Posted byThe Girl Who Loved to Love
Posted onOctober 15, 2014
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I get weak, I get weary
I miss sleep, I get moody
I’m in thoughts, I write songs
I’m in love, I walk on
So, fingers crossed…my time is coming now
It’s a driving hazard, I know this. I know. Worse than texting, I look up and snap photos of our amazing sky while on my daily jaunts to and from here or there. The same amazing sky everyone else sees, only this is the only time any of us will ever see the exact same scene ever again. How does that not inspire you to capture the moment right then and there, whether at a red light or driving 60 down some windy road? This time, I was on a 4 or 5 lane street with hardly any traffic and this as far as the eye could see. I couldn’t resist! Hope you understand.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seemed filled
with the intent to be lost
that their loss is no disaster
Happy Mental Illness Awareness Week to all my crazy peers out there. It’s good to know being bat shit crazy is being recognized. Cheers to being you, and you, and you, and you ❤
DID YOU KNOW….14 years ago Congress designated the first full week of October as Mental Illness Awareness Week (MIAW)? This was done to recognize the National Alliance on Mental Illness’s effort in raising awareness of mental health.
Mental illness does not discriminate; it can affect ANYONE, ANYWHERE, at ANY TIME. Knowing the signs and symptoms of mental illnesses will help keep you and your loved ones safe, happy, and healthy.
“Mental illness is a medical condition that disrupts a person’s thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning.” (NAMI) Mental health disorders can be any of the following (for more information, click on the disorder of interest):
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Memoirs and mostly true stories of other people’s miseries and their triumphs over them. I didn’t realize the pattern of memoir porn I had in my collection until I started my Goodreads account. In it are stories of junkies, rape victims, childhood incests, paranoid schizophrenics, and serial killers. Of those who are so overwhelmed with life they can’t bear to see what happens in their own, suicide. Those who can’t face the day without a drink or who love their husbands despite the beatings, children who don’t know their real name, and parents who abuse their own children just for attention. What do these painful stories do for me? They show me that my life isn’t really all that bad. That despite how low I can get, things can ALWAYS be worse. In fact, I don’t even have an interesting life story so tragic that I must write about it (much less get it published and have thousands of people buy it). I am so very ordinary, so very mundane, and uninteresting that I gravitate 95% of the time to people with the talents I envy: artists, musicians, writers, and the like. Show me interesting, insightful, artistic, genius, and I will present to you your biggest fan.
So, hit me with any tale of woe along with a subsequent triumph and I will return the favor by relishing in the deliciousness of a story other than mine.
And you know why? No one who knows me would believe it was written by me. And I’d never want them to know about it either. Those that know me think I’m happy. That I smile all the time. Am fun. Laid back. Never stressed. A social butterfly, extremely outgoing. Always. So. Fucking. Happy. At work, every phone call sounds like I’m talking to an old friend. Bad news never gets me down. My workload never overwhelms me. Bad days? They don’t happen to me. I wake up positive and bubbly and stay that way until bed time. A great mom who loves her girls. A fiercely independent woman who never looks for love.
They wouldn’t believe me if I told them I have the most extreme case of social anxiety that forces me to take a shot or down a quick glass of wine before I go anywhere, even just to dinner with a friend. What are we supposed to talk about? I don’t have anything to say. What if they ask about this, or that, or if I can’t be witty and entertaining. What the hell am I supposed to talk about ::gulp::?!
They’d say I was lying if I told them I second guess everything I do. EVERYTHING. They would call my bluff if I told them I can’t bear to speak to anyone in my house anymore. Or that I feel incapable of being loved. Or that I feel like a terrible mom. Or that I’ve slept with more men than they could fathom just trying to find my replacement father-figure. Or that I hate the weekends because it amplifies how alone I feel. Or that I have a million journals that I’ve started and stopped bc I can’t actually tell anyone how I feel about life? How I would rather hide under my blanket than to actually take an active role in anything?
I’m not suicidal. Not even close. Am I depressed? Probably. I have a journal entry from just a couple months ago that would make this one sound like it was written by a stranger. So I know this is temporary. I also know this will probably happen again.
Bottom line is, no one knows about this blog. I hope they never do. I never want to be seen as weak. And wow, do I sound pathetic right now.