3 September, 2010
I’m secretly spiraling down the drain. I kind of like it. I feel dark and deep and mysterious. Really it’s just stupid. Ever since I’ve found an interest in relationships and the fact that people can actually be attracted to me, I’ve been more stressed. I feel as though I’ve been too risqué because of my flirtatiousness. I feel like a slut.
I recently started cutting. I had urges for weeks and soon it turned into days and days* until I couldn’t hold it anymore. I cut Wednesday, the night before school started. The night time came around and I just couldn’t resist anymore. I sent TB a text saying that I needed to promise. A second later I remembered that I had already decided that I would cut, however dumb, or stupid it sounds because… (*see paragraph at the end of this entry).
So I sent another text saying never mind. I don’t know why I thought that would fly. That didn’t end well. She texted me in the middle of the night to see if I was okay because she was worried. I felt badly. How did she honestly want me to respond to that? And what if I saw it when she sent it and not three irrelevant hours later? What would I have said? “No, I ended up cutting”. How is that soothing? It definitely would not calm her anxiety. So me being Imani, I said, “I’m fine”. Truthfully, I wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to worry her more. Only for a split second did I consider an option other than saying I’m fine. I think it’s courtesy. Maybe not common, but in telling someone else about something you’re upset about or your bad day, you also open up a little door of guiltiness. I didn’t want the guilt. Was it a bad idea for me to use this idea when replying to her text? I really don’t know. My job is to keep others around me happy and or comfortable. I don’t know why, that’s just how it is. It should change, I know.
People don’t want to know how you’re doing. They ask because it’s polite, it looks good for them. How many times a day are you asked, “how are you?” and how many of those times did people stop to converse with you, or even care to reply to your answer. Some people don’t even answer the question. Those are the smart people. Those are the people I need to be with because they’ve figured out that in most scenarios, no one really cares how you are. They only care about what you’re doing for them. They don’t get caught in the hooks like most, and feel offended because the other person was short with them. Not to say that any of this pertains to TB because it doesn’t. I just thought I’d take the opportunity to point out that fact about people.
How ironic is it that the next thing that’s bringing me down is MaryJane and I’m high right now? I’ve been high three fourths of today. Not good. I think I’m turning into a pothead. I question whether or not that will impinge on my success. I think that if I plan to work hard and I actually do it, it won’t be a big deal. I can feel my lungs going. I gotta stop treating my vocal cords so badly. We’ll see.
*I was really stressed out that day. It hadn’t been a good day and I had a lot to take care of before school. I remember feeling irritable and lonely. I had a sense of emptiness. I hadn’t cut in a month plus and the urges were coming and I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t deal with the pressure of one more thing bothering me. I felt better. I smoked and then I took out my blade and stuff. I tried to keep it as close to my wrist as possible so my wristband could cover it. I kind of felt like I could hurt myself as badly as possible and I wouldn’t care about the consequences. I mean, when I was younger, cutting didn’t use to hurt. My skin was like butter and the cuts were painless. It felt good. I’ve grown out of that a bit. Sometimes it’s still like that, but most of the time I have a hard time being to risky with my cutting. I think it’s because I’ve learned to either love or respect myself a little. Or maybe just that the scar tissue hurts.
*Days and days - Teagan and Sara
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Summer
15 June, 2010
I want to be more enthusiastic and happy-like, but I just can’t, unless I get stuck in one of those rare moments. I’m really depressed and physically I feel sick. I ran out of Zoloft and I keep getting brain shivers. I have a headache. I have to go to bed early so that I can go to my doctor appt. I need to fold my clothes and pack so that I can be ready to leave tomorrow. Some friends and I are going to the Wisconsin Dells for a couple days.
I really just want to sleep right now. I’m getting sad. I wanted to write a song or a poem, but there’s nothing to write about and I don’t feel up to it anymore. I have to stay up and babysit Amir* though, cos my mom’s decided to go out tonight -something that only happens once every six months or so, not even. I don’t really care. I really don’t even feel like writing this right now, but I don’t want to sit with myself in the silence because it’s too painful.
