sixty-five days of mental breakdown

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Roughly sixty-five days ago I began having a mental breakdown.

Forty-four days ago I went into the hospital.

I spent seven days (not enough!) in a ‘residential mental health facility’.

Thirty-seven days ago I came home from the hospital.

Over the past forty-four days my meds have been changed more times than I can count. I stopped keeping track at some point because I just couldn’t keep up. The anti-depressant meds that I’ve been taking for several years at the highest recommended dose were reduced and increased and then reduced and increased and then again and maybe even again, over a span of 3 weeks. Three. Weeks. These are meds that require a very slow titration up and an even slower titration when tapering off (read: just a little bit of an incremental increase/decrease every 2-4 weeks). Slow as in weeks to months. I’m not sure I can even explain what this flip-flopping of dosage in such a short amount of time does to the brain and the body. It made me feel insane (more than I was, ha!), and like I wanted or hoped to die, and like my brain was being electrocuted and I just wanted to fucking rip it out of my skull.

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strength is what we gain / from the madness we survive :or: having a very public nervous breakdown

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Oh look! I failed Self Care 101!! I wrote this blog post back in August about self care and listening to my body because it knows.
I was watching myself spiral.
I thought I was catching myself.
I was wrong.
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Life Savers

These are my six life savers
I take them each night
without shame
without fear of judgement
out in the open
not hidden in the bathroom
or the closet
two bring me sleep
two bring me alive
two bring me through
all six allow me to breathe
day in and day out

I supplement these life savers
with meditation
and mindfulness
with yoga
and essential oils
with nature and toes in dirt
with lungs filled with fresh crisp air
with giggles of my children
and kisses from my love
with words that bleed
from my fingertips to the page
these are my six life savers

#noshame #mytruth #thestruggleisreal #depression #anxiety #grief #insomnia #ptsd #mooddisorder #bipolar #breathe #everydamnday #transparent #authentic #connection

connection, authenticity, vulnerability…oh my!

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I am a writer who lost my voice. What’s a writer with no voice? A tortured soul. An affliction. Like a swimmer who has lost a lung. A pianist who’s lost his hands. Like a singer whose vocal chords have been severed.

The craft was lost. The lifeline cut. The music silenced.

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