Disclaimer: Let me start by saying that I am in no way suicidal or homicidal. So if I died in police custody, it was not a suicide. I have no desire to appear as a martyr for equality; I do not wish to die.

Currently, I feel like burning everything around me to the ground then hand in little hands walk on to the next chapter in our lives. Onward to a better living situation, better schools, and no questionable romantic situations. I’m tired. Tired of not trusting the only people I am supposed to trust. Tired of not being able to get my thoughts into the universe. Tired of living check to check. Tired of getting the kind of assistance that is tailored to prevent progress.

I have made so many bad choices and repeated mistakes in friends and lovers. Now, here I am. This is some strange stage between feeling sorry for myself and just plain tired of fighting upstream. I’ve started floating. Coasting downstream and away from progress. Drowning in television series after series.

When I thought the house was sleeping I laid on the floor and cried.
I cried and cried. I sobbed, really.
This is because I thought the house was sleeping.
I was trying to cry the demons out of me.
The dead baby and the broken heart, are what I was trying to release.
I tried to write about it all in grave detail.
I thought I was ready to shout it from a mountain.
And then I heard you walking around your room.
So I held my breath so tight that my ears started to ring
and my heart beat started to slow down.
That’s when I realized I still wasn’t ready.
That these demons and this baby would rot inside of me.
Knotting my stomach and rooting the pit in my chest.
I could hold my breath until there was nothing left.

Battling mental illness is hard. It’s even harder when you don’t know what you’re battling. I often feel like it’s me against the world and I’m armed with pride and sarcasm. Neither of those get you very far. In truth, one minute I feel like I’m on a raceway zipping through life in first place. I will feel good and feel blessed. I feel honored to have given birth to the most gorgeous set of Irish twins that I have ever met. But the entire time I’m sparring with a monster. Sometimes it is big, other times it is small. When I’m jumping hurdles and dodging bullets, it’s small but it doesn’t take much for it to grow. Things like waking up late, not eat breakfast, being reprimanded at work, or any form of interruption to my routine will cause the monster to grow. Then I’m battling Goliath.

I try to fight it off by thinking about things like caring for my kids and keeping my job. Those are the two immovable aspects of my life that keep me centered. The monster wins sometimes. Sometimes it will eat me alive but I’m still fighting and struggling to get out. I have to get back to my life, my kids, and my work. I CAN’T BE EATEN! Then I give up. I give up and curl in its belly. I stay curled in its belly feeling extremely defeated and overwhelmed.

While I’m in the belly of the beast, I think about my spending habits, the wrong turns I’ve made in life, and the missed opportunities. I wonder what I have done wrong and why my peers seem to be excelling but I feel like I haven’t budged. I consider what I could do differently going forward and then I kick myself in the back for being such a hard learner.  What the fxck is wrong with you? Why do you keep doing this? You’re clearly an idiot – or are you just insane? This is the beginning of the cycle.

Then someone, it could be a friend or a family member, will try to help me out of the monster’s belly. Even though their voices are muffled, I can still hear them through the monster’s belly. But it doesn’t always help. In my mind the Chaos Theory starts to run its course. I begin to imagine all of the things that will go wrong if I don’t manage to get out of the abyss I have allowed myself to trip into.

There’s a sense of responsibility that doesn’t allow me to wallow. My kids are usually the end point for me. I can’t struggle with being a single mom and having some form mental illness. I have to pick my battles and I choose not to settle in the the monster’s belly because I have something far more pressing to attend to.  I want to see my girls grow and excel. There’s a burning desire to give them everything I didn’t have. They need me far more than I need to feel sorry for myself. The pit in my chest that weighs me down gets lighter around my babies but what happens when they don’t need me anymore? I try not to think about it.

So it’s settled – this isn’t mental illness, it’s life. Right?