I held your daughter as she wept for you today. Not beside your deathbed or next to your grave, she didn’t cling to your picture but she is in mourning. She mourns the words of wisdom her heart aches to hear but she’s never heard you say, the loss of a blissful ignorance and hope. Her heart breaks every time you show her that you were never made to be the mother she so desperately needs, that you don’t have the grit and resolve to become that mother. I held her as she wept and I affirmed all her wildest dreams, except one; I won’t lie to her and allow her to hope that you will ever be half the woman she is already. A child, barely sixteen, and she is more self-aware and emotionally developed than you; her own mother. I have heard you utter the one word you are not capable of grasping the gravity of, and she believed you. She wants to believe you still; a part of her will always want to believe, that you’ve changed, that you understand, that you love her. With time and resilience, she will accept the truth and she will persevere despite you; or to spite you, either way, she will win. The truth is that without you, she really can’t lose. Sure, you’ve done your best, and it wasn’t easy for either; especially not “raising” such a high-spirited daughter, who just won’t submit. But then, that’s the real issue though, isn’t it?
To be fair, my perspective of your situation is purely vicariously. I’ve not walked in your shoes, I’ve not borne any children. What I have done is hear your daughter tell you exactly the kind of support she needs from you and I watched her crumble in defeat when you weaponized your incompetence; when you asked her to dissect her needs further and come back to you with clear instructions. I have held her, validated her, and I’ve celebrated with her. She’s come to me for guidance, and accepted advice as it fit her needs. I have watched her grow and position herself for success and emotional well-being. And I have watched her do this all best, without you.
You’ve called, of course. You’ve apologized, again; we all know a true apology is more than the mere words you’ve managed to offer. Don’t forget you also blamed her for your lack of emotional regulation and self-control, when you put your hands on her. She ran, of course, to somewhere safe…and then she used their phone to get back to us, where she feels safe. Imagine that, if you can swallow your pride long enough to see the issue. Your daughter feels safer with people who are essentially strangers, who owe her nothing—who aren’t you. You are the last person on this planet, in this universe or any other, that should ever make her feel unsafe. Especially when she is so vulnerable, and especially when she expresses rage and resentment that you have well earned. Instead, you chose to be the first; if she let you, you would continue to tear her down until she bent to your will…or she died fighting to find release from your grip. Nevermind that you are not worthy to carry the title of mother, you can’t even bring yourself to make an honest effort to put the work in and earn her respect and loyalty. No, you’d rather gaslight and invalidate and dismiss—exploit. You’d rather make her feel small so you don’t feel so alone in your misery.
I held your daughter today, like the child that she is, telling her all of the dreams she’s ever had for herself are real…and validating her choice to remove you from the equation. That’s a powerful voice you are now competing against; not because it’s mine, but because it soothes the burning rage and betrayal, and resentment that you have made her feel. Before you defend your struggles and your obstacles, remember that you chose to be a mother. Perhaps before you chose to assume responsibility for nurturing and guiding the safety and well-being of another human being you should have considered identifying and healing your own wounds. Maybe even develop your emotional intelligence beyond that of a wounded teenager. I’m sure you are used to people siding and empathizing with you, and I’m sure the concept of criticism of your position is foreign. Might I suggest introspection, therapy, and healthier associates?
The thing is, your problems are only my problems as much as they pertain to your daughter; and she’s going to be just fine, without you. She is bright, empathetic, self-aware, with a growth mindset and the dream of being a good mom and committed wife to a loving husband—none of which you have ever been an example. At this point, you are probably assuming that I carry some sort of hatred toward you. I will admit that the pain and abandonment you’ve left your daughter to feel, without you…because of you. Sure, she is crying now and she feels lost and confused, but she’s putting that hurt and anger and energy into healing. I don’t expect you to understand, and I don’t expect you to acknowledge that her happiness will never be yours to share, but, at some point, you will have to accept it. 



Thanks for reading!

