is so very dark.  So very very dark.