Tuesday, June 7, 2016


I shout to an empty room. My words fall on deaf ears.
No one is listening.
Can you blame them?
When so little laughter is heard and so many tears are shed?
Who is there left to listen?
Who wants to listen?
But I write.
I share.
I cry at the emptiness.

I am uncertain what I need. But I am falling apart.
I cannot point out what is causing this, other than my mind slowly destroying me.
Many say mental illness should be talked about.
But how?
I am uncertain as to why I reach out, only to share that I have once again started journaling.
These entries are windows into my soul.
I don't expect answers.
And hardly do I expect much of anything out of them.
But the words are mine and I want you to know they are there to help you see where I am.

I sit "silently" in my home.
My mind plaguing me with hate, anxiety, uncertainty, and toying with death.
Yes. Death.
I won't hide from it anymore.
I will most likely find myself back in the hospital because of it.
It is almost inevitable, similar to any other chronic illness that flairs up and can't be controlled any other way.

You see me smile. When you see me. There is joy there.
What is missed is what takes place behind closed doors.
The waterfall of tears.
The body aches longing for relief and understanding.
Please read my entries.
Please reach out.
Please be patient with my slow responses.
It's hard to leave the house.
It's hard to let people in.
Everything is more difficult.
I don't know what you see.
I don't know what you think.


This tight anxiety in my chest to which I wake every morning to.
This pain is unyielding and never ending.
I do not know how to make this pain pass.
It is inexplicable to me.
I try to recall all of those that love me.
There are a good many, so I think.
And yet, I am convinced they all deserve better than me.
I am unworthy of their love.

I am safe in my circle.
I am safe surrounded by those who love me.
I do not feel safe.
I feel suicidal.
I should go home.
I have to keep my promises.
Maybe I will leave earlier.
I do not know how to ask for the help I need.

I am blessed. We are blessed.
My meds kicked in. I am calmer now.
I hate my meds.
I guess I need them first thing in the morning just to stave off the morning attacks.
Wake and bake on a new level.
I could fight this.
I could struggle against what I feel I hate so much.
Or I can try to embrace the help around me.
The medications.
The herbs.
The fresh air.
My cats.
My home.
My lovers.
My family.
There is good in this world.
The hard part is pushing out the negative and not letting it engulf me.
I write these words.
"Youth springs eternal."
But there is good still left in this world,
Now only if I could train my mind to focus more on that and less on the negative,
Which I hold no control over.
This worls if ull of ugly and hate.
My moods show such things.
I'm empathic that way.
Learning to separate between what I can and cannot control is the difficult task at hand.
The ups and downs come nd go.
I must remember that.
When I hit rock bottom the only place left to go is up.
Although sometimes its just easier to lay on the bottom and let all the sorrow and saddness seep in.
Is it ok to just let myself linger there for a while?
To really feel those lows.
To explore them, know them, identify them for what they are.

I cannot stop crying.
Everything makes me cry.
I want to curl up and die.
I have little to no motivation right now.
Nothing has worth.
My life has no purpose.
I stay for others, but not for myself.
There is this rude selfishness of others to insist that I stick around.
To stay for them defeats the point of life life for oneself.
I am the one that wakes every morning in emotional agony.
The minutes pass so slowly for me and my reasons to hang on hang by a thread.
I just want to fee and be in control fo that feel.
Self-harm fits this.
Pain is real.
Pain is a reminder that life is real.
I feel so numb at times that pain is the only way to break out of it.
I thought I was ok this morning.
I guess I was wrong.

Sunday, June 5, 2016

Where am I going?

I'm feeling a bit better today. Although I admit to being heavily medicated and I don't like it. Day in and day out, the same old shit.
I am uncertain who takes me seriously anymore.
I'm sharing my entries.
I blogged yesterday's entry today. Uncertain who will see it, much less read it and maybe even start a conversation about it.

I cannot help but feel that if I keep myself closed in about death and suicide, I am only writing my own future.
And if I write about where I am in my mind about death, should the time come where I do take my own life I will at least have left behind documents to help the world better understand how it came to that.
I'm on the verge of tears.

It's nice sitting outside. I guess it is something I should really start doing more of.

Lesson Learned: Nature is good for me.
Chickens. Cats. Tress. Plants. Grass. Evening fires. Gaming. Reading.

Can I be content not contributing financially to my family unit?
This is a constant struggle and concern of mine.
Am I even able to hold a job?
A job that will work with me with my mental illness?
What am I now truly qualified to do?
I color.
I self-care, a lot!
I'm finally taking better care of my cats.