I’ve been thinking since I talked to Horowitz* the other day that maybe going the hospital is an option. I don’t want to, but maybe that’s what I need. My family would be so disappointed in me. I’d be embarrassed. My family, my grandparents probably all think I’m better. I’m not. These past few weeks have been almost unbearable. I spent four hours straight cleaning my room yesterday. I thought I’d feel better and I do, but now it’s empty and bare. I kind of rather the mess everywhere, because at least then it wasn’t lonely.
I’m lonely. I’ve isolated myself emotionally from everyone. Everyone. There’s no one that I’ve really talked to open and honestly lately about how I feel. I tell lies about myself. I figure that most of the time when people ask how you are, they don’t really care or they don’t really want to know the truth. I think we all know this deep down inside. That’s why we have phrases like, “I‘m fine/good/okay.” I mean, have you ever had someone ask you why when you responded with an “I'm good”? -That never happens. If you’re okay, there’s no need for further question, but if you aren’t okay they have to do a full investigation, complete with crime scene tape. Your whole conversation freezes right there and you hardly ever end up getting to the heart and soul of your original conversation destination, if you will. And all of this to say…..well hell I don’t know what the point is. I never do.
Oh yeah, the point is, I might have to check myself into the hospital because I haven’t been telling the truth about how I’ve been, and truthfully, I’ve been depressed and mildly suicidal.
I question, however, if I’d be going solely for safety’s sake or because my heart really isn’t set in going to PEOPLE. I’d be excused. I can’t deny that. But if I go to the hospital I’d end up having to tell a hand full of people, and even if the words didn’t come from my mouth, they’d come from someone’s. Handling all their reactions would be enough to take a second trip to the bin. Then I’d have to deal with just being in that environment again. A third time. As if I don’t feel like a loser enough already. A third trip to the psych ward. I should have come out the womb with a fucking sign saying FAIL on it.
I feel like shit. Complete and utter shit. It hasn’t even been summer for a week yet. With all the pressure and stress I had, I thought I’d be happy and optimistic and shit, but I’m not. I’m as bland as a beige carpet. This sucks. There’ve been times before where I was so fed up and angry that I would have done anything to get rid of this…thing and live my life normally, or I was so depressed and exhausted that I was just sad, I cried and wanted to end it all. Well now I’m trying to pick one of those extremes and I just can’t. I can’t . I’m not completely despondent because I’m still complaining. I just feel stuck. I’m as stuck as that Playboy Cm found lodged in his clothes chute the other day. Yup, I’m stuck like that. I don’t really care what happens at this point, I mean, obviously I do, otherwise I’d be sitting in the bin right now, but like if I end up there, I end up there. If I die, I die. If I’m walking down the street and some junkies gang rape me, well then I guess I’ll be gang raped. If I’m stuck like this, I’m stuck like this. I halfway think I deserve all those things anyway, so whatever. Honestly though, I’d rather go to the ward, get raped, get HIV/AIDS, have a baby and die alone in a snow storm than stay like this forever. I’m obviously really fucked up, and that’s not even the half of it.
I’m afraid I might be a borderline. Something tells me that I might be. I’m super clingy, more than I’d like to be, and I think my ultimate fear, if that’s possible, is abandonment. I’m really embarrassed at how needy I am at my points of desperation. I have trust issues. I loathe myself. I can live in harmony with the fact I have to live with the person I am for the rest of my life. At one point I even liked myself and accepted some of my flaws, so that’s not a huge problem. I feel that I will never come to like or love myself fully, though. I just don’t like the person that I am. I think I’m ugly and out of everything, I think I’m stupid. I feel like the lowest piece of shit that ever breathed on this earth. I’m broken. My core isn’t whole, and what’s more, my core is lost.
