To You

Dear friend,

“I am writing you this letter to explain what is going on before, during, and after I text you. I text many people throughout the day and for a variety of reasons. But the texts I send to you are often different.

My texts to you are usually sent in desperation when my depression is clouding my thoughts or in a panic when anxiety is taking control of my mind.

My texts to you are sent at all times of the day — especially late at night when my demons are at their worst for me or after I have spent a long day fighting my own mind and finally break from the pressure.

My texts to you are my way of crying out for help.

My texts to you are me screaming out my pain silently through my fingertips and onto my phone since I can’t scream it out loud.

My texts to you are my truth.

You don’t know this, but more often than not, I write a text and then delete it. Or I write a text and it just sits there for hours as a draft, and then I erase it. Sometimes doing this is enough to calm me down and give me some relief.

So when you do receive one of my more erratic texts, please know it is sent because I am hurting so badly that I just need to tell somebody about it. The act of hitting send is like purging the thoughts from my mind and for some reason, it usually helps.

But sometimes after I send you one text, I am still in the middle of a panic attack. Or I am still weeping uncontrollably. So I text you again and again — trying to find some peace.

After I text you and the dust has settled, I get embarrassed that I let down my wall and I unveiled the parts of me that aren’t polished and aren’t very pretty. So then I go to the other extreme and text apologies and positive words to make up for any negative.

And I feel guilty for leaning on you once again. Sometimes I look back and don’t even remember the words I sent you. Yet there they are in front of me — a visual reminder of the battle I just fought.

You see, I have “high-functioning” mental illness. To the outside world, I appear to be just fine. I can get up, go to work,  and laugh with my friends. Inside, however, I am struggling just to make it through each day without drowning. I get frustrated because I want to be the girl everybody else sees, not the girl I feel within me. I still have trouble accepting this is my life, even though I have dealt with varying degrees of mental illness since childhood. I should be used to it by now. But then again, one can and should never have to get used to something like this.

And part of the reason why I have lasted this long is due to your friendship, support and the texts I send to you.

When we first met, you were only introduced to the person I let everybody get to know. That person is very real, but incomplete. But for some reason I connected with you and felt safe to open up about my other side. I wonder if you regret getting to know that other side. She can be a handful — trust me, I live with her.

But that other side has also given me blessings I wouldn’t trade. Kindness, compassion and creativity. And friendships — true, meaningful friendships.

And because I consider you to be a true friend, I owe you a sincere apology.1 The world does not revolve around me, yet I know I have been very selfish. I want to be a good friend. I want to hear about your life — good and bad. I care about you, too. I am stuck in my head so much of the time that it consumes me. But friendship is a two-way street, and I have provided much more traffic on my side.

I feel like it isn’t fair that I text you when I’m struggling.

I worry it isn’t fair to ask anybody to be the recipient of the thoughts in my head.

I feel like it isn’t fair that I am not the friend you signed up for.

I worry it just isn’t fair…and I am sorry.

I am also very thankful. I know you have a very busy life. You have a stressful job, a family, friends and much more. The fact you still make time to listen and encourage me speaks to your character, loyalty and kindness. You’ve seen me at my best — fun, strong and successful. But you also accept me at my worst — sad, weak and broken. You never make me feel bad for reaching out for help or judge me for texts that invade your phone.

I’m sure there are many times when the texts come in and you must shake your head and think to yourself, Here we go again. Or you are so very busy with life that you don’t even have time to read them. But yet, you keep any annoyance or frustration to yourself and make to time to check in with me when you can.

And those words of encouragement and the knowledge you care have helped me more than you’ll even know. I used to fear my texts would push you too far and you would decide that being my friend isn’t worth it. But you once told me you weren’t going anywhere — and you haven’t. You haven’t given up on me.

And because of that, I know that I cannot give up on myself either.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

You know who

This can be found on


Stone Cold

What was my day like yesterday?

Mind shattering.
Heart breaking.
I mentally broke down.

I wanted it all to end. I wanted the light to go out. I was so done with the stress and the frustration. Does that make me weak? Maybe. Did I end it? No. But it took every inch of my strength not to. I reached out for help as I set myself into isolation. I wanted the waves of the ocean to wash me away, but my friend pulled me back.

I kept telling her that I can’t do this anymore. And that is still true a day later. Did I harm myself? No. But who knows where my mind will drift off to in a day, or week, or month?

I’ve set myself into isolation again typing this…

No one at work wonders about me. They don’t bother to wonder if I’m hurting inside as I sit quietly at the counter. My smile hides a truth about me. I don’t think I’ll tell them though. They’ll think it’s for attention. Which it isn’t, I don’t think. My mind tells me it’s not, but it lies to me all of the time. Who’s to say it won’t lie to me again?

