Depression

Sometimes I imagine what life would be like if I had lived back before glasses and contacts were invented and I couldn’t see anything and just had to fumble around blindly squinting at everything. Or before antidepressants, and I just had to spend my whole life crying in bed. Both those options still seem more manageable than living life without the ability to watch 6-10 episodes of a television show in one sitting.

The inimitable Alice Walker said, “When you are creating beauty around you, you are restoring your own soul.” As someone with multiple mental illnesses, I truly believe that crafting has soul-restoring properties.

When I share that I’m in a bad place, I’m told to curl up in bed with a nice book, eat my favorite ice cream or to take a relaxing bath. While these are all wonderful and helpful ideas, I think it’s important to discuss aspects of self-care that aren’t all about resting and treating yourself.

I’ve never had any serious issues with past roommates, whether they’ve been friends, family, or someone I found on Craigslist or something. I consider myself really lucky in that way; I know there are horror stories out there. But, having lived with my mom for almost a year now, I’ve realized just how much of a burden it can really be.

As storytellers, disabled writers have thousands of stories inside of us, some related to our disabilities and some not. Some of us are lucky enough to have some sort of outlet for our words — in public and/or private spaces — while others still struggle to find the voice that lives within.

Until you have stared down that kind of mental anguish and all-consuming darkness for years on end, you cannot judge someone for choosing to escape their torture.

Trans people struggle with disproportionate levels of anxiety, depression, and other mental health challenges. This is because we don’t identify with the genders we’ve been assigned based on what our bodies look like, and because we can’t reconcile our true selves with the gender roles that are imposed upon us. This often leads to self-harm.

She was beautiful; I wanted to love her. But there was this nagging voice inside me: "What if I can’t love this baby as much as my son? Is there enough love for both of my children?"