This blog is being reborn. This will be a place of truth and accountability. This is my place to tell my story, be it through the happy times or the dark ones. Perhaps, someone will find this journal and see that they are not alone in their struggles. Maybe this will help someone else. For now though, I’m hoping this will help me.

If you just wandered in and don’t know me, allow me to introduce myself: My name is Kelly and I’m not quite well.

For the past five weeks, I have been in an intensive outpatient program at a mental health facility. Prior to this adventure through the proverbial looking glass, I attended therapy on at least a weekly basis for three months. This, in no way shape or form, means that I was a healthy individual before. It only means that I was too unwell to seek treatment. It may be a difficult concept at first, but it’s true. Most of the time, I was too sick to realize it. In the few moments when I was conscious to the severity of my “problems” I thought I was too hopeless a case or that I was just too sensitive.

I don’t know what awakened me exactly. Maybe I became aware on a subconscious level that I would need to start caring for myself soon. You see, for the past 11 years I have been in a relationship. On the 6^th of January, nestled right smack in the middle of our anniversary (1/1) and my birthday (1/13), my husband and I separated. I gave him the out he’d been wanting for a while. I don’t blame him. I wasn’t happy about it. I harbor some resentment. But, I don’t blame him.

I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. I have not attempted suicide, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t given it some serious thought. That’s not me, though. “All in” isn’t my style. I partake in little deaths. Suicide requires an active role. Passivity is more comfortable for me. I just don’t put in the effort to take care of myself. I sent Death a notice by carrier pigeon rather than phoning it in.

Though I haven’t been diagnosed with any sort of anxiety disorder, my ability to tolerate stress has been slowly drained. I’ve felt the racing pulse, racing thoughts, and impending doom characteristic of panic attacks, but I deal with these symptoms before they evolve. Poison is the cure. Some people self-medicate with drugs or alcohol. I take control of my pain by inflicting pain.

In the past, I was diagnosed with Bulimia Nervosa. I feel it coming on again. I am not where I should be health- or happiness-wise in regards to my weight. Having someone around who had a watchful eye due to my history kept me in check. Now that I’m alone there’s no one to make sure I eat. I’ve lost about 30 pounds in the past month.

Obviously, this is a lot to deal with. I thought I had it bad, until I placed myself in my husband’s shoes and realized how much it would hurt to watch someone I cared about take this self-destructive path. That’s where the true pain lies. So, you see, I don’t blame him. Not in the least. There are times that I wish he had stuck around to help me in a time which is obviously difficult for me, but I’m not his responsibility. I am the only person who is responsible for me. Right now, I’m working on realizing that I’m worth that responsibility.

These truly are the Blurst of Times, my friends, and it’s time that I start being honest and facing my demons.

Tags: Life