10 million strong

Forgive me father, for it's been 1 year, 2 months, and 2 days since my last depression and here are my sins. My passion is gone, I dream all day about dying in my sleep, and I no longer care about the feelings of my fellow man.

Reading is my only escape and writing is my only reprieve. Too bad I do most of my writing in my head at work when I don't have access to my laptop. I'm stuck listening to old people go on tirades about expired coupons while I eloquently hash out my depression in my head, lamenting over my sadness in between nods of false sympathy over replaced hips and flaccid dicks. I try to remember the sentences I write in my head while arthritic hands with swollen knobs for knuckles peck away at smart phones, trying to wrestle proof of a discount out of their electronic mail accounts. "You should see my grandson with this thing! He would know exactly where to find the coupon!"

It's the only part of my day I actually get enjoyment out of, even if it's a tiny tick of the smallest amount of serotonin, it's still something.

I enjoy it when the dustier generations get angry at the card machine, screaming at it when it's time to insert a chip instead of swipe or sign instead of entering a pin. They'll yell about how each machine is different and there should be a universal machine that every establishment uses. I want to question how that fits into their over patriotic sense of capitalism and see them squirm, a generation scarred by the cold war with boogie men in the form of words like "socialism," but that wouldn't be a decent thing to do. I don't want to actively cause frustration for these people, I just want to enjoy the scenarios that they create for themselves.

This used to annoy me, older people yelling at me for discounts and not understanding how technology works, just as recently as two weeks ago, but in my depression I delight in the small discomforts of others. It means they're just as miserable as I am but the difference is that I have a chemical imbalance and they're just afraid of change and refuse to adapt. I'll come out of this, they'll be miserable until the day they die.

I've made up my mind that when I'm 65 years old and my credit card number is circulating through my blood stream in the form of some kind of nano bot, I'll gladly figure out the best way to lay my skull on the counter in order for the sales person to scan my retinas to pay for my vitamins.

My depression doesn't care what I say to people and it's a nice vacation from the obligation of caring about everything. I'm a victim of too much empathy most of the time so walking around with nothing to offer but apathy is relaxing. When asked whether I like someone's new shirt or their new makeup I would normally try hard to come up with a compliment I truly mean, even if I have to dig around for it. It's a good way to rewrite my brain to seek positive pathways instead of the negative ones it's original programming was designed for. But now I don't care. Ask me how I feel about anything and I wont have any negative or positive brain responses, I'll just look at you like I'm waiting for you to leave the room or for you to stop breathing. You could wear a trash bag and paint your ass hole with a half gallon of glitter and I would feel the same way about that as I would if you had a heart attack and dropped dead on the spot.

I wouldn't feel anything. I don't wish heart attacks or glittery ass holes on anyone but if they happened I'm sad to say I wouldn't feel one way or the other about it in my current state.

My apathy is like a poison and not only am I affected but it spreads to those around me. I don't have to say or do anything to bring my darkness into a room or conversation. So naturally I avoid people in this state but that isn't so easy when you're usually a highly social person who works retail and talks to just about everyone. My mom used to tell me that when I was a kid I would run around and tell strangers, "Hi! I'm a Flintstone's kid!" because of the vitamin commercials in the 80's. Anyone and everyone, my mom tells me. I would run my mouth and befriend any adult, kid, or dog that would let me talk at them for more than a couple of seconds. I grew up to still be that Flintstone's kid, social and always willing to make a new friend, but when the depression gets a hold of me I leave everyone on read and don't have the energy to even decline generous offers like people coming over to keep me company, clean, or cook me a decent meal instead of eating the dried out protein bars I cry into at night.

I may have been a Flintstone's kid but I grew up to be bipolar's adult. There's no catchy advertisement for that.

Hopefully this bout won't last long. The previous episode was about 3 months in length with me waking up one day finally deciding to kill myself and the next hour being just fine. Instead of planning to kill myself this time I'll just revel in the small discomforts of a generation of technology illiterate mummies, while selling them vitamins.

