Writing down despair, Musings from Mental Illnesses. March 7th, 2017.

Mental Illnesses Musings from March 7th, 2017

My current voice, 11.15.2018 are bolded in dark blue-grey while the dairy excerpts 2017 are in black.


I felt like I was going to cry in class.

I was working on a Masters in Positive Organizational Psychology and Evaluation at Claremont Graduate University in 2017. 

I feel like this a lot.


Got a nice boost from hearing back about grades.


I interviewed someone for my lab.

I love interviewing people unpacking characteristics and strengths unique to that person. There’s a lot to discover. Connecting strengths to position responsibilities. It’s a lot of fun planning, career mapping it’s always been a meditative experience for me.

The planning never stops.


Nothing lasted.

This didn’t last

I felt sad around the edges and a little heavier sheth settles in around my heart. Crushing and oppressing signs of life.

Final thoughts about the lab meeting.

Am I happy or is this nothingness disguised as exhaustion?

My body melts into the stress of it all, of all that I have to have.

All that I have to heal.

I don’t have to be at 100 percent. I can be healthy and barely functional.

Functioning, living is enough. 

Sometimes just being, working towards life. That enough. I wouldn’t be mocked for unraveled expectations incompatible with my reality.

The reality of naps, mid thoughts, standing, walking.

From here to the other side of the room is at least a 10-second nap and a 5-second audible exhale.

Frozen for a time.

There’s nothing there. That’s not my fault. Mental illness attacks every part of me that wants to live.

So getting up, starting.

It’s not my choice, to feel the physical pain and the festering of traumas.

There’s nothing here.

It’s not my fault. My body can’t do that. Move. You prick.

I am applying for disability because my mental illnesses prevented me from supporting myself in graduate school and in life.

It doesn’t help that I’m young and unable to produce income. My worth is not determined by my income. By my ability to work. There are other metrics of merit. Other ways to share something of value despite disability. 

My life is worthy of a place on this planet. 

There is more pain, complaining and repetition about distress. Distress you know, part of it.

The part you know is on repeat. I don’t have the strength to stop it.

To redirect what move towards you, understanding the ribbons wrapped around my neck.

Fixing a problem doesn’t mean the rest of life will pause in intensity. Only this section will be inhabitable.

Compartmentalize to safety.

One day.

One step.

My life isn’t enough for you, but that doesn’t fucking matter in the grand scheme of things does it?

Is my life worth the suffering? 

How am I docile and ‘lazy’?


Content & Art by me


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