Future Tense
I’m writing to you from the inside. From the mouth of the lion. The bottom of the well. It’s dark down here, and it’s lonely. But we’re here together. And I’m telling you: there’s something better waiting for us.
Topic: depression
I’m writing to you from the inside. From the mouth of the lion. The bottom of the well. It’s dark down here, and it’s lonely. But we’re here together. And I’m telling you: there’s something better waiting for us.
For me, being isolated was the scariest thing. The days I felt most depressed and suicidal were only enhanced when I isolated myself; when I decided that no one wanted to hang out with me or loved me. Those days were the worst.
It takes a boldness to say that your brain is sick. That you need help. That you can’t do whatever this is alone anymore.
In college, I would put on gym clothes, tell my roommates I was going to workout, and sneak to counseling. As soon as I started being more open about my mental health struggles, my life got exponentially better.
By highlighting these tales of human struggle, emotion, and triumph, we hope to share in the wonder of storytelling, and embrace the many ways it can bring us to feel and relate.
Some days, brave means choosing to stay. Even though I’m afraid. Even though I’m hurting.
I have a history of substance abuse and self-injury. My work is all about encountering people who know these struggles intimately as well.
Sunshine days, is what I would call them—when I woke up and there weren't any clouds.
It’s like being stuck in a game of hide and seek, wondering why no one has found you yet—but maybe I was hiding so well that nobody could find me.
I’m not depressed, I’m just tired. Preston isn’t coming back, I know this now. I’ve accepted this, and there’s no basis for any depression to occur within me. Everything is as okay as it will be, and we all just have to keep going. I’m not depressed.
You don’t have to suffer for your art. You don’t have to prioritize your creativity over your health. You don’t have to destroy your life because of a lie stigma wants you to believe.
Writing has saved my life more than once. It has allowed me the space and room to heal and to learn, and to also let go of the pain and hurt I may have clung to from my past. It doesn’t have to be New York Times worthy either—just something to help loosen the illness’ grip and get the clouds out of the way.
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