I guess in a strange way I still am the Flintstone's kid, the only difference is there's paycheck in it for me now.

28 days later

It's been 28 days since my husband confessed to me that he never loved me.

It's the dead of winter so none of the ceiling fans are on in the house and they so desperately need to be cleaned. The one in the kitchen especially, it's caked with months of cold dust from an old house with too many pets that shed generously, on old vents that don't understand that they're part of an outdated respiratory system. My husband walked in and noted that he needed to turn the fan on, as to not see the months of grime that's collected. If it stays in motion, the problem no longer exists and you don't have to do the dirty work of soiling up your hands to wash it. You can just yank the chain and the problem goes away.

And here I was looking like an idiot, thinking I was going to have to clean the damn thing.


It's been a year and a half of marriage before my husband confessed he has never loved me.

I didn't look at that dirt and for one second think I could just turn the fan on. I saw my options were to either clean it or to live with the grime, come to terms with it. Until I got a wild hair up my ass, that dirt was now a part of the fixture. Part of my life. I would become comfortable knowing that all of the filth was a product of a loving house hold. My children's dead skin cells, our many dogs skin cells, his dead cells, my dead cells, whatever other wretched creatures I dragged through the house. It was all our mess together up there. It was our house, that we created. It was our accumulative lives clinging to the fan and I could come to live with it.

It's been almost 4 years together before my husband confessed he has never loved me.

A few paper towels, some simple sink water, 10 minutes and I could have cleaned all of the dirt off. I wouldn't have to look at that kind of mess for another few months at least. But the effort just hasn't seemed worth it lately. I use to keep the place spotless but over the months the buildup doesn't bother me like it use to. Climbing up on a chair seemed like too much work. If the mess is still up there then I guess it can't be bothering him that much either, right? If it really bothered either one of us I guess the grime would get cleaned off.

Eventually.


It's been 28 days since my husband confessed he never loved me, it's been almost 4 years since I knew.

How many times had I looked at that fan in the past and only saw 2 options? It either gets cleaned or it doesn't. I had never thought about putting the fan into motion and absolving my consciousness of the whole burned itself. Was he aware that turning the fan on just means that the whole mess just becomes mobile?

He was already gone from the room before I had a chance to ask him.

A Living Ghost

I had a dream about my brother last night. I want to write that his ghost visited me in my subconscious state but I don't consciously believe that. Although, if you dig deeper you might find that I do.

He was still alive, still an addict. A slideshow of what would have been his future was presented to me, had he not been snatched up only 23 years into his life. He walked up to me, his body skinny enough to silently advertise that the drugs still meant more to him than his own health, but not too far gone to look like an obvious heroin addict. He was still young, a man of no more than 25. I was helping him walk down a hallway and into a bathroom to help him get cleaned up. His bodily neglect apparent, but still able to help himself into the shower. I left the room as I did not want to see my brother naked, nor did I really want to see the effects the drugs have had on his body.

Dream me knew he had been trying to get over his struggle with heroin, and outside of his death 7 years ago (something that my dream forgot to include), he was doing ok. He was still young, and alive, and when you're alive there is always a chance to get better.

He left the house after a few days and my life continued as normal. Nick just might be alright, dream me thought. This time he has a chance.

The next time he showed up at my door he was worse off. His eyes bloodshot and swollen and he sometimes relied on a chair or a wall to help prop him up, but not too bad off for someone 30 years old and still battling demons that echo inside a syringe. I led him to the shower, this time I had to help peel his clothes off of him. There was feces and urine inside his pants and what first looked like black grease, but upon closer inspection was dried blood. I asked him if he was ok to undress himself past his underwear since I REALLY didn't want to see my own brother naked. He said he could manage so I left him alone. He stayed for a couple of days, talking about getting clean, for real this time, and then left with a heartfelt "thank you" hug.