*Horowitz is the therapist I'd been seeing from my sophmore year to my January of my senior year.
*Amir is my little brother. Age 8.
I want to be more enthusiastic and happy-like, but I just can’t, unless I get stuck in one of those rare moments. I’m really depressed and physically I feel sick. I ran out of Zoloft and I keep getting brain shivers. I have a headache. I have to go to bed early so that I can go to my doctor appt. I need to fold my clothes and pack so that I can be ready to leave tomorrow. Some friends and I are going to the Wisconsin Dells for a couple days.
I really just want to sleep right now. I’m getting sad. I wanted to write a song or a poem, but there’s nothing to write about and I don’t feel up to it anymore. I have to stay up and babysit Amir* though, cos my mom’s decided to go out tonight -something that only happens once every six months or so, not even. I don’t really care. I really don’t even feel like writing this right now, but I don’t want to sit with myself in the silence because it’s too painful.
I’ve been thinking since I talked to Horowitz* the other day that maybe going the hospital is an option. I don’t want to, but maybe that’s what I need. My family would be so disappointed in me. I’d be embarrassed. My family, my grandparents probably all think I’m better. I’m not. These past few weeks have been almost unbearable. I spent four hours straight cleaning my room yesterday. I thought I’d feel better and I do, but now it’s empty and bare. I kind of rather the mess everywhere, because at least then it wasn’t lonely.
I’m lonely. I’ve isolated myself emotionally from everyone. Everyone. There’s no one that I’ve really talked to open and honestly lately about how I feel. I tell lies about myself. I figure that most of the time when people ask how you are, they don’t really care or they don’t really want to know the truth. I think we all know this deep down inside. That’s why we have phrases like, “I‘m fine/good/okay.” I mean, have you ever had someone ask you why when you responded with an “I'm good”? -That never happens. If you’re okay, there’s no need for further question, but if you aren’t okay they have to do a full investigation, complete with crime scene tape. Your whole conversation freezes right there and you hardly ever end up getting to the heart and soul of your original conversation destination, if you will. And all of this to say…..well hell I don’t know what the point is. I never do.
Oh yeah, the point is, I might have to check myself into the hospital because I haven’t been telling the truth about how I’ve been, and truthfully, I’ve been depressed and mildly suicidal.
I question, however, if I’d be going solely for safety’s sake or because my heart really isn’t set in going to PEOPLE. I’d be excused. I can’t deny that. But if I go to the hospital I’d end up having to tell a hand full of people, and even if the words didn’t come from my mouth, they’d come from someone’s. Handling all their reactions would be enough to take a second trip to the bin. Then I’d have to deal with just being in that environment again. A third time. As if I don’t feel like a loser enough already. A third trip to the psych ward. I should have come out the womb with a fucking sign saying FAIL on it.
I feel like shit. Complete and utter shit. It hasn’t even been summer for a week yet. With all the pressure and stress I had, I thought I’d be happy and optimistic and shit, but I’m not. I’m as bland as a beige carpet. This sucks. There’ve been times before where I was so fed up and angry that I would have done anything to get rid of this…thing and live my life normally, or I was so depressed and exhausted that I was just sad, I cried and wanted to end it all. Well now I’m trying to pick one of those extremes and I just can’t. I can’t . I’m not completely despondent because I’m still complaining. I just feel stuck. I’m as stuck as that Playboy Cm found lodged in his clothes chute the other day. Yup, I’m stuck like that. I don’t really care what happens at this point, I mean, obviously I do, otherwise I’d be sitting in the bin right now, but like if I end up there, I end up there. If I die, I die. If I’m walking down the street and some junkies gang rape me, well then I guess I’ll be gang raped. If I’m stuck like this, I’m stuck like this. I halfway think I deserve all those things anyway, so whatever. Honestly though, I’d rather go to the ward, get raped, get HIV/AIDS, have a baby and die alone in a snow storm than stay like this forever. I’m obviously really fucked up, and that’s not even the half of it.