Where to Begin
In my line of work, spirituality is a common topic of conversation. When dealing with trauma, it can be difficult to know where to turn or whom to trust and it can become debilitating learning to identify red flags of manipulation and genuine empathy. When you grow up being told that the people who are hurting you love you and want what’s best for you, those red flags become impossible to see. During the healing journey, an individual steps into their light and begins to see the blinders and identify errors in thinking that have perpetuated unhealthy patterns. This new perspective of their life and of their being, while promising and full of limitless potential, is terrifying. A new sense of vulnerability overwhelms the vulnerability they’ve known, and it’s that newness that is so intimidating. There is a strange comfort that exists in even the most toxic of familiar spaces. The demons you know become safer than the angels you cannot be certain exist. Looking into an uncharted and boundless future has a way of emphasizing how small some may feel, after trauma, yes, of course, but also as a symptom of shyness. The world seems so big when you feel so painfully small – and considering the notions of some omnipotent parental being having watched it all happen without interference sows trust issues on a whole new level.
One could argue that there are extreme denominations of any religion that may result in religious trauma, and they would of course be correct. There will forever be outlier extremists that ruin the reputation of congregations and pervert the tenets on which the faith is founded.

​
If the Shoe Fits, Wear It
Although it is never my intention to be sacrilegious, I’ve also been told that I can be abrasive and opinionated—were I apt to value the opinions of people that aren’t feeding, fucking, or financing me, I may be offended; humorously, those tone policing and ridiculing my communication skills are infrequently doing any of those things. With that being said, I would like to explore a ‘shower thought’ I had recently regarding the sensitive subject of religion and while I will be candid, please know that this is not meant to provide anything more than thought. But if I do happen to hurt your feelings…look inward. Often times when something offends us it’s because we see an undesirable reflection of ourselves in the statement. As much as we would like to deny it, truly looking at ourselves through an unfiltered lens is much easier said than done. We take things personally and internalize the projections of those who wish only to see us succeed less than them.
To be perfectly honest, I could probably write this entire essay in vague examples delivered in a passive-aggressive (if not elegant) tone without ever once mentioning specific examples. Could; perhaps. However, I see no good reason to pussyfoot around reality. In the Western world, there are simply too few logical conclusions to be made regardless of how vague and passive the delivery is. Also, I loathe social etiquette that requires blurring the lines of personal integrity or walking on eggshells. I much prefer respectfully direct exchanges; they make for more productive interactions and reduce the social exhaustion I experience with prolonged exposure. Unfortunately, mutually respectful, and direct exchanges are far too rare. So, while I could put in the extra effort to navigate the sensitive constitution of every Tom, Dick, and Karen who would rather center themselves and fixate on how my words located a sore spot…I won’t be.


Geographic Prominence
In the Western world, Christianity has a checkered reputation no matter, which way you twist it. As I’m sure you’ve inferred by now, it will be one of the primary (and generalized) references made moving forward, and yes, it will be from an outsider’s perspective. However,  that does not mean that there is some underlying malice for the core theological philosophy. On the contrary, I very much value the moral virtues that guide followers in their spiritual relationship with their chosen deity. However, the path I walk runs parallel and, therefore, offers an objective perspective founded on experience and moral inventory.
The agency I work for is affiliated with the Lutheran church, so much so that we have a chapel on campus with service every Sunday and the pastor is available most days. Chapel is optional but encouraged on Sundays, and there are grief and other spiritual groups available as well. We have some kids who ask to go, but we have a fair amount of them who recoil at the mention of it.


No Hate Like Christian Love
As a non-Christian, I have become a bit of a safe space for those questioning their faith or spiritual path, for adults and adolescents alike. I’ve also had the pleasure of befriending one of the truest Christians I’ve ever known, with whom I have some of the most respectful theological conversations. My relationship with them, and others like them, is offered as evidence that what I am about to say is not meant to negate a genuine relationship with their higher power. (Because I’m about to get a little critical.)
The saying there’s no hate like Christian love is well known among non-Christians. For those unaware, the phrase more or less notes the irony and solicitation of the word. What kind of parent punishes their child(ren) to an eternity of damnation for adultery, but stands back and allows genocide? Not a good one. So, why would it be okay for a god?


