Warning: This blog post contains discussions and language surrounding sensitive topics such as mental health struggles, suicide, self-harm, and child abuse. The content may be distressing for some readers. Please remember that the author and any guest contributors are not therapists or medical professionals. The experiences shared are personal and meant to foster understanding and awareness, not to offer professional advice or treatment.
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, self-harm, or any mental health crisis, please seek immediate help. Call 911 or reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 988—support is available 24/7. You are not alone, and it is absolutely okay to seek help. Your feelings are valid, and there is hope. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, please take care of yourself first and reach out for support.

Introduction

Hello all you wonderful wizards of words. Today’s blog post is not as witty or funny as past posts. I don’t have any smart words of wisdom or clever, intriguing headlines to share. Nope, it’s just me stripped down to the core, raw and real, no makeup, no mask, nothing to hide. Just me. I don’t know why I’m inclined to go down this road. It’s pure insanity, but there’s a purpose behind the madness. In this blog, I’ll touch upon something that has triggered my little Chum.

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“My head feels like a monopoly game rolling the dice, rounding ‘Go,’ collecting two hundred dollars, hoping not to land on Boardwalk or Park Place.”

Learning To Deal With My Past, Present & Future

If you’ve followed my journey, you know I’ve opened up about many things. There was my transformation in (My Amour), the power and pain of a mother’s love and untimely loss in (Autumn), and two short stories about my depression in (My Chum) and (Doubt). I’ve spoken about the shadow of mental illness in my family, like my brother’s battle with schizophrenia in (My Big Brother). I’ve shared my experiences with bullying in (Big Lips) and the complexities of friendship in (Crying In My Shadow)—especially how friends can sometimes leave us feeling more isolated than ever.

Maybe it’s because I see myself, and so many others like me, as underdogs struggling to survive. But I’m not writing this today because I feel sorry for myself. I’m writing because I’m touched by so many people’s stories, and I hope our voices don’t become lost in translation. There are countless factors that go into my writing. What I’m struggling with—what so many of us struggle with—is reflected in every sentence I share. My journals, my posts, all of it is a timeline of what my life has been dealing with: feeling less than, or as it’s commonly known, depression.

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What You Mean, Willis? “Addictive Personality”

I’m an underdog when it comes to my little Chum. Doctors didn’t have faith that I’d make it through this, let alone survive. I can’t tell you how many times doctors, friends, and family were scared I’d do something crazy. Suicide isn’t something I ever thought of or felt the need to do. I always fought depression. But coupled with my addictive personality, I tried extra hard to avoid things, places, or people who could trigger my mood swings.

Let me clarify: when I say addictive personality, I don’t mean drugs—I’ve never touched them, not even pot. What I mean is being addicted to depression itself. When you’re so used to feeling a certain way, those feelings become actions. You don’t even realize you’ve become the symptoms. For me, that means anger, sadness, anxiety, and body aches—yes, it gets that bad. I just thought everyone felt this way.

It wasn’t until I hit a red brick wall—what I call my worst episode of depression—that landed me in the emergency room. After tests, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It wasn’t a big surprise, but it was a big relief. Suddenly, there was a name for the chaos.

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Getting The Wind Knocked Out

In 2016, I went to the doctor and discovered I had tumors in my uterus. Fourteen, to be exact, and out of those, only three had cancer cells. At forty-five, I’d been careful not to have children. I figured after kissing so many frogs, one prince would eventually come along. Spoiler: he didn’t. Instead, I kept kissing frogs—none of them father material. And after all that, I stupidly married one. There was too much depression, addiction, and abuse between us. My manic behavior and his inability to let go of his mother destroyed our short-lived marriage. Divorce was our only option. After that, I fell into a living hell—going through the motions, barely existing. I was “F’d,” to put it bluntly.

I decided to work on myself, to get my head right. I couldn’t take care of anyone else, especially a child, when my own mind was a crazy Monopoly game. Fast forward sixteen years, and I’m sitting in the oncology office, staring at photos of my body with all these tumors—like they’d just moved in and started renting space. As the doctor talks a mile a minute (think Charlie Brown’s teacher), I realize I’m watching my choice—whether or not to have kids—die a slow, miserable death. Then I thought: What man on this earth would want to be with a woman at forty-five who can’t have a child? Not having children was my choice. Truth be told, I wasn’t ready for kids; I’m too selfish with my time. But when that choice was taken away, it became a big deal—at least in my head. It pushed me deeper into depression.

I had a complete hysterectomy because I needed to. I was lucky—my issue was caught before it could do more damage. I think about all those fighting, or who have fought and lost their lives to cancer—it breaks my heart.