I’m afraid I might be a borderline. Something tells me that I might be. I’m super clingy, more than I’d like to be, and I think my ultimate fear, if that’s possible, is abandonment. I’m really embarrassed at how needy I am at my points of desperation. I have trust issues. I loathe myself. I can live in harmony with the fact I have to live with the person I am for the rest of my life. At one point I even liked myself and accepted some of my flaws, so that’s not a huge problem. I feel that I will never come to like or love myself fully, though. I just don’t like the person that I am. I think I’m ugly and out of everything, I think I’m stupid. I feel like the lowest piece of shit that ever breathed on this earth. I’m broken. My core isn’t whole, and what’s more, my core is lost.
*Horowitz is the therapist I'd been seeing from my sophmore year to my January of my senior year.
*Amir is my little brother. Age 8.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Spring
22 March, 10
I’ve completely wasted the past 72 hours. I feel icky. There really isn’t another way to describe my emotions right now. It’s all my fault. I set out to accomplish things this weekend and I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. Not even a good night’s sleep. I haven’t been taking my pills or watching what I eat. I’ve only weighed myself twice. My body is in horrible shape. I want to cry because I know it’s all my fault and it’s going to be a long week getting back to the small start I had.
I’d kill for a cigarette right now. It seems to make everything better for five or ten minutes, and that’s all the time I need to fall asleep. It’s already 12:30am and I really don’t know how I’m going to get myself to sleep. But then I don’t want go to bed because I fear I’ll just wake up at five again, like last night. I don’t like those kinds of repeats.
I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to live tomorrow. It’d be great if we could just skip to Tuesday. (Wow, that sentence put a new taste in my mouth. I hate Tuesdays.) I don’t want to have to go tomorrow and see the look on everyone’s face when they find that I’ve failed to follow through on my word. I told Ms. Bailey I’d have that damn story in by Monday. Ha, so fucking much for that. I don’t remember promising anyone else of anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if come tomorrow, I realize that Ms. Bailey isn’t the only one I let down. I remember making a list of homework to do on Friday afternoon. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m upset because I’ve let myself down and not someone else. *Audience gasps in awe*
I keep telling myself that I’ll be fine with lying in bed all day tomorrow while the sun rises and sets beside my window. I keep telling myself that if I do decide to go, I won’t put any effort into pleasing anyone. I’ll do enough to get through the day, because
1. pretending not to care is sometimes my way of dealing with stress
2. that’s the only way I can imagine myself getting through
3. I’ve already forgotten what three was
We’ll see how it goes. I’m sure there was more I wanted to say, but I’m too tired and irritated and icky to do anything more but to go lay down.
I’ve completely wasted the past 72 hours. I feel icky. There really isn’t another way to describe my emotions right now. It’s all my fault. I set out to accomplish things this weekend and I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. Not even a good night’s sleep. I haven’t been taking my pills or watching what I eat. I’ve only weighed myself twice. My body is in horrible shape. I want to cry because I know it’s all my fault and it’s going to be a long week getting back to the small start I had.
I’d kill for a cigarette right now. It seems to make everything better for five or ten minutes, and that’s all the time I need to fall asleep. It’s already 12:30am and I really don’t know how I’m going to get myself to sleep. But then I don’t want go to bed because I fear I’ll just wake up at five again, like last night. I don’t like those kinds of repeats.
