“It gets better.”
You don’t magically become a new person, one who never knows dark-and-twisty thoughts. This is what I thought the phrase “it gets better” meant.
Topic: depression
You don’t magically become a new person, one who never knows dark-and-twisty thoughts. This is what I thought the phrase “it gets better” meant.
Holding on is a beautiful thing. A beautiful thing that I am so proud of you for doing.
Sometimes I imagine life to be like a playlist of songs, but it’s on shuffle and you don't know what song will come next.
Feeling nothing at all detaches me from the world. I don't feel pain, but I also don't feel joy.
Even though people would be surprised if I told them I was depressed, it doesn't make me feel better.
On the days when my smile is the biggest and my laugh is the most boisterous, I wish someone would notice my eyes pleading quietly for a soft squeeze of the hand or a long hug.
The most gutwrenching symptom of this disease is not the desire for death, but rather the fear of life.
I couldn’t name mental health. I couldn’t call my depression by its title when it came creeping up to scare me. Instead, I let it overstay its welcome.
I can’t “choose happiness,” but I can invite it.
To keep letting each new day greet you even when you feel like you have nothing to offer it is not insignificant.
I thought I was broken somehow and there was no fixing it.
If I could take away his pain and trauma, would I? Of course.
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