Silence Isn’t Peace: The Cost of Hiding and the Fight to Live
The lie went like this: If I don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.
The lie went like this: If I don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.
My brother would have turned fifty this year, but the numbers don’t seem to matter much because grief doesn’t abide by the passage of time.
This message is for those who know this struggle intimately.
Your story doesn’t come to a close here. You lived. You went on.
Shaking, with tears streaming down my face, I whispered, “It’s never quiet.”
Each of us would say this to you person-to-person if we could.
I have come to recognize this feeling as dissociation—a mental disconnection from reality.
My doctor told me she was going to write me a prescription for Zoloft, but it was up to me whether I picked it up or not.
When you’re in a cycle of depression, it is so hard to do the things you love because, at the moment, they aren’t of any interest to you.
There can be grief and laughter, loss and love, darkness and joy—all swirling together like wind and rain.
This is not about one bad day.
Woven into this constant connection is a quiet undercurrent of comparison. It becomes almost effortless to internalize the message that we’re behind.
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