Begining
I don’t know what brings this on; Perhaps the seemingly eternal nothingness of dark skies and late hours.
I’ve slept for days; Almost a week.
I’m still exhausted.

I feel as though I live longer during the night. The night gives me this energy that is zapped away by the sun. I just want to run but I’m chained to a body that won’t let me.

Sitting here…typing sporadically, while cigarette smoke swirls around the room…I hate it.
I’m supposed to be sleeping, getting rest before work tomorrow.

I can’t tell what kind of crazy my mind is in the grasp of… Depression-crazy, Anxiety-crazy…I have quite a few versions. The nine pill bottles sitting on the nightstand next to me can attest to that.

The crazy that I have is tied to so many things…things I can’t keep hidden.
I advocate for “crazy” people (not supposed to use that term)

But fuck it. I’m so sick and tired of telling people to stop judging and labeling persons who struggle with mental illness while censoring my own story. Trying to figure outwhat can I take out of context to fit in to their context?

I talk about how I have been labeled: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorderd; Obsessive Compulsive; Depressed; Anxious; Insomniac; Dyslexic; Substance Abuser.

The people who listen to me don’t want to hear about how I was raped. How I can’t have a relationship with a man…They don’t want to hear how I have to pick my skin til it bleeds to be able to fall asleep. How I have to check, and recheck, and triple check everything from what I washed when I showered, to the angles of things in my room so I can sleep.

They don’t want to hear how the disks in my back are disintegrating…and the pain. The pain that I’ve been living with for the past ten months. I can’t talk about how I told my doctor that either she removed my leg or I would remove it in her office.


Fuck the judgments.
Fuck the criticism.


Un-censored; Uncut; full out crazy truth

This is my story.