I really don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to live tomorrow. It’d be great if we could just skip to Tuesday. (Wow, that sentence put a new taste in my mouth. I hate Tuesdays.) I don’t want to have to go tomorrow and see the look on everyone’s face when they find that I’ve failed to follow through on my word. I told Ms. Bailey I’d have that damn story in by Monday. Ha, so fucking much for that. I don’t remember promising anyone else of anything, but I wouldn’t be surprised if come tomorrow, I realize that Ms. Bailey isn’t the only one I let down. I remember making a list of homework to do on Friday afternoon. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m upset because I’ve let myself down and not someone else. *Audience gasps in awe*
I keep telling myself that I’ll be fine with lying in bed all day tomorrow while the sun rises and sets beside my window. I keep telling myself that if I do decide to go, I won’t put any effort into pleasing anyone. I’ll do enough to get through the day, because
1. pretending not to care is sometimes my way of dealing with stress
2. that’s the only way I can imagine myself getting through
3. I’ve already forgotten what three was
We’ll see how it goes. I’m sure there was more I wanted to say, but I’m too tired and irritated and icky to do anything more but to go lay down.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Winter
29 December, 09
I had a panic attack last night. I don’t know why. A million thoughts flooded into my mind suddenly and then I couldn’t breathe. It lasted for about an hour. I caught my breath in half that. My grandma was on the phone talking about all this shit that’s been stressing her out. It really had nothing to do with me, so I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I kept hearing her talk and it just got worse. Ugh. I just heard a ton of stuff I didn’t need to hear.
I ended up texting Qm. She was so sweet about all of it and helpful. She talked to me for like two hours, even though she was at a party. Probably at the apartment. She made me promise that I wouldn’t “do what (I) usually do.” I kept it, even though it was beyond tempting to break. I just stayed on my laptop and kept texting her. I didn’t feel wanted or loved. I don’t, still, but last night Qm made me feel better. That counts for something. I told her I wanted to go to sleep, but that I couldn’t. That I needed sleeping pills. This is what she said: “no more pills baby. You need your life back.” It’s so true. I need my life…back. I’m hesitant on the back part. I don’t believe I’ve had a worthy life to begin with. Or at least not one I want back.
I feel like crying, but I don’t want to. It’s childish. But maybe not. That wouldn’t be the only thing behind my tears. I’m only upset because my break has been…uneventful and depressing. I finally had something to look forward to. Now I don’t. It makes me sad. Makes me want to cry. Now I have nothing. I have a couch to lay on and a DVR to watch. I don’t have anything to do. I don’t want today to be another day that I spend in my pajamas. I want a reason to get up and get dressed and see people and do things. All of my friends seem to have someone to hang out with or somewhere to be, something to do. I feel like I’m gonna cry. I could call Horowitz. I could, but I don’t want to bother him. I don‘t want to bother anyone. I feel like a burden. I’m at my grandparents and I feel like a burden to everyone. I’m going to cry.
I had a panic attack last night. I don’t know why. A million thoughts flooded into my mind suddenly and then I couldn’t breathe. It lasted for about an hour. I caught my breath in half that. My grandma was on the phone talking about all this shit that’s been stressing her out. It really had nothing to do with me, so I don’t know why it bothered me so much. I kept hearing her talk and it just got worse. Ugh. I just heard a ton of stuff I didn’t need to hear.
I ended up texting Qm. She was so sweet about all of it and helpful. She talked to me for like two hours, even though she was at a party. Probably at the apartment. She made me promise that I wouldn’t “do what (I) usually do.” I kept it, even though it was beyond tempting to break. I just stayed on my laptop and kept texting her. I didn’t feel wanted or loved. I don’t, still, but last night Qm made me feel better. That counts for something. I told her I wanted to go to sleep, but that I couldn’t. That I needed sleeping pills. This is what she said: “no more pills baby. You need your life back.” It’s so true. I need my life…back. I’m hesitant on the back part. I don’t believe I’ve had a worthy life to begin with. Or at least not one I want back.