Moral Compass Calibration
In 1992, Sinead O’Connor ripped up a picture of the pope during her SNL performance, and her career in America was over. Later, her message rang clear and now resonates everywhere. That “stunt” was a demonstration of protest against the Catholic church for protecting pedophile priests, clergy, and congregation members. Sadly, she’s no longer here for anyone to issue a formal apology that she wouldn’t even want because she understood that people were not ready to receive the message she delivered. She and the victims that continue to be dismissed and blamed for the actions of men in authority deserve reparations of some kind, but I digress.
There is an overwhelming amount of Christians who, when asked why do we need (your) god?, will respond with he teaches us right from wrong. Okay, I’ll bite – what exactly does the Christian god teach us? The lessons I learned from him were authoritative, controlling, wrought with double standards, demeaning – I’ve found him to be quite the contrarian. His son teaches us something healthier, at least: be kind, be generous, be modest, be honest. I can get behind these lessons and I think any empathetic person inherently embodies these tenets as a baseline, even if the expression varies. So, do we need Jesus to tell us to not be a dick and his big bad sky daddy to threaten eternal damnation if we break the rules? I’m just gonna say it. If you need the threat of eternal damnation to not rape, murder, steal, or beat your wife and kids (which is still actually condoned in some sects of the religion), are you actually a good person?
Think about it.


Religion is for Those Who Fear Hell
I have said that I am non-Christian, but I haven’t elaborated.  Non-Christian is not anti-Christian; if Christianity guides you and helps you evolve into a healthier and more empathetic person, nothing I have to say should ever shake your faith. I simply feel that gluing oneself to religion is based on so little introspective exploration when things are offensive.
Religion is a philosophy by which humans can relate and build a spiritual connection to their creation and demise. Some build that connection through the word of Jesus Christ, some say Brahma is the creator of the universe some remain loyal to Odin, and still others believe in a spaghetti monster, the list continues. Those are only the more well-known references. There are legitimately thousands of religions many of which are significantly older than Jesus, as described in the King James Version (as that is the more commonly referenced edition, in my experience). Regardless, most, if not all, religions are founded on the same general core values. It isn’t until we look at the commandments/laws or practices within each religion that we begin to see real differences. Truth be told, the Christian church stole many of their practices from Pagans as a means to convert “heathens” and “savages” and control and oppress free-spirited women (but, I again digress).
When the debate is semantics, what are we fighting about? Eve did not consume the fruit of the tree of knowledge for nothing. It is entirely possible to build your connection to creation and destruction as you see fit, and let others do the same without impeding on their peace. 


Thanks for reading!

Living in the city, on top of thousands of others, in a box on top of a box — and shared walls — is horrid. The buzz of electrical wires and boxes, heavy-footed neighbors with vociferous habits and booming voices. It’s strange, to me, that anyone could ever truly enjoy it. It boggles my mind that some of you, those with a million other options, would still choose to live on top of each other. I don’t mean this metaphorically. No, I mean this in a purely literal sense. I lived above someone for several years — my floor, was [essentially] their ceiling. To be fair, I chose to live above others, because living beneath them is somehow worse. However, I do not want to be where I currently am either.

I was laid off a couple of years ago, and aside from the stark drop in income, I didn’t miss it. I "never had time" to write and could hardly focus on my classes, not to mention trying to get enough sleep on top of a full-time job (plus [unfortunately] necessary overtime) and classes. I still do not get enough sleep, but I have graduated [with honours] and I have a stepping stone job that I am good at— one that I don’t even really want, or one that will require significantly more masking than I have the capacity for, but I do not hate going to every day--but have found fewer excuses to procrastinate on my goals. Facts remain, I do not want a nine-to-five — nor a three-to-eleven, or eleven-to-seven. I do not have a dream job — I do not dream about work.

What I want is a simple life, where I have the time to have experiences, to write and create — to breathe. I need space and the softness of my solitude to hear my own thoughts, to exist without imposed limitations that often have absolutely nothing to do with my abilities or credentials. I have grown exhausted of having my well-being disrespected and free-time dictated, especially by those that hardly even know my name. This hamster wheel existence is soul-crushing, and the idea that all we are on this planet to do is work and procreate feels so…wrong.