The next time he didn't show up my door. I had to go and pluck him from the shit hole of a house he was in. Did he live there? I don't think so. Did any of the people I walked over live there? Doubt it. Were those people even alive or did I just traverse through corpses to find my little brother? Either way, it was time to get Nick back to my house and in the shower- my dream's reset button for my brother's fight against heroin. This time he could barely stand on his own, I gave him a cane to help keep himself upright.

In real life, when he was only 16 years old and I was 20, he had demanded my mom get him a cane when he was being fitted for a suit for my first wedding. He was the only one who got one but he was ready to fight tooth and nail to get it back then. In my dream the cane made an appearance but it was no longer a funny joke or the result of a strong willed tennagers whimiscle expression of indivuduality.

I helped him into the bathroom and had to fetch scissors in order to cut him out of his clothing. It had long since become a solid mass of excrement, vomit, and blood. The fabric stood on it's own, more like cardboard than cloth. I had to cut off his underwear, too. I didn't want to see my brother naked but he was too weak to work the clothing off himself. He was covered in sores, some of them infected from laying around in his own blood, shit, and piss. He said he could wash himself, thank god because the last thing I want to do is have to bathe my brother with my own hands. He went to the doctor and got on antibiotics for his infections and once again left my house looking and feeling better.

The next time I fetched him was from the hospital emergency room. He had overdosed, but unlike reality where he's been dead for 7 years now, he survived. His eyes were swollen, like ripe fruit stuck in sunken caverns inside his skull. There was dried pus that had seeped from his eyes and dried over into pale yellow flakes running down his cheeks. He weighed nothing, and I knew this because I had to carry him as he could barely walk. I took him back to my house and washed his worn and abused body, not caring that I had to scrub caked on excrement from his groin. He was alive, my little brother was still alive, I would do anything to help see him better.

I would go find him and bring him back to my house over and over again, the circumstance were always the same, even though the drug dens or hospitals changed each time. Every trip to get him dissolved into the scene helping him down the hallway and into the bathroom, each time is only a couple of years apart but his body aged in decades. By the time he's in his 40s, he's unable to walk on his own and looks like an animated corpse, kept moving only by supernatural forces. Every visit to my house he cleans up, or tries to. I have to wash him. Wash the trails of crust off his eyes. I have to scrub his infected arms, his body sores, his own waste off of his own ass. I have to wash him like I did my kids when they were babies. Helpless, weak infants.

He's always in better shape after a few days in my care, getting plenty of good food, rest, and no drugs. He always talks about going clean, this time he really means it.

Each visit he becomes more death than man.

He thanks me every time. He's pleasant, appreciative, and doesn't steal from me. He doesn't lie or argue. He cleans up and goes on his way.

This was a courtesy that either my brother or my brain provided me. I was shown the pattern that his life probably would have taken had he not overdosed at such a young age. My life would have been pulling him out of absolute hell holes in between the hospitals and jail, or worse, prison. It would have been an emotional, physical, psychological, and financial burden- one I would gladly had accepted if I had known there was a possibility he would get clean and live at least a few years sober and happy.

He was telling me to let that notion go. The message was clear- that's not what would have happened. He spared me the harsh reality of what loving a junkie long term is really like. He spared me the cruel reality that is being the loved one of someone struggling with a losing battle against addiction.

Throughout my dream he was my brother, my little brother, as he had once been. In real life the drugs warp the person into something else, it carves them into a different creature- one that steals, lies, and will break you down. In my dream he was allowed to be himself, to be human, yet still have this addiction. He was able to leave out one of the most ugly truths; the addict is not the person you know, it's just their body doing the will of the drug and their insatiable need for it.

My brother didn't die again in my dream. I eventually got the point. I knew before I woke up what the purpose of all of it was. He was letting me know that he didn't lose out on his life, he was spared decades of suffering, and so were we in a way. We don't have to worry if he's dead or alive, we don't have to worry about disease, incarceration, or what the addict in him might have done to us. He got to die a tragic character, but one that was spared a lifetime of addiction that would result in no resolution. No peace.