I feel like crying, but I don’t want to. It’s childish. But maybe not. That wouldn’t be the only thing behind my tears. I’m only upset because my break has been…uneventful and depressing. I finally had something to look forward to. Now I don’t. It makes me sad. Makes me want to cry. Now I have nothing. I have a couch to lay on and a DVR to watch. I don’t have anything to do. I don’t want today to be another day that I spend in my pajamas. I want a reason to get up and get dressed and see people and do things. All of my friends seem to have someone to hang out with or somewhere to be, something to do. I feel like I’m gonna cry. I could call Horowitz. I could, but I don’t want to bother him. I don‘t want to bother anyone. I feel like a burden. I’m at my grandparents and I feel like a burden to everyone. I’m going to cry.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Monster Inside Me
I wake up in the morning and I feel nothing. My body, my mind is numb and as I look around me, I begin to suffocate slowly. There is nothing on earth for me. I hear the voices of everyone I love repeating the same words, repeating expectations, and force feeding me wisdom. I pull hard to keep my ears closed, because I just feel like a waste of God’s energy, but the voices are too persistent to ignore. I can sense the tears crawling forward when I think about it in that way.
Every night the same thoughts flutter like fireflies in my head. They say that I’m worthless. They say never to show my fucking face again. They say to follow through with the darkest thoughts I‘ve ever had. And I just sit and look at myself feeling sorry about the scars and how my body has to pay for my bad behaviors. I’m ashamed and I wonder how anyone could think of me in a good light. I’ve shamed God and I’ve shamed anyone who has ever loved me. I’ve shamed myself.
I’m in a scary place. I’m terrified to be alone with myself, and I don’t believe I’m mistaken. Terror is the correct word. I’ve been waiting and hoping every night that these thoughts just go away because they’ve been lingering for quite some time. I end up putting myself to sleep before I’m tired, only to quiet the voices. I’d like to get this off my chest and not be so lost and alone in this because I suddenly feel awfully alone. Suddenly I have no one at all to turn to.
This one is bad, the worst all year. Maybe I should catch it while I still can. These thought’s begin as a mere bud and then they sprout, and I brush them aside, hoping they’ll dissipate. Until I realize they’ve blossomed and I become so overcome with fear that it paralyzes me. Seven years and every year I go through this, but somehow it never grows old. It seems the older I get, the more grueling the circumstances. I’d reach out, except each time I think about it, I end up talking myself out of it. I’m an adult, I need to figure things out on my own, especially after all this time. I should have it together; another reason why I’d rather just swallow my pills right now.
Every night the same thoughts flutter like fireflies in my head. They say that I’m worthless. They say never to show my fucking face again. They say to follow through with the darkest thoughts I‘ve ever had. And I just sit and look at myself feeling sorry about the scars and how my body has to pay for my bad behaviors. I’m ashamed and I wonder how anyone could think of me in a good light. I’ve shamed God and I’ve shamed anyone who has ever loved me. I’ve shamed myself.
I’m in a scary place. I’m terrified to be alone with myself, and I don’t believe I’m mistaken. Terror is the correct word. I’ve been waiting and hoping every night that these thoughts just go away because they’ve been lingering for quite some time. I end up putting myself to sleep before I’m tired, only to quiet the voices. I’d like to get this off my chest and not be so lost and alone in this because I suddenly feel awfully alone. Suddenly I have no one at all to turn to.
This one is bad, the worst all year. Maybe I should catch it while I still can. These thought’s begin as a mere bud and then they sprout, and I brush them aside, hoping they’ll dissipate. Until I realize they’ve blossomed and I become so overcome with fear that it paralyzes me. Seven years and every year I go through this, but somehow it never grows old. It seems the older I get, the more grueling the circumstances. I’d reach out, except each time I think about it, I end up talking myself out of it. I’m an adult, I need to figure things out on my own, especially after all this time. I should have it together; another reason why I’d rather just swallow my pills right now.
Introductions...
We all hate them, but they must be done. There's no avoiding. There's no procrastinating. It's just down and dirty. So, I'll start by talking about me. Why? I'm not quite sure. Maybe because it's simple human nature for one to be fascinated with themselves and to expect others will be just as intrigued? It's possible.