I have lived the vanlife before — though, admittedly, not well. Partially due to poor planning, partially impulsivity overthrowing common sense along the way. Aside from the hindering choices, I loved it and I will stop at nothing to recreate the best parts of that lifestyle, with longevity.

There is just something about waking up everyday with the time to journal my dream from the night before, practice self-care grooming, cook myself a simple and healthy breakfast, and the energy to incorporate yoga multiple days per week. All the while knowing that I could just get up and leave—taking my house with me. [Because a girl sure can dream…] I think people assume that when I say I miss vanlife they assume that I mean within city limits. Being in the city was — is — the worst. Parking where the sidewalk and roads end and the forest and starry skies begin is a whole different story. Exploring the ruins reclaimed by nature or the abandoned houses and churches and vehicles left on land energized by urban legend or ominous history, that's where I want to be and what I want to write about.

The concept of work in and of itself is not off-putting. Work-culture and the idea of being surrounded by people forty hours per week is — the idea of masking for the sake of neurotypical feelings alone is more than enough to create a knot in my chest that grows until I think of something else. After my last steady job, I took odd jobs to make ends meet — and the input never truly matched up with the output — and all that did was make me loathe existence. Rubbing two pennies together will never form a dollar, and the cycle of having to continue trying to create something from nothing is debilitating.

2022 kicked my ass — I lost legitimately everything I had busted my ass to achieve, for more than five years. It also taught me a lot about myself. It removed my desire to mask for ungrateful people who couldn’t care less, and it stripped away things that were holding me back. It stripped away everything, but collateral damage is inevitable. Much of my time was spent clinging to apathy, if not, the tears never stopped — and I already couldn’t breathe, so tears seemed wasteful and dangerous. It was not the time for mourning, it was the time for cultivating and sowing the seeds that will bear the fruit of my labour and loss. So, I spent my days writing, studying, reading, and working in as much self-care as I can — remembering the lessons learned in heartaches past, trying to be gentle with myself. Found a job, and then found another one and for the last year have been working toward getting myself in a position that will afford me the lifestyle I'm building.

My goal of a life of travel hasn’t changed much, and I don’t see it changing at any point in the near future. My feet get itchy when I stay in one place for too long. As introverted as I may be, I also get cabin fever — but getting out of the house can be just as nerve-racking, especially in highly populated areas. Living on the road works as a happy medium. Parking at a trailhead and hiking back to a clearing or driving to a new city to try the local cuisine is my ideal vacation, and that's the content I want to create. This blog/site is only the beginning of this journey, until I can do it right, I won’t allow myself to do it again. As badly as I wish I could wiggle my nose and make it happen, it just isn’t worth the inevitable fallout of rushing it. Anything worth doing is worth doing right and I honestly believe that, regardless of how impatient I am. I want it to last — I want my dream life to flourish and bloom.

…I need it to work this time.


Thanks for reading!

It’s 4 am. Soon the dark velvet skies of the night will converse with morning in hues of blue. Birds will sing to rouse the plants and greet the sun. The world around me will be waking up, and I haven’t slept. To be fair, I run best on a nocturnal schedule, but I haven’t been sleeping much at all lately. I wish I could say this was an infrequent occurrence. Unfortunately, that is not the case. The truth is that restless nights happen more often than not, and have since childhood. Sleepless nights become more frequent when stress levels have reached maximum capacity — which is kind of ironic considering the body needs more rest to recover from the damaging physical effects of stress. I’ve tried all the tricks. Not working in places of rest, no caffeine after noon [no caffeine at all], healthy diet and exercise routine— going to bed only when ready for sleep. That’s the kicker. My body is not often “ready for sleep”.