He showed me that his 4 years of struggle and eventual death was nothing compared to the life he would have wasted had he never gotten free from heroin.

Do I really believe that my brother visited me in a dream in order to let me experience this? No, I think it was my brain's way of helping me cope. But if you look deeper into my soul, you might find a different answer. You will find that I do believe.

Nothing more and nothing less

I spent the morning, this being the 3rd day of summer, playing with my dogs in the creek by our house. The recent heavy rain has washed away most of the garbage that would normally deter any concerning Lakeside citizen from wading around in what could otherwise be uncapped sharps, used condoms, and a fine layer of jagged beer bottle glass everywhere. It was absolutely gorgeous out. The cruelly bright sun that I hadn't been familiar with for months now burned my shoulders, but was a welcome change from the blocked out windows of my bedroom where I had retreated to for the past 10 weeks. The heat had helped dry up enough of the creek bed that a fair amount of large flat rocks to relax on were available. The water had been undisturbed by fishers and usual drunks, enough to see the algae covered bottom of the creek as clear as glass. It was a beautiful sight and I found myself enjoying the moment. I assessed my emotional state and realized I felt happy, not ecstatic by any means, but a relaxing form of content.

I spent an hour tossing tennis balls into the deeper parts of the creek, watching the short legs on my dogs frantically tearing at the water in a sloppy race to get to the ball first. I loved knowing I'm doing something fun for them since they had to endure me not leaving the bed or house for a couple of months. I was also enjoying the fact that Dovah is the only one fast enough to get the ball, yet Annie diligently struggled and swam after it every time, her hope about getting to the prize first never waning. I soaked up the beauty and innocence knowing that just a few weeks ago I was living the antithesis of this moment. I had about a 10 percent chance of surviving yet here I was, feet stuck 6 inches into a soft sandy creek bed, laughing hysterically at my 2 dogs in life jackets desperately trying to stay afloat with their solid pit bull torpedo bodies. There's nothing buoyant about a compact 45 lbs dog that's pure muscle.

Every morning, before the past week or so, I would wake up and spend my day assessing what my chances of survival were. It was like being tucked into hospice care, with everyday the doctor being asked the inevitable "what are the chances she'll make it through today?" I felt like a body that was still functioning through the power of machinery and pulling the plug on myself was inevitable. Each day felt like a new diagnosis with a new survival rate. Some days I felt like I was given a few weeks to live out while other days I felt my diagnosis was more terminal and I that I had mere days. Either way, I started everyday feeling that there was an expiration date not too far off in my future.

I knew the depression was getting the best of me but what could I do? You're best bet to get away from someone who's beyond reason and trying to kill you is to run, but what if you're tied down and can't move? I was trying to kill me, how can you escape yourself?

Every morning my chances of survival were decreasing. I caught myself counting my sleeping medication and other sedatives to see how much of what it would take to do me in. I was writing all sorts of numbers down in order to find the equation of body weight to milligrams of what combination of pills, liquids, and powders would take me out the easiest and the cleanest. Most people who seriously contemplate and plan out their death will tell you that one of the important variables on your mind while you're plotting your own demise is how you can avoid making your loved ones clean up a large mess. Nevermind that you're taking yourself out of existence, you just don't want to ruin the bed sheets with your decaying fluids, or make them squeegee your brain matter off the TV in the living room. Depression is a queer beast.

I wish I could tell you that my friends, family, or pets pulled me out of it but that would be a farce. An hour or two after I had my pills sorted and counted out I just sort of lost interest. There wasn't a defining moment, no revelation, no divine intervention. I just decided to go do something else and by the next day my 2 or 3 month long funk was gone. I confessed to my husband how close he had been to being a widower with the same demeanor as if I was expressing the mail came late that day. When I'm no longer in crisis I tend to no longer speak about grave issues in such a way. We discussed what we wanted for dinner and I casually mentioned my pill counting and internet search history on destroying myself in the same manner.