The Basics
Name: Imani
Nickname (Because those are so important): Mani
Age: 18 (Legal, as I like to say)
Sex: F
Location: Stuck in Wisconsin
The Gritty Details
For the past eight or nine years I've suffered from a disorder. It's called major depression, or clinical depression, or a mood disorder, or major clinical depression with recurrent episodes. Whichever way you choose to skew the wording, I suffer from depression. But that's not it. Along with the depression are it's friends generalized anxiety (GAD), social anxiety, and self harm (SH). Through the years I've accumulated more scars than I can count, I've gone through more psychiatrists and therapists than I'd like to count, I've become well acquainted with hospitals, and I've felt more negative emotions in my adolescent life than some will before they die. It hasn't been a fun time, especially when you spend most of your time in an episode, waiting on an episode to reoccur, or getting over an episode.
This year is my last year in school, if we don't count college. This year has also been on of the worst, and that says a hell of a lot. Depression has been my sidekick since fourth, maybe fifth grade. We've grown up together. We've tried to destory each other, but despite all my might, there is no substanial relief. I was sad before I ever knew what happiness was, so to me, depression has taken over my entire life. Gradually, but surely.
So what's the purpose of the blog?
This year, after all that I've been through, I decided that I'd like to start a blog. Since I could write, I've been writing, journaling, and practicing the craft of poetry until it became second nature. Most of my writing, I've salvaged for the very moment I'd take the time to reach out to other people. Well this blog is me reaching out. This blog is me wanting other kids, other adults, other sufferers to know that they are not alone and pleading with them not to fight their fight in the darkness of isolation. And if I do nothing else with my life, I want to stand up and out so that I can help people fight.
In this blog I will include poetry. I will post journals from different time periods of my life so far, hopefully I'll manage to do it in some order. I will post pictures of my artwork. I will share my day with you. I will put myself out there so that light will be shed in as many corners as this blog can reach because I'd like for you to fight with me.
And there you have it. My story. An intro to my wry humor and sarcasm. Happy blogging.
xo
Imani
The Basics
Name: Imani
Nickname (Because those are so important): Mani
Age: 18 (Legal, as I like to say)
Sex: F
Location: Stuck in Wisconsin
The Gritty Details
For the past eight or nine years I've suffered from a disorder. It's called major depression, or clinical depression, or a mood disorder, or major clinical depression with recurrent episodes. Whichever way you choose to skew the wording, I suffer from depression. But that's not it. Along with the depression are it's friends generalized anxiety (GAD), social anxiety, and self harm (SH). Through the years I've accumulated more scars than I can count, I've gone through more psychiatrists and therapists than I'd like to count, I've become well acquainted with hospitals, and I've felt more negative emotions in my adolescent life than some will before they die. It hasn't been a fun time, especially when you spend most of your time in an episode, waiting on an episode to reoccur, or getting over an episode.
This year is my last year in school, if we don't count college. This year has also been on of the worst, and that says a hell of a lot. Depression has been my sidekick since fourth, maybe fifth grade. We've grown up together. We've tried to destory each other, but despite all my might, there is no substanial relief. I was sad before I ever knew what happiness was, so to me, depression has taken over my entire life. Gradually, but surely.
So what's the purpose of the blog?
This year, after all that I've been through, I decided that I'd like to start a blog. Since I could write, I've been writing, journaling, and practicing the craft of poetry until it became second nature. Most of my writing, I've salvaged for the very moment I'd take the time to reach out to other people. Well this blog is me reaching out. This blog is me wanting other kids, other adults, other sufferers to know that they are not alone and pleading with them not to fight their fight in the darkness of isolation. And if I do nothing else with my life, I want to stand up and out so that I can help people fight.
In this blog I will include poetry. I will post journals from different time periods of my life so far, hopefully I'll manage to do it in some order. I will post pictures of my artwork. I will share my day with you. I will put myself out there so that light will be shed in as many corners as this blog can reach because I'd like for you to fight with me.
And there you have it. My story. An intro to my wry humor and sarcasm. Happy blogging.
xo
Imani
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