Blue Jean Dreams

One of my friends has a hard time with today. Ten years ago, he lost his wife to untreated mental illness. Today, he told me how brave I am. How much he appreciates that I'm getting help. How I'm his hero. He reminded me of why I'm doing what I'm doing. Because depression doesn't just hurt me. It can hurt everyone around me. It hurts everyone who loves me. It isn't just about me. And if you're going through it, it isn't just about you. So for my friend, I'm going to talk about how goddamned hard it is to ask for help. Because "asking for help" sounds so easy. But it's not, and I'm not going to bullshit about that. It's hard. But god, it's important. You can't expect to fix everything yourself. You just can't. It's too much pressure, and you don't always have the right equipment. It's like trying to hang a picture with a bulldozer, or build a bridge with a shovel. It just don't

I had a thought last night that was so terrifying that I could only feel it for a few minutes before everything went numb. I was thinking really hard about my symptoms, and trying to determine when they really started. I think I decided it was 2008, the year I was last raped, and the year that my brain broke so badly that I don't remember most of that summer. It's largely an unfocused blur. There are bits here and there that I recognise, but can't identify in detail. That was almost six years ago. I was 23. Now for those of you who are around 30, like I am, stop a moment and think about who you were at 23. I bet you were a very different person, because...well, that's what your 20s are for. Generally that's when we start turning into the person we're going to be for the rest of our lives. When we become adults for real, instead of for legal. For me, it's when I think I broke. And if I've been broken since then, I have to wonder... Will

I know, I've been neglectful again. Like Silent Bob, I only speak when I feel it's truly important. I hope that this means that you take my words a little more seriously, when I do speak. Recently, I've fallen into the deepest, most crippling depression I've ever experienced. At least that I'm aware of. (There WAS that one summer that I don't remember. But who knows what I was like then?) I mean it's bad. When I say "crippling," I mean that it's hard to function in the most basic ways--Feeding myself, bathing myself, getting out of bed. You know. Socializing and working tax me more than I knew was possible. I've recently started suffering "crashes" after extended periods of being in a good mood. After the happy activity ends, I feel myself start to deflate. If the crash is bad enough, it results in me curled up somewhere in my underwear (How did that happen? I don't even remember getting undressed!) crying for l

Well, part of my story, anyway. Please head to  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lea-grover/i-was-raped-and-abandoned-in-the-snow_b_4103516.html and read it. And if you're so inclined, tweet about #Justice4Daisy. <3 p="">