My sad life: Talking Cats

I hate mornings. Moreover, I hate ho I normally feel when I wake up in the mornings.
It makes me sad.
My dreams fade.
I lose track of me and where I am.
I forget me.
And then I remember and the tears come back and my gut wrenches and my heart aches.

These trips are supposed to be fun, DAMNNIT!
Can I not have this time to just enjoy myself and family?

I went to the Salt Lake City LGBTQ+ Pride Parade with my BIL and the two Littles. We had a good time. We did a lot of walking and shouting.
I am now utterly spent.
My social quota is beyond gone.
I hate that.
I utterly and completely despise it.
The little walked that parage and are now outside playing. It amazes me the energy they have.
I once had that.
What happened?

Old Normal v New Normal
This is hard to adjust to, and it's difficult to explain, not only to myself but to those around me.
I can't even fully explain it to my therapist.
Who am I?
What am I?
What is my purpose?
Why do I continue to live each day?
What is the point?
The point.
Please tell me the point.
I ask these questions to an empty room.
I ask these questions to a full capacity auditorium.
The answer is the same.
Silence is the answer, as who has the answer?
Better yet, who is brave enough to stand and answer?
Who am I?
What am I?
What is my purpose?
Why do I continue?!
To continue to live each day?
The ultimate question: What is the point?

I Want A Do Over
Fuck this.
Fuck this shit.
Fuck my heart. My feelings. My thoughts.
Fuck my tears.
Fuck my fears.
Fuck this life.
Fuck this world.
The hate can be so strong and so crippling.
It's hate within myself.
I have no desire to hurt others.
Only myself.
Does that bother you?
Where does my anger come from?
So many mistakes.
So many lost chances?
This life lived for someone else.
That someone else is gone and I still find myself wanting her to live vicariously through me.
My life's purpose...gone.
Now, six years later, what do I do?

Saturday, June 4, 2016

Lost in my mind

Time. It is such a waste. I feel so lost. The tears fall. The anxiety builds and no end is in sight for relief. I want to die.
I just want this pain to end. I don't know what to do to help ease this feeling. I just know it's there and is very real.
Will I see next year? Will next year see me? How?
Am I doomed to no longer go to social events? Is it my lot to sit and attempt to administer self-care while at home with just my cats for company?
Am I trying too hard? Not enough?
Who do I tell? What do I tell? How much do I tell?
I am lost in my own mind. Big dreams crushed by fear of reality.
I have a camera, I should learn to use it.
I should start walking.
I should...
I should...
I should...
I don't.
I most likely won't.
My intentions mean well.
I'm a major disappointment.
I don't know why I am loved. I doubt I deserve it.
Jordan deserves so much better than me. Everyone does.
I am lost in a field of my own thoughts and emotions.
Mostly emotions.
Feelings I cannot explain, but cause such great anxiety it's almost paralyzing.
I am told I am needed That I am wanted. But I am uncertain if I want or need myself.
I am once again poor.
Some say there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I rarely see it.
Sometimes a glimpse is enough to give e hope and push through just one more day.
Just one more day.
Just one more day.
But how does one continue to live this way?
Just one more day.
One more day of what?!
Crippling anxiety? Endless tears? Paralyzing fear of everything?
And this is what I live "just one more day" for?!
To what end?
I am dying here and no one can help me!!!!!

I don't know what to say to people.
I want them to know. They NEED to know.

I showered and put on clean clothes.
I bought a pack of smokes on my way out to Utah.
I don't know if it is helping or hurting.
It gives me something to do and replaces my want for herb.
(So much for my tolerance break.)
It feels good having my hear wet and down, drying in the breeze.
(I'm sitting on the front porch.)

I'm thinking of moving my desk down into the den. Maybe if I move out of the bedroom things will be "easier" on me?
Maybe, just maybe, I'll keep things clean better that way.
Although I like my privacy that my room gives me.
Change for simply changes sake may not be the best of ideas.
If the desk wasn't such a pain to move I might be more eager to try it.
I just really don't know what to do anymore.

Day in and day out nothing changes, nothing but the increasing of my anxiety and a great desire to just disappear.
To no longer exist.
To vanish.
To take a long walk in the woods and never come back.
Maybe I'll go live with the bears.

But really, let's talk about death.
What is it?
What is it, really?
Death is the end of this life.
But it is also the beginning of something new.
The catch?
We travel that journey alone.
There are choices.
At anytime I can choose to take that solo journey into the unknown.
(Jordan says I'm do some good day soon. I hope he's right.)
I can always wait.
Just one more day.
Just one more day.