Let’s unpack thatIfyou accept that we remember best what impacted us most, then it’s not a leap to assume that our rememberings are a library of clips and snapshots. Some of them are blurry and out of focus, and others are in high resolution. Always triggered by the strangest things. Like, I remember the night I fell in love with storms — terrified as I may have been. Sitting on the porch with dad, watching the cloud roll in and asking him why. I can still feel the electricity in the air and smell the dankness of the basement seeping up through the vents. No idea how old I was, not a clue what month it was. A mental snapshot of the basement door in a candlelight vignette is filed away somewhere in between the nostalgia and the fear of that night. Something about the fierceness of a storm dancing freely through the air induces what I can only describe as calm, in the pit of my chest. Fuck, I miss the rain…

As much as I love storms, the fiercest can be especially destructive. Perhaps that’s why I love them so much; because they remind me of my mind. More memories than should be of that house are chaotically filed away, though I think they were once more organized. The only ones I ever seem to find are tragic, to say the least. I haven’t really explored this area for quite some time, so this should be interesting — for me, anyway.
Myoldest memories are from that house, some typical of any kid growing up in a small town in the 1990s; all of them curious. I remember my older brother microwaving an egg with the shell still on — it exploded as soon as they opened the door. I don’t recall if I had an emotional reaction, but I vividly remember everyone in a panic and checking for shells in his eyes. Anything resembling the texture of that grody orange carpet takes me back to some darker memories from around age ten. I wish I could say that’s when sleep began to evade me. I have memories of nightmares from years earlier, though, and they disturb me still. One particularly disturbing terror reoccurred several times, each time a little different. At present, I only recall a pirate giving sage advice through riddles with consequences. It was genuinely terrifying, even if a bit foggy now. A clearer clip from a year or three before those dreams was being forced to “cry it out” in a dark room, alone; I can still hear my older brother crying on the other side of the door, trying to come in and save his baby sister. I’m not sure how old I was, but I do remember standing in my crib to scream. I’m sure it was meant to be some variation of bedtime, but it impacted me enough to remember it thirty years later.

Is trauma to blame?
It wasn’t any one solitary traumatizing event that complicated my relationship with sleep, no defining moment. However, it is likely a contributing factor; I do score a six on the ACEs test. But I have to say, in every scarring tragedy the worst part wasn’t the traumatic event itself that cut the deepest. It was the constant invalidation of dismissal by those meant by nature to protect and nurture my development.

It’s funny to me, how sentiments that were drilled into me in my formative years dissolved with time. I remember hating posing for pictures, but also always secretly wanting candid shots. My poor poetic teenage soul loathed the inauthenticity she perceived in posed photos. Group photos with fake friends forced to tolerate my angst and quirks for the sake of team unity, and family portraits — none of it felt real. Everything was about appearance, on that my birth-giver was correct; even if not in the way she thought was. See, I wanted the kind of snapshots that I could look back on in twenty years and be thrown right back into the moment. The kind you see in an old rolling stone. Hell, I still want that — has happened once, when it counted. Alas, it makes no never mind now. Any photos and memorabilia of my youth have since been destroyed; by a flood, I’m told.
Not having anything tangible to remember those years is a bittersweet tragedy. Like a piece of my soul was lost to this life. The price for choosing the path of supreme resistance both by inheritance and by choice. Think what you will about life after death, energy shifts — so, why can’t it attach an echo? Have you ever held an old security blanket or stumbled upon a photo of a memory you’d filed away to make room for practicality? Ever felt the nostalgia creep in, potentially overwhelming sensibility and encouraging a cleansing cry? It has always looked so forgiving in movies, and teenage me saved an entire tote full of the traditional treasure trove counting on it— any material remnants of that era have since been completely erased. I have my original copy of a childhood favourite that has seen better days. My birth-giver bought it for me as a jab at my “define normal” retort to her incessantly insulting my quirks. Joke on her, it was one of the most validating reads of my early adolescence.

That wasn’t the first time she botched attempts to embarrass me, wasn’t even the last; but it was one of the more memorable. Having the book in my possession doesn’t remind me of her so much as it does the lessons I learned from the main characters in Julie Anne Peter’s book. They, in many ways, represented my internal duality: my authentic self versus the person I felt was my expectation. Of course, when I tried to explain that and connect through appreciation for the ill-intended gift, I was mocked for my enthusiasm.