I failed the class again. I failed myself, my friends, my family, but most importantly I failed my life. What the hell am I going to do now? I can’t redo it for the third time. That’s just pathetic. I don’t think I can put myself through that stress and energy again. It’s too much. I could barely handle two classes, why would one be any different?

God, I wish these meds would start working. I feel like they are only making me more insane. But again, no one knows that.

Just lock me up. I’m afraid of my potential. I think it’s the only way I can be saved from the world.


To the one who doesn’t listen.
To the one that doesn’t care.
To the one that doesn’t have time
And to all that don’t believe,

I carry the world on my heart. I carry it on my entire body. The weight is impossible to bare. But where are you? You’re covering your eyes, your ears and hiding the clocks.

I’m here. Stuck like glue. But you wipe me away with your burning hands. It hurts. You hurt me.
You hurt me when you only respond with three letters. When you don’t understand that I don’t want to hear about your rewards of love. When knowing you for so long is a bigger burden than letting you go. You don’t understand how much I avoid you because I can’t handle the torture.
But so deep inside, I love you entirely.

It’s Like Rain

So, I opened up to you. I shared my emotional drain. I shared my other person. But you still don’t understand. You still aren’t listening.

I’ll tell you. I’ll show you. Believe me, it’s not that hard to see the struggle I face every day. The struggle that so many of us face. We’re wearing masks, but they’re easy to remove.

I’m made out of glass. So fragile to the touch. Sensitive to loud noise, I could break instantly with a high pitch. I’m drowning in the water around me. It’s like rain constantly falling, and never having an umbrella to protect me. The thunder is so loud, and the lightening is so bright and so intense.

Does this make me special?

Far from it I’m afraid. More like the anti-special. Like the dirt underneath the rock, pretending not to exist, and also waiting and hoping that someday someone will pick up the rock and see me hiding in the shadow.

I just want to be noticed.

My story is important too. I don’t understand why I don’t make the news. Why am I not the story someone wants to write about? I’m sick too. Why am I not special? What will make me special? What will make me a life worth sharing? What will make me a rock?


I can’t keep track of the days anymore. They seem to all blur together. And with every breath that I take, another day passes.

I have been horrible lately. I’ve discovered a whole new side to the illness that corrupts my brain.  Anxiety is a bitch. Such a phrase, right? You’ve said it in your life at least once. Don’t lie to me, I see right through you. But, it is a reality for me and so many others. It is a god damn bitch. It literally controls everything I do, how I move, how I talk, everything. And in the darkest parts, that demon named depression is still lurking. I always ask what it wants, but it never answers. I think he’s made a home.

It’s funny though, I talk about my issues a lot. I talk about them to quite a bit of people in my life. But, the truth is, I barely tell you what is going on. I will cry for you, and tell you I’m upset, but really inside, I’m going to explode like dynamite. You would’ve never guessed that would you? No. No one ever does. No one ever really takes the time to get to the root. They got tired of digging because I’m not believable. I’m not your typical sick person. Mentally I am. Physically, not really. I mean, behind closed doors, I’m a ghost. I feel like no one wants to listen. although you’re listening. I get that I talk about it a lot, but maybe there’s a secret buried beneath the conversation. Did you ever care to make more sense of what I’m saying? I’m not faking it. I swear on this ridiculous life that I’m trying to live. Oh, you’ve had anxiety before? You’ve felt nervous about something? Sad about something? Has it destroyed every inch of your body for 5 minutes and magically dissolves until it boils again? You’ve been sad? I’ve been dead and alive, somehow at the same time. No, it doesn’t make any sense. Call me crazy. Well, you’d be telling some sort of truth if you did.

Have you ever walked down the street and feared taking that one step that forces you to fall into the crack in the depths of the cement? I have. Many others have. Fearing that someone you love will be hurt or die before you. It’s real. Fear is real. Anxiety is real. My life is real. It’s time for you to understand why I am like I am. I’m real fucked up, on the inside. And I get it that a lot of you reading this have been diagnosed with an illness, but this is my story.

I’m a master hider. I’m the only one who knows the real me, because she’s hidden. She’s not allowed out in public. She’s frightening and unreliable. You can’t understand her. She is disastrous. It’s fine if you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t either, but she forces me to. She doesn’t let me breathe.

What does breathing even mean? Anxiety doesn’t understand. Anxiety doesn’t need to. Anxiety doesn’t care. Anxiety does what anxiety wants to do. Anxiety owns the world.
Why isn’t this classified as real? Why doesn’t it exist to you? How can I fake this? Do you need to see more proof? Let me snap my fingers. Nothing. Real enough for you? Dad, do you understand now? Are you done listening to yourself and ready to hear me?

I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m so sick of hiding myself because the world doesn’t understand how to deal with a mentally ill person. It’s not hard. Just fucking look. We’re right under your noses.

We’re waiting.