I guess I want to be in control. 
I want to be in control of something in my life and right now it feels that the only thing that I have control over is to go one more day.

Angela says I can't go.
Her kids (my minions) vie me as their 2nd mom.
They need me around just as much as they need their folks.

I want to hurt myself.
At least then I'd have something worthy to cry about.
Maybe then this emotional pain can have a physical pain outlet.

I stopped blogging.
I stopped writing.
I stopped reading.
And in some ways I stopped caring, mainly about myself.
I matter not.
That's what my mind tells me.
My mind tells me things would be simpler if I were gone.
I am told I shouldn't let these thoughts linger.
It is claimed to be unhealthy.
But my thoughts are real and I don't know what else to do about them.
Too long have I let them simply dance in my head.
I do not know how to evict them.
Maybe writing this down will help.
Maybe blogging and sharing the real will help.
Everything is "maybe".
Maybe moving my desk will help.
Maybe walking will help.
Maybe I should look into pet sitting.
I could get lucky and I like pets.
Animals are better than humans.

the lights flash.
The thoughts wander.
A slow drag on one more cigarette.
One more cider before I throw in the towel.
The guy across the street hides behind his fence while trying to skateboard.
The dog wants in on the action.
Or maybe the dog just want some love and attention.

I just want love and attention.
It sounds funny, and it makes little sense.
I get plenty of love and attention.
I am loved.
I know this.
I am told this.
I am shown this.
It should be enough.
It's all I've ever wanted, and yet...
Yet I am haunted by intangible memories.
Triggers with no solid founding.
Flashbacks filled purely with emotion, no actual events to grasp on to and attempt to process.
How do I work through these "issues" without a better understanding of what they are?

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

I Was Raised In A Cult

I want to write about all the positive and sexy. I want to cover up the unpleasant things. I know I shouldn't. I know that hiding from those truths makes it harder for me to truly express my full self (and prevents you from better understanding who I am). How can I show you all of me if I keep hidden such an impacting force that has plagued my life and "helped" define who I am today. Please bear with me as I step lightly and honestly through my past. I am only now beginning to understand my true self.

I am defined by my genetics. I am defined by my upbringing. I am defined by the places I have lived and the events that have happened to me. I am made up of the people that have crossed my journey. I am made up of the stories that have touched my life so profoundly that I became a changed person. 

Me and my father, 1980, CA
Me and Mom, 1980, CA
I am scarred by misunderstanding. I'm marked by a narcissistic father and a mother who grew up in a world surrounded by hate, verbal, physical and sexual abuse. I'm misguided by the cult I was raised in. I'm greatly affected by the emotions/feelings of those around me.

The cards were stacked against me from the beginning.

This is my curse. This is my blessing. This is my gift. This is my undoing. This is my design. This is my journey.

Since I was a child I have questioned who I am, where I come from and, ultimately, why am I me? Why am I here, in this body, in this life, in this time? Why aren't I the kid down the street, sleeping soundly in bed? Why am I me. 

Recent revelation has shown that I also have been suffering from sleep paralysis since I was at least 7 years old. I've only recently been made aware that's what it was/still is. It's frightening to find myself paralyzed in bed. Unable to move. The deafening sound of my silent screams. Is this real? Is this my imagination playing tricks on me? Is this normal? Who do I tell? How do I explain it? I told no one. I could not explain it to myself. Who would believe me? 

I've been accused of being a liar since I was old enough to know what a lie is. I have always felt guilty, even when I know I have done nothing wrong. This accusation was further ingrained as I got older. 

I would cry often (still do). Many times for no apparent reason. Emotions would just flood me and the only way my mind could cope was by shedding tears, letting that energy go (as I would later come to understand it). As a child I had no means of understanding and explaining these events. (I now know that I am empathic.)

My mother would ask, "Why are you crying?" 
"I don't know."
"You have to have a reason for crying. Why are you crying?!"
"I don't know."
"Why won't you just tell me why you're crying?!"
"I don't know why I'm crying!"
"Now you're just lying."

To this day I feel guilty when I try to voice my emotional state. I feel like I'm lying because it's so ingrained in me to believe that the words which flow from my mouth are not true. That I do not know my own mind, my own feelings, my own thoughts. In my mind's eye I am still a child and those around me are the adults and they will always know better than me. 

