My Little Loss

Three weeks ago I had a funny feeling in the pit of my tummy; a tiny inkling that something was different.

So I took a test, on my lunch break at work. And found out I was pregnant.

Within 5 hours of receiving the news, I began to bleed. It started off softly, a pinky colour. I was told to not worry too much; it was probably just implantation bleeding.

But once I woke up- it was heavier. And once I got to work, it got heavier.

By the time I got to hospital, it was heavier still. I had started passing a significant amount of tissue. It was starting to look like my new beginning had began to end, within hours of even knowing. To say I was heartbroken wouldn’t even begin to explain the hurt and the grief. It felt like I had been ripped apart and left open; raw.

I am writing this because, much like the topic of mental illness and suicide, the topic of miscarriage seems to cause people to recoil. It breaks my heart that people sit in silence through these things; all alone. It shouldn’t be like that; it shouldn’t be like this.

I know I am not isolated in my experience, but this grief for a life that was ripped away so rapidly is nothing like I have ever experienced. Even in my deepest depression, I had never felt so much so deeply. Exposed.

It was the future I had imagined for us, the life I had carved out as I imagined a little babe in my arms.

I’m not okay. But I know I will be.

Self-hate in the soul

It breaks my heart to think of the hate I have held for myself for so long.

The pain I carried was so deep within me that I didn’t even know that it was there until I was fully grown. The seed that was sown when I was so small was slowly watered over time, bit by bit and had taken over my soul. Almost like a vine that had a leaf on every inch of my being. A little touch of doubt everywhere.

I remember the weight that sat on my shoulders when hearing that dinosaurs no longer existed. Something seemingly mundane and that others just skipped over, I held so deep within me. I felt responsible for this loss and to this day, I will never forget that feeling. That feeling that it is always my fault.

Through breathwork, journalling, speaking my truth and growing as an individual I have slowly peeled back the layers. Bit by bit I have released the things that no longer serve me, whether they be experiences or attitudes or values or people. Even places. I can safely say that I am no longer the 16 year old girl who obsessively weighed herself, nor am I that 8 year old child who thought she was responsible for the downfall of the dinosaur.

I am that little girl and she is me. That is my soul. My purpose at this point in time is to heal her, allow her to grow. To move out of the box she has been sitting within where she was seething within the confinement of her walls.

Now it is my turn to care for her, to bring her home. To show her inner peace. To hold her when she is sad and to play when she is happy.

This is my journey. At my pace. In my own time, however that may look.

Triggers and Turmoil

CONTENT WARNING: suicide.

A week ago a lady was found at the school close to where I work. She had hung herself on the monkey bars.

I haven’t often used the term triggered because of the negative connotations associated with it. But I was triggered, hugely, by this event.

A few years ago, that could have been me. I could have been the girl who was found that took her own life. It could have been my life that the community had mourned. Someone would have found my body.

I felt awfully grateful. And I mean awful; guilty, even. Because that wasn’t me. It wasn’t my body that was found. I was safe in my bed. It’s a really scary thought now that I am mentally stable, that I could have ended this life I have. It makes me feel so sad for that version of myself who saw no way out, and who was desperate for relief from this realm.

I feel guilty for being grateful, so guilty. That lady wasn’t as lucky as I was. she didn’t survive her attempt. And I mourn that loss; I wish there was something I could have done.

The only thing I can do is talk. Open up. Take the backlash from being blunt about a topic like suicide, because I know I can take it. And I know that some can’t.

If just one person hears me, or reads my words, and changes their perspective ever so slightly, then I have done my job. Just one person isn’t just one person; it has a ripple effect.

World Bipolar Day 2021

Yesterday marked World Bipolar Day.

It is something that would normally make me cringe but for whatever reason this year, I leaned into it. I tried to let go of whatever it was that was holding me back from embracing the one day of the year where I don’t have to necessarily hold pride in my illness, but hold something different. Find solace that I am not alone in my experience, and acceptance in the way in which the wiring of my brain differs from most.

I have spent the last 5 years of cringing at the thought of identifying with my illness publicly, particularly on social media. It feels different than speaking my truth in person, where I am able to gauge the persons reaction and adjust mine accordingly. Even this can be difficult; trying to spit something out that often falls on ears of those who hold large amounts of preconceived ideas towards something that they truly know nothing about.

I have bipolar.

It isn’t something I have control over, nor do I wish it upon myself (nor anyone else for that matter). It is largely genetic and I take medication for it. The medication is necessary, not a choice. And if I’m being honest about it, I don’t think I would be here today without medical intervention via medication. My happy little pills keep me stable and I am so very thankful for that.

Happy world bipolar day, even if I am a day late. May your unfavourable beliefs about bipolar dissipate and your heart open to those who need it.

A weed is no more than a flower is disguise

Suicide- if a word was going to cause someone to recoil (at least a little), I think this one might just be it.

Maybe it’s the bluntness with which I say it, or perhaps it is the stigma associated with all things suicide related.

I say this word freely, with ease, with purpose. I see me people cringe at the term, and I stand stronger.

Maybe it’s the bluntness with which I say that I am medicated, or perhaps it is the sigma associated with all things suicide related

I say this with ease, with purpose. I see people cringe at the term, and I stand stronger.

Maybe it’s the bluntness with which I say that I have attempted suicide more than once, or perhaps it is the sigma associated with all things suicide related

I say this with ease, with purpose. I see me people cringe at the term, and I stand stronger.

You see,

If I say these things with ease and with purpose, you might cringe, but some impressionable mind may take these words in and realize that suicide isn’t such a dirty word.

Neither is mental health. Mental illness. Anxiety. Depression. Schizophrenia. PTSD. Bipolar. Eating disorders. Personality disorders. OCD – To name a small chunk from a rather long list.

If I say things with ease and with purpose, you might cringe, but someone might realize that they are worthy of speaking the same truth, too.