The Haunting My Time

Maybe it’s the shadow’s of writing at three am, half eaten chocolate fudge long-forgotten in the anxious scrolling to find the quote to put here…

demure tense

“I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free.”

 Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
question look

or the heavy filling in my soul. It’s likely the latter. If I were to write my feelings out, it would be a dwelling, obese monster radiating the hurt I try to want to convey. I don’t write anymore, and, thus, I’ve hit the standstill point.

I have PTSD and OCD. Coming to grips with my disorders is grasping onto the monkey bars when you’re seven. You have to fall in order to learn. Only, this time, I’m 20, recalling past memories, driving my mind into a grove, and I can reach the floor while touching the top of the bars. Now, my hands are clammily reverting into a child’s grip my weight can no longer support the realities of. Each day swallowing my imagination, I find myself gasping for the breathing I once had before. Days begin to blend into time, and time loses herself in the raps of censure.

Most of my days are fracas. The melee of my day is to just wake up to feel normal, adequate, and alive. When the majority of my youth struggles with some form of mental illness, I struggle with accepting, living, and thriving with my own objects of horror. Fearing the stigma of being labeled as “too soft” or “growing up”, I find my own dismay in allowing myself to open as a human should.

To me, I am a harder person. Mother raised her girls to be tougher, rougher, as she always says, that mother of mine. I find myself stuck in my stubborn ways, oftentimes, when I ought reach out for the hand that just might ease my burden. However, the label in my brain urges me to handle my own keep because, ‘you earn your keep, and play harder’, as momma always said. Coming in handy is the last of my thoughts for use of my rough-mother model, but the use of tender moments for ME is where I feel authentic. Finding those moments, looking at them, and actually seeing them is an emotion in itself.

The largest part of me lives in authenticity, and I will never leave shards of myself for others to be pricked in such manners. I want to leave seeds blowing through the atmosphere – going no more than 5 miles. Like a dandelion, I want hope to dote upon you While I may not always have the emotional idea, the logical part of me knows this lapse in doubts make me a human, the feeler finding type.

Mental illness is something, but you live.

Y’know that feeling when you accomplish something? I always loved the monkey bars, no matter how blistered or how many woodchips got into my knees. The red grasp of a grip writhing the palms of youth into callused hands is signification of living.

With pain comes growth.
Grow you.

Mental Illness S U C K S

James Blunt’s, “You’re Beautiful” is playing whilst I write this if you’d be inclined to feel my overall vibe of this writing.


Y’know, writing anything within the topics in the title nowadays either feels like a paradox or just another self-righteous feat of a person exploring their own mental illness. I guess this is a story for those books because mental illness is scary due to the fact it’s your own body doing this to you, and other people cannot physically see your harrowing injuries that amass within. The feeling of loneliness and seclusion settles into your bones before you realize its made home.

Depression & anxiety, two monsters who date well when introduced to their host. Infection of these two hindrances bring the MENTAL symptoms: loneliness whom sympathizes with anxiety, funk (and not the good funk), and lurking murky thoughts that may consume you. Anxiety is a pickly little monster who adores to stoke you with the feeling of paralyzing fear; she enjoys depression’s loneliness and intrudes with fear. Among other things, mental illness is a nasty cluster that invades, and hosts itself within a person. It kills the use of to be a human, and it can fluctuate.

Living for me has always been about survival up until I become aware that I was a human being too. It’s interesting, in the since, because I graduated. Being able to do what I did whilst having depression as my constant companion, I was floored. Enamored. After that, I kinda blanked out for a year – explored the depth of what a human should be doing – things happen. Thinking back, it’s always been a struggle to stay afloat with just living. I mean living in the sense of motivational endurance, and forever, I thought laziness was my honest concern, yet where I am now, I should be understanding(?), in a way, because I was just a young sprout learning the way of life. Depression is your friend, they’re interwoven within your entire atom. Like a festering fissure, they’re lost deep within bones. Creaks of who you used to be sometimes are reminded when you’re admits a group of your loving friends and you’re body just feels weighed down. That’s depression.

Anxiety lives quietly within my soul. I’ll call her entity she because she was a flowing feeling that wound the silk threads of herself into the core of you, only to be woven into how your existence is… That’s anxiety for me. Anxiety is a mental whiplash. She’s subtle, yet quietly finished.

Mental illness is different for everyone, and how everyone lives different. Circumstance is a factor to take into a matter when handling mental illness, in my opinion. It shapes how we breathe into the places around us as humans

I don’t wish to further speak about my mental illness within broadly. But to the struggling others out there with me, please just be easy on yourself, and remember your body is you. You’re body is much more important than stressors that are within it. Remember to feed yourself, too. That’s important as well.


I think constant reminders of making sure that I’m living, As long as I have people that adore who I am and the slow emersion of realizing my body will always be here. It’s okay to breathe.