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Writer's pictureAlex H

i'm ready.

I'm not a happy person by any stretch of the imagination. I don't think I've ever had anyone describe me as happy or positive. Easy to talk to, warm, kind - absolutely. But never happy. I paint happiness on my face and I can act out a happy performance when I need to but that has never been the real me.

I have complex post-traumatic stress disorder, major depressive disorder, and there's a good chance I also have general anxiety disorder, but it's completely possible those symptoms are just stemming from my cptsd so I might never know for sure but basically, I'm a basket case.


I started thinking about suicide when was 8. I started writing about it when I was 10. I started cutting myself when I was 12, and I first attempted to end my life at 13. These aren't really sad things to me anymore, just facts. They are markers on the road map of my life, and how I've learned to organize what memories I have of my formative years.


I've wanted to help people for a long time. When I was younger I wanted to be a singer, mostly because I wanted to be rich because money meant freedom, but also because I wanted to make people happy. When I got older, I wanted to be a stay at home mom and put all my energy into being what I didn't have in a parent. Once I was actually a mom, I wanted to help other parents and looked into being a doula to support birthing parents - but I don't drive and that pumped the brakes on that idea pretty quickly. I always wanted to make my love of art and creating  things into a full-time gig but I've consistently struggled with putting that into practice. Reflecting on all of this made me realize one unifying theme: I want to help people. Through connection, through community, through support, and through creating. 

Something in me whispered that I needed to tell my story. I never knew how to, and to be honest I didn't even really know what my story was, or if it was worth sharing. Now, I think it's a story of healing, recovery, and hope. It's a story of imperfection and honestly. It's a story I'm still writing, even when it's painful or difficult. Even when I want to metaphorically put down my pen and walk away from it completely. My hope is that my words will bring comfort and connection to anyone that may need them. 


I've been struggling with mental illness for pretty much my whole life, but when I was 20 and moved away from my abusive family the dam started to break and it got harder and harder to cope as things started bubbling to the surface. I didn't even realize I was struggling with mental health problems until my sister pointed out that I had some anxiety problems. Understatement of the millennium, but at the time that's what seemed to be my biggest issue.


Since then, I've discovered a lot more about myself and the past I can't remember and I've uncovered so many more deep-rooted problems that are and heavy and terrifying. I'm still in what i consider to be early stages of healing. As such, I've struggled with sharing because there's so much stigma and shame and i had myself convinced that i had to wait until i was better, cured, healed, whole. But that's not reality, and i don't think that's what's needed. I want to share this story as it's written instead of waiting until it's polished and pretty and presentable.


I am finally ready. As ready as I'll ever be, at least.  I'm ready to be sad out loud, to share my story as I write it, and  I hope you'll walk this journey with me.

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