Knocked Over By A Feather



mental health

Depression is Insidious

I try really hard not to get stuck in a vacuum here on my blog by only writing about depression and fibromyalgia. Just like eating a ham sandwich every day for lunch, that shit gets old pretty quick.

I don’t mean to offend ham, I’m just saying, give turkey a chance. It’s not just for Thanksgiving anymore.

And if you’re not allergic, try a peanut butter and jelly sandwich once in a while. Yum.

But things don’t always work out the way that I want them to. I can’t seem to find any stable footing, any peace. If it’s not one illness fucking with me, it’s the other. Or it’s both. Plus, I have a slew of heavy life issues to deal with that makes me sad.

I read a great post yesterday about how people who are depressed often have the knee jerk reaction of saying that they are “fine” when someone asks them how they are. It really hit me then, that I’ve been doing the exact same thing with almost everybody that I interact with.

I don’t want people to worry about me.

I mean, I’m human. I’m an empath. Emotional.

It’s normal to be bummed when life continuously throws you turdballs, right?


Depression is insidious, it can grow slowly over a long period of time and before you know it, you’re in the woods on an unseasonably chilly, rainy July day with a bottle of hydrocodone, trying to kill yourself.

I’ve been thinking about running away from home, dreaming of a new life where I have the chance to start all over again, hoping that I can be free of the chains that are rubbing my skin raw.

Maybe I’m not the only person who has that urge sometimes. I hope not, anyways.

So, yeah, I’m not doing great right now. But I’m holding on. I do all of the things that I’m supposed to be doing in order to combat that mother fucker that is depression.

I take my medications every morning, I have a great therapist, I disconnect when I need to (not as often as I should, though) in order to recharge myself. I’m taking more time to do things that make me feel momentarily joyful.

I’ve stopped trying so hard to save everybody at the expense of my own well being, repeating what my therapist taught me, “you can’t fix everything.”

It’s something that I whisper to myself at least 20 times a day, if not more.


Flunking the Suicide Test

This post is about suicide, trigger warning is in effect.


I had my first of many suicidal thoughts when I was around 14 years old.

I didn’t have a vast array of possible self-imposed permanent exits to ponder at such a young age, so I became fixated on my wrists, once even taking a butter knife across them, leaving behind superficial thin lines of blood.

I was already really tired of being here and I was just a fucking kid.

I didn’t tell anyone, though. Especially not my family or my therapist. My friends had no clue what was going on in my head. I learned how to pretend that I was fine, how to make jokes to mask the truth that I was truly struggling with the task of being a normal teenage girl.

It only got worse as I grew older, until I was put on an antidepressant at the age of 23, good old “it should be in the water supply” Prozac. For the first time in my life, my persistent melancholia dissipated and I didn’t think about taking a nosedive from the pier into Lake Erie on a stormy day.

I’m not a great swimmer, so I figured it would easily do the job.

Medication gives us a false sense of security. When the Prozac stopped helping, I tried Paxil for a bit. It sucked, so I went on Zoloft.

Bingo, perfect match found. No sweat off my Ashtabula.

So, I went many years thinking that I had this fucker licked. All I needed was a new drug every few years and since there’s so many of them to choose from, I’d never again think about wanting to get a gun…

Or a step-stool, a rope and a sturdy tree out in the woods by my house.

I’ve recently found myself eyeballing the lightweight step-stool as I walk by the closet near my front door.

It’ll never really go away, will it?

It just hibernates, doesn’t it?

Then I push the thought out of my head and the fibromyalgia has been absolutely miserable lately. I see no end in sight.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

I think that I’m flunking the suicide test.

Mentally Sketchy


It’s been over two years since my suicide attempt.

Boy, time sure does fly when you’re mentally sketchy.

I’ve improved greatly, but I am doubtful that I will ever be quite right again. Being that messed up, so insanely focused on killing yourself that you spend hours on the internet in the dark places, looking up the least painful ways to die, it changes you.

I can still remember the taste of charcoal and vomiting into a trashcan all by myself in the ER. One of the most loneliest moments of my life.

I am constantly trying to keep tabs on my mental health status. It’s exhausting to say the least. I’m so afraid that I’ll be that way again someday. I feel as though a huge chunk of my time is dedicated to judging my reaction to life’s little mishaps.

I feel like I’m at max emotional capacity.

When this happens, I start to not give too many fucks about anything. Not because I don’t care, but because I may lose my carefully honed sanity.

There are things going on in my life that I can’t write about. Some of you that I talk with outside of blogworld know what most of these things are. I sincerely wish that I could spill my guts, but it’s just not the right time.

I don’t mean to be a vague blogger. I’ll be happy to tell you all about it on a private platform if you so desire.

The first paragraph of this post has been in my drafts folder since the beginning of July. I don’t like to admit to being even the tiniest bit depressed, but the truth is in the pudding.

Okay, what the hell does that mean? I have no idea, do you?

Anyways, I’ll be alright. As long as I don’t start having suicidal thoughts again, it’s all good in the hood.

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