My early childhood is very foggy. I fear learning of the things I have repressed. My nightmares haunt me of events not fully understood. Why does the phrase "You little shit!" leave such a sour taste in my mouth? Why does the thought of being alone with my father send chills down my spine? Why can't I remember much of my life until I was 11 years old? Why am I afraid to go out alone? Why do I fear making my own choices?

Recent enlightenments have shown me that the LDS religion (read - cult) has played an overwhelming role in the choices that I have made, or have failed to make. 

I used to proudly carry around a pamphlet titled "For the Strength of Youth". My youth revolved around this. The standards and expectations were placed before me. As young woman I dreamed of graduating high school, marrying a Returned Missionary (RM) in the temple for all time and eternity, being a loyal housewife, and bearing many children (to "go forth and multiply"). 

My mother clung to these notions. She desired so strongly for me to have everything she did not. I would later discover that she was attempting to live vicariously through me. By my Junior year of High School, she was buying bridal magazines and gathering wedding package information from Disney World (she was obsessed with all things Disney). 

Modesty was drilled into me. Modestly by TSCC (The So Called Church, AKA LDS) standards. Shorts below the knees. No bare shoulders. Minimal makeup. No one-on-one dating. Beware of the devil in your worldly desires. Be ashamed and repress your sexual urges, they too are of the devil. 

From "For the Strength of Youth":
You are not just ordinary young men and women. You are choice spirits who have been held in reserve to come forth in this day when the temptations, responsibilities, and opportunities are the very greatest. You are at a critical time in your lives. This is a time for you not only to live righteously but also to set an example for your peers. As you seek to live the standards of the Church, you will be able to reach out and lift and build your brothers and sisters.
God loves you as He loves each and every one of His children. His desire, purpose, and glory is to have you return to Him pure and undefiled, having proven yourselves worthy of an eternity of joy in His presence.
Your Father in Heaven is mindful of you. He has given you commandments to guide you, to discipline you. He has also given you your agency--freedom of choice--"to see if [you] will do all things whatsoever [He] shall command" (Abraham 3:25). Freedom of choice is a God-given, eternal principle that carries with it moral responsibilities for the choices made.
We counsel you to choose to live a morally clean life. The prophet Alma declared, "Wickedness never was happiness" (Alma 41:10). Truer words were never spoken!
You cannot do wrong and feel right. It is impossible! Years of happiness can be lost in the foolish gratification of a momentary desire for pleasure. Satan would have you believe that happiness comes only as you surrender to his enticement to self-indulgence. We need only to look at the shattered of those who violate God's laws to know why Satan is called the "father of all lies" (2 Nephi 2:18).
You can avoid the burden of guilt and sin and all of attending heartaches if you will but heed the standards provided you through the teachings of the Lord and His servants. (See Following the Prophets home page)
We were the chosen ones. I had a lot to live up to. I had unrealistic expectations placed before me. The ultimate goal to be perfect in all things. Every "sinful" thought was to be fought with repentance, prayer, scripture study, paying tithing and attending all church functions. To avoid temptation my circle of acceptable friends and activities was very limited. 

Example: I was so moved by my 3 week trip to Utah in the summer of 1995 (15 years old), that upon my return I phoned my boyfriend, CJ, and asked his opinion on having sex. "If it happens, it happens," was his response. I could not abide by such loose standards. I was shocked and appalled. How could someone have such low standards to something so sacred as sex? I promptly dumped him without a second thought. 

Oh, I was very much a hypocrite. This was the same guy that I used to make-out with behind the C building before and after school (sometimes during lunch as well). Yep, I was a "heavy petter". I relished the feelings and then hated myself afterwards. 

As an LDS youth I was taught that we were, in fact, better than everyone else. We belonged to the one and only true church in the world. We had modern-day revelation. As TBMs (True Blue Mormons) we had all the answers, to life, death and the hereafter. We were systematically taught not to question ("Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters—my dear friends—please, first doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith. We must never allow doubt to hold us prisoner and keep us from the divine love, peace, and gifts that come through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.").

These teachings were the foundation by which I built my expectations of my future. Should I falter even but a step from these "truths" I would be outcast and shunned. Ultimately I would spend all of eternity in "Outer Darkness" (AKA Hell). I would be called to repentance and told to beg for forgiveness, which could only be given to me through confession to my Bishop. The steps towards forgiveness would include denial of certain practices, such as partaking of sacrament on Sundays, (everyone saw when you simply passed the sacramental trays to the person next to you without taking for yourself), and saying prayer in public, (a scarlet letter might as well be pinned to your chest when you must admit that you "cannot" offer up a prayer at the opening or closing of a meeting). Church callings would also be revoked and worthiness to enter the temple would be suspended.