Secret Night-Light
At some point during an elementary school term, I became incredibly motivated to read. Honestly, I think most of it was to curb boredom; but it was also heavily influenced by my insatiable curiosity. It must have been somewhere around fifth grade, and Library was my favourite class. I would take as many books as the librarian would permit, and it wasn’t until just now that I understood why she always asked if I was actually reading them. She accepted that I was — my obsession with the Scholastic book fair probably helped.
AsI mentioned I’ve never slept well. When getting up and practicing your dance moves makes all the floor boards squeal, you learn quiet activities. Reading eventually fanned out into writing and drawing and painting or other. From the wee hours of the morning into blue hour, reading was the most convenient at its worst. It was for this reason I had stashed one of those old-fashioned candle lanterns people put in their window during the winter holidays. I kept it nestled away between my mattress and the wall because every time my birth-giver found it she’d put it back in the decorations box. Of course, I would never figure this out until well after lights out and end up having to wait until everyone was asleep so I could sneak out to the shed and dig it back out. At one point I had a desk lamp, but it was too bright — and loud; why are lightbulbs so damn noisy?

I digress. One night in particular I was set up against the window finishing the last of my library books. I only remember that it was a Thursday night because I justified pushing myself to finish reading The Winning Stroke by Matt Christopher before allowing myself to sleep. They only allowed students to take so many books home at one time, which is perfectly logical to me now; as an adult. As a kid, that was stressful to the point of emotional turmoil — and exacerbated sleep deprivation. With no more than maybe twenty pages left, I shifted myself and dug in. The whole single-wide vibrated under determined stomps down the hallway leading to my door. My birth-giver burst through my door prepared to find me being some form of mischievous I presume. Anger gave way to confusion, “it’s late, why aren’t you sleeping?” Apparently, my choice of activity was temperate enough to win her favour. The confused flabbergast lingering on her tone was noted, though.

Insecure Attachments 
All focus is trained on the outcome. A journey is reduced to its bullet points and outsider perceptions. Only the moments deemed relevant by people outside of the self are remembered by the perpetrators of violence and their web of insidious enablers. Everyone wants to celebrate the resilience of a survivor, but no one wants to talk about the grit required to bounce back from the fringes of sanity. Strength is revered with envious praise, but no one wants to help carry the weight of the crosses that we carry. Cowardice is mocked, but no one wants to look into their own shadows and learn the lessons that shape courage; to accept that maybe their opinions lack perspective and that those who carry the onerous baggage of ignored adversity should be regaled. Instead, society admonishes them for their divergence and invalidates their experiences with every breath of baseless notions of embellishment.

Our attachment styles and our ability to self-regulate are developed early. When built on chaotic and detached foundations, connections to the world around us are depleting. Toxic environments force us to swallow it down when our divergent urges and stims challenge the limitations of totalitarian authority. Masking becomes second nature, and we suppress every compulsive impulse to satiate our own needs in favour of those around us; in favour of those who will never live a day in our minds. This, of course, leaves a film of isolation on every experience. Masks are worn around everyone because sifting through levels of distrust to sort out safe spaces is debilitating on a good day. Those lost to the suffocating pressure of living up to the expectations of the world around them are chastised in death for ending their own story, but only because their absence leaves a mirror in their place. A mirror reflecting back the bane of their existence. Silent screams suddenly deafening to the ones left behind. Misplaced blame fuels resentment; all accountability is consumed by ego, a lingering ache a salve of survivor’s guilt.

It gets darker the deeper you go
Sleep evades in response to a constant state of survival mode. The persistent uncertainty of place and self creates an edge on every experience, every unfamiliar place — even familiar places can become unsafe, especially in the wrong company. As an adult I can see this; as a child, I had no frame of reference. Lack of sleep was seen as an opportunity to be alone with my thoughts — a chance to be alone with my feelings, not that I was equipped to process them.

I snuck out at night to retrieve my reading light from the shed, but I also ran away to stargaze in the field next to our property line— sometimes I even left a note to say I wasn’t coming back, the serenity of the rural Pennsylvania night gently rationalizing my plan to escape. It’s not like there was a bus depot within walking distance, and the prospects of employment in the city for a nine-year-old girl were grim. The angst of my innocence determined to live life in the five acres of woods behind the house. Even then I knew five acres would never suffice; today, my inner child still squeals at every thought of an off-grid homestead. It wasn’t until adulthood, though, that I embraced the raw obstinance of my youth and fully understood the source of my angst.