You become accustomed to coming close to death. It no longer becomes scary after a while. You know you should be frightened but its familiarity no longer sets off a warning signal in your brain.

When you live with bipolar disorder, and many other similar illnesses, you live with a constant self destruct button. You never really want to push it but sometimes you wake up to find your hand over it and one slight change in pressure will send you off to the next world. I survived this bout just by pure luck. If my moods hadn't of changed later that afternoon then I know for certain that this blog would have been all that's left of me to give my friends, family, and children in hopes of them finding some kind of peace about what I had done. There wouldn't be any cryptic answers or warnings, but they would swear that were silent calls for help and that they could have done something.

The truth is simpler than that. I would have been gone because the disorder wanted me gone. Nothing more and nothing less.

If I could catch my breath just to exhale

I've spent the past 2 weeks holed up in my bedroom and in bed. My depression and the accompanying anxiety are my constant companions. Whenever those emotions become too much and I can no longer hold the mental waste in, I grab onto my dog Annie and just cry. I wrap my arms around her thick and compliant neck and bury my tears into her fur, wishing she would turn to me and say "everything will be alright." I feel mostly sadness these days with many of my daily routines having gone out the window, I feel like I have very little remnants of what could be described as a life. I don't venture out, I don't go to the store, and I'm finding it harder and harder to accomplish simple tasks like bathe or brush my teeth. I lay in a heap of my own misery and if it wasn't for the 12 hours a night I sleep, I wouldn't have any reprieve from it.

The job at the SPCA didn't work out but I found another event coordination job that was holding me over to help me slowly get back on my feet. I was behind financially but if I played my cards right, I could slowly get caught up. Then the company suddenly went under and now I'm left in the dark again. For the past 2 weeks I've been filling out applications online, as much as I'm able to do in a day while fighting against a barrage of discarnate voices telling me how worthless I am. I only have my past work experience and my high school diploma to navigate me through this world of employment and they're producing more closed doors than opportunities. I see openings for hundreds of jobs I'm not qualified for, I have to scroll through pages and pages of job descriptions that require much more than I have to offer.

This feeds the depression monster. It loves to look at each job summary and point out that I am inadequate. It revels in the moments when I become discouraged, lapping up the ineffectiveness of my search. I have 34 years on this earth and very little to show for it. Or as least that's what my mind tells me. I have a hard time separating what my actual thoughts are, the things I would normally say and feel, and the involuntary thoughts of the depression monster. I constantly feel devoid of value as a human and a failure as someone who's constantly only tried to do better for themselves and those around them. I am flawed. I am flawed at a chemical level and while it isn't my fault, it makes for really poor coping mechanisms naturally. I have to fight bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder at the same time and I currently feel like I'm losing.

Jobs that I am qualified for don't pay a wage that I can survive on and a lot of them are hard labor and/or mind numbing. I see the jobs I'm qualified for, or that basically anyone would be, and I think to myself that I've come all this way in life just to appear to be starting from the bottom. I fear my car being repossessed the most. If I lose that then my options become disparaging limited. I am buried in anxiety most of my waking hours, worried about my finances. My youngest daughter wanted to get ice cream the other day and I had to explain that I couldn't. I'm the other parent, the fun one they get to visit so when I had to tell her that I couldn't afford it, I broke down inside. They're good kids, they understand, she didn't protest, she didn't ask why, she just went back to what she was doing before.

It breaks my heart because I don't know if I'll be able to buy food for them for the next time they come over. I don't want to cancel any of these precious visits I get with them because I can't afford simple items like cereal or mac n cheese. I have celiacs so everything has to be gluten free in the house, which makes these items more expensive than normal, which makes me feel guilty for having another medical condition I have no control over. I always want to look at them and apologize. I always want to say I'm sorry for having these disorders. I want to tell them that one day it will all be ok and mommy will overcome her biological setbacks. But I don't know if I will.

