Mind racing, heart palpating,

Not sure where to begin,
Images flashing before my eyes,
Worries worries
Worries worries worries

Little yellow pill

Worries worries worries
Worries worries

Mind slows, heart slows



Fully, unselfishly.

I grew up never really being taught how to love. All I knew was that I was supplied with certain things, and in return, I was supposed to live up to certain expectations. As an adult, I’ve been left to piece together the rest of the puzzle, which unfortunately has left me in a strange and funny place.

I’ve attempted to form relationships with people that didn’t want them. I’ve become involved with the wrong people. Butt when it comes down to it, all I want are the essentials… 

Like it says above, I want to love my life (which I do- I love my kids and where I live and my job and my patients at the hospital) and I want to help someone love his life, too.

“Love is not selfish love, but rather caring for another, which means we help to nurture our fundamental kindness.” I wouldn’t be in it for myself. I’m a caregiver by nature. 

I have so very much love to give to the right person, good intent that I have failed to pull the reins in on just for the sake of garnering attention. It’s tragic, the things and people we lose when we lose self-control. I’m not sure if I can blame that on my mental illness, either… I was already on my medication, but in the early stages of taking it, the last time this happened. 

But above all else, “I would like to love someone who would like to communicate.” I’ve wasted too many emotions on people that get angry and shut down, refuse to speak, and all I’m left with after that are tears. I’d like to love someone that will always come back to talk, even after we argue, even after we might say things that hurt. 

Even without an example to follow, I’ve grown to learn, that’s what love is all about.


Having social anxiety (for me) usually means that my words are clumsy.

I sit back in awe of people whose words flow freely, that don’t have to sit back and think hard about what they’re going to say before they say it, or whether or not they should say it.

And when the words finally come out, I stumble over them, like I’m a toddler, and my syntax is sticky, like a lollipop held too long in my spitty hand.

Is it really so bad, though, to be clumsy with one’s words?

Is it bad to not want to say the first thing that pops into your head?

Some people like to preach that mental illness is simply a state of mind, and that you can convince yourself that you can “become a bad ass” if you really think hard about it.

What’s sad is that behind the facade of being a bad ass is someone that is just as clumsy as I am with words… Someone that won’t even confront the one person that dared enough to care.

Mental illness will never be something that we can talk ourselves out of. Yes, we can seek help for ourselves.

Yes, we can empower ourselves to change.

But this clumsiness? I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon.

Source: Clumsy

Daily Prompt: Promises

My son turns four today. He is my eldest child.

The promises that I made to myself regarding his rearing have far surpassed the promises I’ve made to him.

He doesn’t even know the things I’ve promised him, other than that chocolate milk I promised to give him if he was good in the grocery store.

Oh, my son, things I’ve promised myself to accomplish for you.

I promise to protect you but not to overdo it.
I promise to love you til the end of my days.
I promise to teach you all of the things that your father can’t, because he just doesn’t know how.
I promise to not let my mental illness get in the way of loving you or teaching you or appreciating your existence as my child.
I promise you a solid, stable life, come what may. No more moving around, as much as I can help it.
I promise you peace.

I loved you first, I’ll love you last.



via Daily Prompt: Promises


Or is it chest pain?

I’m not sure which it is. Either way, I’ve had this ache in my chest all day.

All. Day. Long.

No shortness of breath. No overwhelming sense of anxiety.

I’m usually a pretty smart cookie.

Pretty smart for a girl, they say.

Not sure what to do. I’ll feel stupid if I go to the ER. Especially considering that I work in this hospital. Especially if it’s not anything serious. Especially it’s anxiety.

Lord, what a basket case. I’m having anxiety about my anxiety.

Maybe I’ll take some medicine when I get home and see if it gets better.

If it doesn’t, I’ll know that I was wrong.


Or maybe I won’t.