keeptalkingaboutmentalhealth

I was on the verge of tears a few times yesterday, starting with a heavy therapy session, and ending with a song that stirred up some emotions in me. I was able to stop them from spilling, but it was really difficult.

I don’t fear crying, exactly. It does cause a build up of snot to form in my nose, thereby giving me a headache. It also makes my eyes feel funny for a long time afterwards.

I have always been an easy crier. It doesn’t take much. I bawled my eyes out the first time I watched “Love Story.” I was 19 or so. My brother heard me from upstairs, and came down to find me sitting on the couch, weeping.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“She…died….*gasp*…love means never to…*hiccup*..say you’re sorry.”

“Whatever, go blow your nose, weirdo.”

Yes, I am a weirdo, but a highly sensitive one.

That was a sad movie. So was “Terms of Endearment.” Oh my, that one was a killer.

I guess you could say that I am going through a rough patch right now. This is my least favorite time of the year, which proves that I am indeed a weirdo, since most people love summertime. But for me, it is more of a reminder that I should be out in the world, instead of staying home on a beautiful sunshiny day.

Random meme alert!

glassinhead
Cried when I watched this too.

Anyways, I am struggling with acceptance again. From what I have gathered, this is often a long, drawn out process. I was doing really awesome for a bit there, so my biscuits are burnt right now.

That means that I am pissed off, by the way.

I use this blog for many purposes, to entertain, to rant, to work things out, and to try to make people laugh when I am able. Today, I am using it as a therapy tool. I can understand if you feel the urge to stop reading.

I can hear the faint whisper of the suicide monster calling to me, but I keep shutting it off. I don’t really want to die, so I don’t understand why it still lingers like hot cat tuna breath. Is it a chemical imbalance, circumstances, or just the way that I am made?

Or is it all three?

During bad bouts, it’s almost soothing to me that I always have the option, if I really….

Okay, enough. I am NOT giving it power. I could never do that to my loved ones. Or to myself. My parents did not raise a quitter.

I had someone, a friend that I admire, and look up to tell me that I fucking mattered yesterday. (Which also brought tears to my eyes.)

I need to repeat those words to myself, over and over again.

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