I know all of these shames. I have cried before my church leaders as a young woman, declaring my sins, naming them and asking god, through them, for forgiveness. I freely offered up a willingness to do whatever was required of me in order to be seen as spotless before the lord once more. My parents encouraged this. 

Confessions being kept anonymous
What confessing looks like to the LDS

As a teenager I would dress in my Sunday best and sit alone with my Bishop in his office and tell of my sexual transgressions, what greater sin was there for the Latter-Day youth? Yes, alone. I, a teenage female, would tell a grown married man about my sexual thoughts and deeds, including masterbation. (Thoughts are just as damning as actions.) I would be pressed for details in order for my transgressions to be truly weighed and to determine how long my repentance period should last. Sometimes these meetings were held with the whole Bishopric (three men: the Bishop and his first and second councilors). 

This was the foundation by which my perception of sexuality was built. I believed it. I preached it. I testified of it. I judged others based upon it. I condemned even myself because of it. Even now, at 35 years of age, I am still breaking free of this indoctrination I was subjected to. 

[There is a lot here I have shared. I have read and re-read my words. I have provided links to help build a better understanding of where I come from and the expectations by which I was raised. I, by no means, expect the sources I have provided to be read in full.] 

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

My Father (To See or Not To See?)

(Waimea, Kauai, Hawaii Feb. 1997)
I am my father's first child. Growing up in the Navy he wasn't around as much. We constantly butted heads as I got older. We are/were so much alike. I've seen him cry over my struggles with my parents authority. I've heard him tell me that he loves me. 

Years ago, before my mom died my parents had a huge struggle with their marriage. I found myself in the middle of that horrible wave of events. It affected me personally and physically and I found myself siding with my mom, for the most part. 

I won't go into details of the nasty struggle it was to see my father go through his long mid-life crisis and behave like such a juvenile. It was just as rough to hear the nasty words that would flow from my mom's mouth when I refused to go buy her alcohol to numb her emotional pain. It was 2007. 

(San Diego, CA 1981?)

My 3rd marriage had fallen apart. I was in the midst of graduating college with my English degree. I had plans (already paid for) to go to Ireland for 3 weeks as a graduation gift to myself. I never made it to the airport, much less to Ireland. I had to go care for my mom who found herself alone on 10 acres of property my parents had just bought. (They were getting closer and closer to their dream goals.) The property was in the middle of no where, which is nice; however, she had no car and it was 6 miles to the nearest town. I was in Mississippi at the time. My brother was in Hawaii, to far away to help physically. My sister was busy enough with her own family of 4 going on 5 in Utah. As the eldest and closest to my mom, my brother sent me money and I packed up my life and moved out to care for my mom. 

I blame my lost dream trip, and $1000, on my father. I know he'll never be able to repay me. I know it was 8 years ago. But during that time my father and I drifted further and further apart. 

Despite our differences and frustration with each other, as I constantly made the same mistakes over and over again in my young adult life, every time I returned home, I could always look forward to at least one private ride in the car with my father where we truly talked and opened up to each other. It was those moments I looked forward to when I returned home. It was a reminder that underneath it all there was still great love and compassion between us. 


After a large struggle between my folks, I decided I could no longer live under their roof anymore. I was an adult and it was truly time for me to grow up and not going rushing "home" every time my life fell apart. I moved to Colorado in mid-July. 
I visited my folks home twice since my move. The first was to collect my things and cats to move it all to Colorado. I was so looking forward to that car ride. To that private moment where all guards were down between my father and I. It never came. In fact, as we packed the last of my belongings in the trailer and car and were setting out for the 12 hour drive back to Colorado and everyone was saying goodbye, hugs and all. My mom and brother with his wife and son standing around outside, giving hugs and well wishes. My father stood to the side. In my minds eye I felt it was as though he didn't even recognize me as his daughter and first born. For the first time, that I can recall, I had to ask him for a hug. It felt as though he was content to stand there and watch us drive away without saying a word. With no emotion and no love for me. It broke my heart and the true rift between he and I had suddenly grown so large I was uncertain any bridge could be built that large to close the gap. 

About a year later I was at a Dead (what was left of the band The Grateful Dead) concert and thought to share this awesome moment with my father. I felt it was something he'd be excited about for me. So I sent him a text telling him where I was and the band I was about to hear play. The text I received from him was "Who is this?". Apparently he had gotten a new phone and failed to put my number in it... It was the last straw for me. 