My medication is working. My depression is currently situational, which means I am able to work. But so far I haven't had anything promising and it's eroding my ability to cope.

I just hold my dog and just cry in between filling out job applications. That's my only option for now. Maybe one day she'll be able to turn to me and tell me everything will be ok.

Close to death

I watched the cars traveling at high speeds soar down the highway and disappear underneath me. I stood on the sidewalk of the overpass gauging how long it would take me to scale over the chain link fence and for my body to hit the ground below. Could I time it just right so a car were to hit my body and make sure I was dead?

Able to pull myself away from staring at the highway for a moment I began searching my surroundings, trying to find something to ground me to this world. A cyclist rode by, I hid my face. I didn't want anyone I know to see me like this. I looked up at the beautiful blue sky that aroused no feelings of awe within me. I looked at my feet in my brightly colored running shoes. I looked at the park next to me, the grass a fresh color that only early spring brings about.

And I felt nothing.

My gaze shifted back to the overpass I was standing on and back to the only thoughts I had, ending my life. But I didn't want to die, I just wanted the pain to be over and it was the only solution my brain was showing me.

Think of your kids, I tell myself.

I felt nothing.

What good is a mother that's constantly sick and suffering, my mind rationalizes with me. What does it show them to constantly see that their mother is going through hell with no end in sight?

Think of your husband.

I felt nothing.

Think of everyone, anyone, I scream to myself. Still, I felt nothing.

The cars aren't frequent enough. Someone would stop and the chances of me surviving the fall are too great. I stare down at the highway below me and I can see my twisted body laying on the concrete, injured, bleeding. Dead.

Without thinking I put my hand on the chainlink fence. My foot comes up but I'm able to stop it and put it back down on the ground. I don't want to be injured, I just want this pain to end. I want the medications, the depression, the thoughts of self harm, the invasive thoughts, the hopelessness- I want all of that to end.

I would do anything for relief.

My hand falls off the fence, I turn away and start putting one foot in front of the other, grinding my teeth as I do. What am I living for? How is this going to get any better?

It doesn't matter. I just have to keep going. I have to keep walking, walking away from the overpass. I can't reason my way out of suicide so I have to just keep moving.

I finally make it to the gym and try not to make eye contact with anyone. Do they know they're looking at a dead person walking? Do they know how close I just was to another story on the evening news? I try to guess how many would see it as a coward move and how many might understand the horror that is your own mind trying to kill you. I'm a walking statistic, nothing more.

I'm ok. I have a plan to go to inpatient if my health deteriorates any further. I called my doctor shortly after this incident and they have switched my medication. I wanted to share this incident because suicide is a very real part of my mental health struggle that I haven't talked about in a very long time.

This incident happened to me today and it scared the shit out of me once I was able to come back to my senses. I was in the middle of a run inside the VCU gym when I started bawling uncontrollably and had to leave the gym. All of my thoughts centered around ending my life for a period of 2 days before I was able to catch on. I've had several medication switches lately and with nothing working my mind seemed to deteriorate without giving ny warning signs.

I would like to reiterate that I'm currently ok and not a threat to myself BUT if for any reason that changes I've already contacted people that will help make sure I'm put into an inpatient facility if it comes to that.

Thanks for reading

Truffle Shuffle

We're told to love our bodies no matter what they look like and that being big is beautiful, and while I don't see other people being fat or obese as a bad thing, I'm having a hard time applying my apathy towards body size to myself. What if you can't apply that kind of indifference about body image to yourself? What if what you see in the mirror doesn't line up to the standards you hold for yourself? What if you hate your body and compliments only make you feel worse?

