When we took my son home, it didn’t take long for my insides to shed quickly to my outsides. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to shower, I didn’t want to clean, I just didn’t want to participate in life at all. I didn’t want to be a mom.
I wrote this poem in August of 2000. I was three months sober. Let me know if it means anything to you. ______________________________________________________________________ Emptiness fills the room. I alone sit quietly. Chest tight and eyes welling with tears,… Read More
The stigma associated with mental illness is a terrific one. I have struggled with depression and anxiety most of my life. I have battled both anorexia and bulimia, and participated in other self-injurious behaviors over the years…even in… Read More