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Taking Three On The Chin

I was in a nine-year depression. Over that time, I lost my career, two aunts, my ability to have children, and most importantly, my mother—the one woman who loved me like no other. But I didn’t lose the ability to write. And write I did. I explained my transformation in past blogs, but I didn’t go deep into this side of my life. Part of me felt like I shouldn’t be complaining when people are losing their lives to cancer. Social media is a “shopping mall of harmful shops.” So many places to shop your tweets, but getting a message of enlightenment out can be difficult. Once you find the right “store,” though, the message is beautiful. But to get there, I had to swim through a swamp of sea-rolling-rats, commonly known as “Piglickers.” In sharing my decision not to have kids—then feeling some kind of way when that option was taken from me—I opened myself up for attacks by these Piglickers. It’s a feeding frenzy; they were like vultures to roadkill. Once the trolls were done, the Piglickers came out and picked over my bones.

I felt like I was in a nine-round boxing match with Mike Tyson. Every tweet, every Facebook post, I was getting knocked on my ass. What made it worse was that I wasn’t ready to hear what I heard. I was still angry with myself over my mother’s death, and I became a people pleaser, chasing likes. I’m a strong person, but eventually, the Piglickers got to me. By the end of 2016, I was worn out, distracted, lacking focus, and not engaged in life. Something was about to break—I just didn’t know what.

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“Never stop doing the things you love to do.”

Continuing This Journey

It’s been a year since my life-changing surgery, and coming out of my nine-year depression is a record for me. As I continue this journey to self-discovery, learning more about myself every day, learning to love myself today, I feel like I can take on the universe.

I’m learning to be kinder—not just to myself but to others. I’m learning my triggers and taking steps to deal with negative situations. I say this because I was thinking about taking a break from social media. There are too many Piglickers out there saying and doing very hurtful things. With my addictive personality, I tend to focus on the negative instead of the positive, which triggers my depression. This is something I struggle with. As I read through tweets, I realize that these Piglickers aren’t that different from anyone else. They’re fearful, lonely people seeking validation. They turn to social media simply to have their voices heard. I almost feel sorry for them—and I won’t let them win.

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Being A Social Butterfly Isn’t Always Perfect

I’m a very social person, but in this day and age, we depend on—or hide behind—our keyboards, saying things we’d never say face-to-face. Should someone suffering from a mental disorder or illness be on social media? I don’t know. I can only speak from my own experience. Experiencing the positive side of social media is a good thing. That’s what makes it so appealing. But not everyone gets the joke, and sometimes what you’re communicating gets lost in translation.

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Meeting Myself Where I Am

There was a time when my identity was wrapped up in achievement and pleasing others. When you’re used to being invisible, any kind of attention—good or bad—feels like a warm blanket. It took me years to realize that I was worthy of love and kindness, even when I wasn’t performing, even when I wasn’t being funny, clever, or “on.” My journey through grief, loss, and mental illness has brought me face-to-face with my most vulnerable self. It’s not pretty. It’s not Instagrammable. But it’s real. I’ve learned that healing is not linear. Some days I feel like I’m on top of the world, and other days, I feel like I’m back at square one. But I keep moving forward. I keep rolling the dice.

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The Importance of Storytelling

If you’re reading this, maybe you see yourself in some part of my story. Maybe you’ve lost someone, or maybe you’re battling your own little Chum. Maybe you’ve felt the sting of social media trolls and Piglickers, or maybe you’re just trying to find your place in this messy, beautiful world. Storytelling is how we connect. It’s how we remind each other that we’re not alone. My hope is that by sharing my story, I can offer a little bit of light—however shaky or dim it may be.

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What I’ve Learned (And Am Still Learning)

• It’s okay to not be okay. You don’t have to be strong all the time.
• Boundaries are vital. Whether on social media or in real life, it’s okay to protect your energy.
• You are not your diagnosis. Depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety—these are things you experience, not who you are.
• Your story matters. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.
• Healing takes time. Be gentle with yourself.
• You can survive what you thought would break you.
• Kindness is never wasted. Even if it feels like no one notices, keep being kind—to yourself and others.

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Moving Forward

As I continue this journey, I’m learning to embrace every part of myself—the hopeful, the broken, the witty, and the raw. I’m learning to give myself grace on the days when the Monopoly game in my head is especially loud. And I hope, wherever you are on your journey, you can do the same.

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Final Thoughts

Be kind, be creative, and be responsible. If you’re struggling, reach out. If you see someone else struggling, offer a hand. Our stories matter—and together, we can keep the conversation going.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for letting me share my story with you. Let’s keep lifting each other up, one word at a time.

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#MentalHealth #Resilience #Storytelling