Latuda and Abilify had me gain a total of 30 lbs in less than 2.5 months and going from 132 to 162 has been difficult for me to accept. I haven't weighed that much since I was pregnant 11 years ago. The Latuda threw my binge eating out of control to the point where I was pulling my hair out in cold showers just to stop thinking about eating for 10 or 15 minutes during the day. Binge eating is a symptom of borderline personality disorder, it's a form of self harm, just like cutting is. It's terrible because all you can think about is eating nonstop and when you binge on all the shitty foods you're craving the relief is so miniscule and so momentary that it actually makes you feel worse. It creates a cycle of feeling like shit because you gave in and the only relief is eating. You're filled up with self loathing from what you think is a lack of willpower when it's really part of your mental disorder that strips away any control you think you have over yourself.

It's not because I didn't want to stop eating, I couldn't. I would grind my teeth as I paced around the house trying to go over why eating a pound of candy is a very bad idea. I tried to pacify the impulse with herbal teas, gum, planning out all of my meals, trying to limit how much candy I would buy and eat, and dozens of other tricks but not a goddamn thing worked. I was spending so much of my day fighting the impulse to binge eat that I didn't have energy for anything else.

I thought about it day and night, I couldn't focus on anything else. It got to the point where I knew I was losing the battle. I couldn't overpower my body's impulse to eat all the time. If I couldn't stop eating I needed to gain control in another way. I resorted to the only thing that made sense in that state of mind- throwing up all the food I couldn't stop myself from consuming.

I had a short stint of bulimia and the only reason I stopped is so my husband wouldn't find out and feel worse for me than he already does. For 2 weeks I tried to throw up after my binges, I could never feel like I got as much out as I put in and it only caused me to feel worse about myself. It's a scary cycle and I wanted out before it got worse, thankfully after those 2 weeks I was no longer purging.

My doctor took me off Latuda when I told him about my bingeing and unstoppable sugar cravings, I never told him about my purging. He put me on Abilify and I lost about 10 lbs during the switch, which was a relief. Finally I can get back to a normal weight, or so I hoped. After 2 weeks I started gaining weight but this time without binge eating. My cravings weren't gone but there was a 50/50 chance of me giving into them and they weren't as strong. I wasn't hitting my calorie goals each day but I was no longer overeating. I also felt more relief after eating while on Abilify, it wasn't as empty or as hollow of a feeling. But then those 10 lbs came back.

I'm now back to 162 lbs and I hate my body.

I'm uncomfortable, bending over is difficult because there's so much more to me now. Even Though I have clothes that fit me they're terribly uncomfortable. Things don't sit or fit right, I feel heavier and weighed down whenever I move around. I'm not even going to get into how awful it feels riding uphill on a bike.

I hate how I look in the mirror and can't accept it. The world beats into our head that there's nothing wrong with being overweight, and I honestly couldn't care less about other people's bodies. I don't judge others for their weight or body type, I save all unfair and cruel criticism for myself. When I look in the mirror I don't see me, I see 30 lbs of burden thrusted upon me because of psych meds that didn't end up helping me in the end anyway. I had no control over how I got here, yet I experience all of the blame and guilt. I don't want to be this size, it isn't me.

It's completely destroyed my self esteem. I feel like I'm living in someone else's body, not the active bike woman my life actually is. It affects how I act around other people, it affects what I do that day, it keeps me in a mild state of depression because the situation feels hopeless. I'm being weaned off Abilify but I don't know if that will help me lose any weight. I'm overwhelmed and lugging this odd, 30 lbs heavier flesh vessel around makes me miserable.

I don't feel powerful, I don't feel strong- I only feel shame. I want to wear a shirt that says "this body isn't my fault," but I would only be trying to convince myself.

But I'm only 162 lbs, I can't imagine what it's like starting off heavier and having medications add to that. I know people who have gained over 100 lbs thanks to meds and I can't imagine how someone could deal with that. My 30 lbs make me feel hopeless about getting my body back together, trying to imagine the situations other people are dealing with blows my mind.

I've gained empathy where there was once apathy about body image.

Thanks for reading