Writing Through a Mental Health Crisis

I’m writing this for me, read it if you want.

Every morning when I wake up, part of me is drastically disappointed I did. The hope that keeps me moving forward, becomes utterly harder to hold onto with each passing hour.

I question whether the pictures on my walls of loved ones and best friends who passed well before their time, serve as ways of remembering the good times we shared or a way of eternally reliving the pain of losing them.

I can’t talk about it, because God forbid my pain should inconvenience another. Even in therapy, with medical professionals paid to listen, there are limits. If I was to say my opening sentence out loud to them, I could risk being labeled suicidal and held against my will in a psychiatric ward somewhere. You know, “for my own good”.

I’d like to make it abundantly clear I don’t have suicidal idealizations. Instead, I strive on a daily basis to make my life better, in any and every way possible. Too often though, it feels like I’m running in place and never progressing in any meaningful way.

The generalized anxiety I’ve dealt with for the better part of my entire life hinders me in ways even I can’t fully explain nor justify. Battling a major depressive disorder via antidepressants that provide little to no relief…