Reading, writing, and creation still play quite the role in my sleepless nights. I no longer require stealth and secrecy to stimulate my mind or process my emotional flux, but I am still healed best by nature. Many nights I still find myself barefoot in the grass, my eyes searching the polluted city sky for the stars that spoke to me then. Unable to connect with the people around me, I found peace in nature — some things never change. However, much has changed for me since sneaking off the through the creek and into that field. For one I am living in a city so far away from everything I had known; a jarring perspective that threw me for a loop at first view. Looking back now, it’s like reminiscing old scars; some still admittedly tender. That’s where the shadow work begins.



Thanks for reading!

Many people seem to think that Depression is feeling sad, and in turn think someone struggling with Depression can simply choose to “snap out of it”. I hear it all the time, how it’s associated with tears and persistent sorrow. While it’s true that feeling “blue” can be part of it, Depression is so much more than “oh, I feel so sad today”.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, please know that there are resources available to you and professionals that do care. There are resources available to you.

Depression Defined
Depression is considered a mood disorder. Mood disorders are characterized by a “general emotional state or mood is distorted or inconsistent with your circumstances and interferes with your ability to function.” In regard to Depression, this means that for most of the day, nearly every day those afflicted will experience a spectrum of symptoms that range for sadness, tearfulness, and hopelessness to loss of interest, frustration, and irritability to sleep disturbances, agitation, or reduced appetite. It can also go as far as thoughts of death and suicide, or physical issues that seem to have no underlying cause.
As you can imagine, living with even a few of the symptoms from that incomplete list can become unbearable. For many people, a combination of medication and therapy can help manage these symptoms but even then it takes its toll.
[Sources: Mayo Clinic]

Let’s Get Personal
I have struggled with depression for more than twenty years at this point, and I am one of the minority of people who is considered resistant to medication. Therefore, I have relied heavily on my ability to practice coping skills — like writing, for example.
To be frank, it’s exhausting trying to concentrate long enough to complete daily tasks, never mind trying to work in time to practice coping mechanisms. It’s made more difficult by my co-occurring disorders that I won’t bother to list here, but it all pales in comparison to the lack of understanding and subsequent expectations others pile on top of it all. On days when opening your eyes hurts, when it makes you feel anything but gratitude for the air filling your lungs, there is still a societal requirement to pretend to be grateful for being alive. So, we mask what we can — which varies from day to day.
Before you start feeling bad for me or judging me because you believe I have so much to live for, let me take a crack at what you’re about to list. You’re probably thinking about how my family members would feel and how they would be affected by my untimely demise, right? Sure, let’s go there.
The Guilt TripsWhy is it that people always jump to guilt tripping those of us consumed by an internal Hell, that those around us regularly dismiss? Why should I concern myself with how they would mourn the loss of me, when they can’t be bothered to offer compassion or genuine interest in my life and dreams while I’m here? If I had a dime for every time this was thrown at me in response to the expression of my symptoms, I would legitimately never want for anything — I would have more money than I would know how to spend.
Honestly, though, it’s not my responsibility to consider how they would feel while mourning me, just as they have decided it’s not their responsibility to offer me emotional support while I fight to be here. If you think that piling guilt onto people who already struggle with feeling guilty for the way their brain already attacks them, you’re the part of the problem. It’s not okay to tell people that you care and that their feelings matter, then turn around and invalidate their emotions because they make you uncomfortable. It’s not okay to impose your perspective-lacking opinion or to project your personal feelings onto anyone, and that is especially true for those struggling with the demons inside their own mind.
Why All Symptoms MatterIn reality, symptoms always matter — maybe not to you, which is your prerogative. However, have you ever noticed how the symptoms of another person do matter when they, somehow, affect you? Support needs exist on a spectrum. One day I may have the capacity to shower, do my makeup, cook a nutritious meal or two, call a friend, and read a few chapters of a book and still have some energy to spare. The next day, I might not be able to get out of bed. If I can manage to get myself out of bed on those days, I would be lucky if I could remember to drink water and showering is entirely out of the question. Now, imagine holding a full-time job [or two, in this economy] while struggling to remember to inhale oxygen into your already tired lungs.
There is this common misconception that we know someone’s struggles by looking at them, and to extent I will concur — damage tends to see damage. It’s like an unspoken understanding between people who have experience similar pains. We know that they hurt, but the details of that hurt are solely theirs. Where that assumption loses me is where it presumes to claim perspective into someone’s mind simply by how they appear on the outside. Just because my symptoms don’t directly affect you, does not mean that they aren’t killing me. Many people who have never experienced suicidality assume they can identify ideologies in someone who struggles with it regularly — those same people turn around after the a tragedy claiming they never saw it coming. Truth be told, them not knowing was by design.
We can only be dismissed, rejected, invalidated, and condescended to so many times before we stop reaching for the people that profess to care about our well-being. We can only carry so much guilt about not having the energy to reciprocate joy, and can only defend our reality so much before we remove ourselves from the environment that makes the weight we carry only heavier. As much as it hurts to hear, when we don’t feel like every breath is hopeless and pointless we feel like we’re a burden on every person who does listen — and the cycle repeats.

