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I am diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which basically means I have a mood disorder (in my case, major depression) and I suffer symptoms of psychosis like delusions and paranoia. In May of 2016, I suffered my first psychotic break with reality. My psychotic breaks feel like dreaming while I'm awake. Elaborate plotlines and scenarios overtake my conscious and I react to the real world as if these dreams were real. It's not hallucinating per say, because I don't literally see these images in front of me, but I see them quite vividly in my mind. In January of this year, I did something very foolish. I quit taking my medication. I was just so sick of pills, and disgusted by the weight gain my anti-psychotics had caused. I'd gone from 115 lbs to 150 lbs, and I know that 150 lbs is by no means fat for my height but I felt so uncomfortable. I wanted my body back. Depression seemed like a manageable monster. I was better, having graduated college and found a fu...
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NaNoWriMo 2020: Passing 10,000

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 Right outta the gate, I felt like I was doing well. This week did not go all that well. 😂 I managed an average of just 1,000 words a day for three days. On Thursday, I only managed 356 words. I have all the excuses. Work's been extremely draining. I start super early and I grind for nine hours. After that, it's so hard to find the motivation to write. But I promised myself that Friday, my day off, would be catch-up day and guess what? I managed 3,637 words today! WHOOOO HOOOO! And I *officially* have the 10k words badge.  During the worst part of the lockdown, I wasn't able to go to coffee shops and do my regular coffee-shop writing sessions. I wrote the majority of HANG ON at Starbucks locations. It's good to see stuff opening back up and with things opening up, I have the ability to go out and write again! For me, being away from home in a new location is super motivating. Yesterday started out as a pretty tough day. Two tough calls before noon. One guy, understanda...
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My First Dark Night of the Soul

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On January 1 st , 2012, I wrote this in my journal: “I almost want to lash out, to name someone who has made me feel hopeless or inadequate and somehow manage to spit venom in their face with my final breath. But there’s no use. I know there is no one to hurt, no one to blame more than myself.” Then I locked myself in the bathroom, and raked a razor across my wrist. But the blade was blunt. I failed to even seriously injure myself. I threw the razor in the bathtub, collapsed on my bed, and cried for the rest of the afternoon. The first psychologist I tried to see kept asking, “Well , what happened? What happened to make you feel this way? Was it your sister getting engaged? Did a boyfriend break up with you? Do you have an eating disorder? What happened? ” I don’t know. I can come up with a thousand reasons and none at all. At the time, it felt like I had always been falling. All my memories were filtered through a glass of despair. It’s been eight years, but...
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