My last trip out there was a few days after my mom had died, March 10, 2010. On that road trip, somewhere along the way, our cars passed each other as he headed to Utah to collect her ashes and I headed "home" to be with my brother. 

                  (San Antonio, TX?1991)

He remarried on March 17, 2011. I didn't know. I knew he was planning on getting married, but I was never told when it had actually happened. At this point I felt he had abandoned his biological family for a new one. 

We have sent texts a few times. I saw him once as he was on the road between my sister's home and his own. I met his soon to be wife (?) and her two children, a teenager and a toddler. I had offered my home for them to stay at and dreamed of making them a great breakfast the following morning to show just how much I had changed and grown. ... They stayed at a hotel instead. It's the last time I saw him. (2011?) He gave me my mom's ashes, as he "didn't know what to do with it". 
Again, there were no car rides, or even any private moments. I do not recall if he told me he loved me. I do not recall if any hugs were involved as my partner and I prepared to leave them at the hotel they were staying at for the night. 

                    (San Antonio, TX 1993)

Since then we have not spoken to each other. Texts have been sent from time to time. Mainly major holidays and if I'm lucky and he remembers, my birthday as well. The rift between us has grown even larger and it hurts me deeply. I miss the man and dad he once was. 

Now to the point of this long story. I have an opportunity to see him again this Summer. He and his now adopted son (my sister informed me of the adoption) are going out to visit my sister. 

At first I quickly asked my sister if it would ok with her if I went out to visit at the same time and then bring my youngest niece home with me for a visit. She said yes. I promised not to cause trouble. I don't want fights. We Crawford's are good at pretending the past is gone and to not talk about it any longer. 
I now question if this is still a good idea. With my #anxiety and #depression can I truly emotionally handle such a meeting at this stage in my life? How many times has my father driven down the highway passing the many exits to my town and not stopped? Does it matter? How important am I to him truly? 
(Laie, Oahu, Hawaii 2003)

My first instinct was to go and with luck move forward, make amends and try to salvage what is left so that he too can share in my joys and triumphs. And later, as I think about it, I start to get overly protective of my "minions" (my sister's children). I feel this overwhelming need to protect them, to be there and be one more eye on them to keep them safe. Why on earth do I feel such a need as that, to protect them from my father? They should grow up knowing their Pappy, as I did not know my grandfather. 
This trip is months away. In the present it all feels reasonable and a good move in the right direction. To reach out an olive branch, if you will. Will I be strong enough then to do this? Is it safe? Will he accept my drinking? My choice of using marijuana as a medicinal to help with my anxiety? To hide my true self to him would be going against my own values. Love me as I am or not at all? 

What do I do?

Thursday, January 8, 2015

New Year, New Possibilies

Despite my #depression I have managed to be somewhat productive today. This week has been rough. Getting out of bed has been a struggle everyday.

On a better note I now have #HealthInsurance and can start getting the #MentalHealthCare I need. This is a privilege that not all #bipolar and #mentallyIll individuals have.

Finding supportive communities and discounted care for something as still unknown as depression and all the variations that are associated with the mind is difficult to find.

From April until Jan 1, 2015 I had no insurance, my medical bills are huge and cause me great anxiety. I am blessed with a partner that is willing and able to help reduce my stress/ #anxiety levels when it comes to these things. But, given my nature and "#psychosis" I still have extreme anxiety about it and almost every other aspect of my life.

On a brighter note I have taken up photography as an amature hobbie.

Taking pictures with the SLR camera my sister is letting me borrow has helped me bring out my artistic side and to show the world through  my eyes. 

The little things are still my big achievements of any given day. 

As always, I tend to update my #Facebook page more often than I blog: I Have Bipolar II 

Thursday, December 18, 2014

Why do we scream?

Seriously though, I watch movies and shows and people just start #screaming, what happened to fight for flight? No, let's just stand there and #scream as the killer/attacker/accident takes place. I understand being frozen in fear, but screaming too?

What causes us to scream instead of running away or fighting? Screaming accomplishes little to nothing...

And it appears to be males and females alike, although more females than males? Are we going back to our ancestral nature to call for help in a time where words didn't exist as we know them today? The mate calling for help?

Just weird thoughts in my head. I know about "screaming" #therapy, is it a similar thing? Some people just instinctively scream instead of protecting themselves?

Of course these questions come from watching too many TV shows and movies, I'm sure. And maybe it's all to pull the viewer into suspense? Or is it something that we truly do in real life based on some primal level of our own selves?