Drowning is Just in Your Lungs
Telling people with neurodivergence and mental illness that it’s just in our heads is ridiculous. Brains are legitimately responsible for keeping our hearts pumping — and ours have turned on itself.
Those of us experiencing psychological distress of any kind literally exist with a malfunctioning brain, and are consistently made to feel like we have any control over it — as if it’s a choice to be made. No one chooses to wake up feeling like the life has been drained out of them, no one chooses to open their eyes to an emptiness in their chest; no one chooses inadequate sleep or profound loneliness. The only choice we really get to make is whether or not we continue to existing, groping in the proverbial darkness for hope that it will get better. Every time it doesn’t chips away at our will to keep trying.
This is why self-care, including well-maintained boundaries, and a healthy support system are so crucial to our survival. With all of the expectations held by society, the last thing we need is to have our safe spaces infiltrated by unsavory people that only support us when we mask to meet their needs. If when I am at my lowest, you can’t be bothered to help me shoulder the weight of the persistent despair that plagues my every waking moment, what’s the point? Relationships are meant to be mutually beneficial — give and take, ebb and flow. If you cannot hold space as needed, kindly stay way. We are too busy trying to make it through the day to question the loyalty of the people around us, and it truly takes every ounce of strength we have to show up for ourselves.
Finding Reasons to StayIf you happen to be someone’s reason to keep fighting their internal battle, please, for the love of whatever higher power you choose, do not take it for granted. Educate yourself on their condition(s), join a support group, seek therapy for yourself to ask for guidance — encourage them to do what they can and reassure them that nothing else matters in that moment. Maybe that’s a shower, maybe it’s changing three-days-old underwear — and if that’s all too much, bring them a cool, wet cloth and offer to help them wipe their face and neck…maybe their pits and privates. Bring them water and healthy, easy snacks — but do not expect them to consume them. The idea is to remind them that they are loved, even when they feel entirely unlovable. Also, remember, the worst days are not the only time they need that kind of reassurance.
On better days, when they are actually functional and able to crawl out of their cave, the care cannot end — and if you’re not sure what you can do, ask them. Don’t be surprised if they tell you that they need nothing, just know that it’s not true. They still need support, but they may not know how to communicate what they need — and their support needs will be unique to them. Maybe it looks like snuggling in front of their favourite tv show or movie, maybe it looks like washing/changing their sheets so they craw into a clean bed later — trust me, you never know how long ago they did that for themselves — cook for them, or gently convince them to take a nature walk. Don’t push them, don’t guilt or coerce them — make your suggestion, and accept whatever answer they give you. “If you’re up for it, I thought we could walk the dog together after dinner” goes a long way, and it puts the power in their hands — if they say no, then accept that they may not have the capacity for the activity.
The key is to remember that it’s not about you. You may be the reason they have chosen to stay, but their support needs need to be about them.
If you’re struggling right now, please reach out and know that you are not alone. You are worthy, and you deserve to feel loved and appreciated.


Thanks for reading!