mental health

My son is, without a doubt, the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. He’s also taught me invaluable lessons about myself that I could have never anticipated.

I was 40 years old the first time I said the words I need help — even though more than three decades had passed since I first became aware that something was not right.

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.

Imprecise, hurtful language is a problem, because it legitimizes other people’s use of the c-word. This perpetuates the stigma around mental illness, because if a mall full of people, or a rampaging toddler is “crazy”, that re-enforces the image that mental illness isn’t real disability. It says “crazy” just equals chaos, impulsiveness, or the inability to get your life together.

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.

Individual “parts” of my system [...] have become dysfunctional as a result of trauma. Some of these parts are stuck as young children or teenagers, while others carry individual emotions like worry or anger. They’re all still parts of my whole — not full-fledged personalities as in dissociative identity disorder — but they are separate enough to take on a life of their own to protect me from 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?"

I’m recovering from some pretty major surgery that has made it really uncomfortable to move around. In addition, because of the painkillers and antibiotics, obviously, I’m not allowed to drink or basically do anything I enjoy anymore.