Even though I’ve never had difficulty meeting men, when I look back over my dating roster, I’m not exactly sad that none of them stuck around.
The failure to recognize distinct symptoms, points to just how poorly OCD is understood.
It saddens me that I must have a prescreening process when selecting white friends, but my mental health is more important than someone else’s comfort.
“Know what, mama? It’s a good thing I’m good at falling.”
Nothing made me feel as bad as when I ghosted my therapist.
Real self-care is respecting yourself instead of, quite literally, spoiling yourself.
Depression is a disease of inaction, of paralysis. At least, that’s how it manifests for me.
So much of my childhood was underscored by the idea of the proverbial wagon — off the wagon, and on it again and off it and on it.
Most of the time we’re all weird together, feeling like we’re weird alone.
Stop being such a people-pleaser! I know you want to be accepted and liked by others but you don’t have to throw yourself under a bus for adulation.
The simplicity of the concept shook me to the core.
Instead of food feeling either like a complete indulgence or a total clinical buzzkill (as it had when I’d gone to a nutritionist), it felt like a holistic practice.
There’s more to self-care than manicures and cheesecake –– although those are always highly welcomed, too!
This was not how today was supposed to unfold.
I excelled at hiding my mental illness and drug addiction. I had many friends. I was outgoing. I was an actress, an equestrian, a cheerleader, a volleyball player, a straight-A student. Nothing could possibly be wrong.
I feel like I have been gaslighted, like I am in the wrong for not being more morally compromising.