A Break That Needs Resetting: Part 1.


Christmas 2018, I spent sleeping on a couch by myself while my family broke crackers filled with confetti and wore festive hats, with laughter shining bright in their eyes. I don’t remember getting a call but maybe I did

That memory is vague, hazy. The only clear thing I can pinpoint is blinking up at the ceiling and wondering if I had ever felt like I belonged anywhere. If the loneliness would eventually tear open my chest and if it did, would the agonizing pain then cease? I wondered if at any point in my life had I ever felt loved or was I just a part of a puzzle, that resembled my family, but never fit exactly into place?

Christmas Eve 2019 was spent packing presents from under my sister’s tree in a black bag as she screamed at her husband so loud that it reverberated against my ears, had my fingers trembling with sweat. She was leaving, she said.

We drove forty-five minutes to get away, I suspect it took less time for them to make up but I wasn’t privy to that conversation. I was asleep. Woken by my sister the next morning stating we were going back to her husband, to his family. I would rather deal with my loneliness like the year before than be with her new family. I was uncomfortable around people on the best of days and the previous night’s screaming match brought out memories I’d prefer left buried.

All I knew was that I didn’t want to go on a holiday celebration where people pretended there wasn’t a festering gaping wound, covered up with a band-aid. My sister pleaded, her husband phoned with desperation in his voice because my sister wouldn’t leave me by myself, so I had to forgive them all and put on a merry face because it was Christmas and Christmas was about family. My voice on any matter had never been heard before, I didn’t think it would be this time. Just discarded to the side as something in the way of an ultimate goal. I caved. I didn’t know I had boundaries to protect and keep close, so, it was an inevitability that I let my family cross them.

Christmas 2020 was…painful. It tore strips off my soul, doused me in fire, and made me reborn into something new. Eventually.

Family that we hadn’t seen for a while were coming to visit and for the first time I had a respectable job — A soul-destroying job — but a job that paid nonetheless. For the first time, I could buy presents for my family. I wasn’t an outcast anymore. I wasn’t signing my name with shame next to another name on a shiny holiday card, all the while we pretended I had actually made a contribution for a gift. I was a functioning member of society, just like they all wanted. Well, functioning was probably stretching it, but if they could ignore the dead look in my eyes, and the smile that didn’t quite reach my mouth, then so could I.

There were two fundamental days that changed how I viewed my place in my family.

The first was Christmas Eve. While I shopped for presents for my family, I bought a dress for myself, something to boost my confidence. Something yellow, not my standard uniform of black, so my father would prehaps say something nice. Maybe, hopefully. It was the season for miracles, I could hope and to help that hope along, I could dress in a way that wouldn’t cause my father to look at me with a mixture of mirth and disappointment.

All it took was a hairband. Black. Cute. Normal, to drown that theory in cement. My father, well, let’s just say he said something cruel, a lot racist, and then laughed it off as a joke, called me too sensitive. I walked away, couldn’t stand to have a fight in front of his new wife and I didn’t want to cause a scene really. I was out of strength to even frown. I sat outside, looked at the open kitchen door, and watched as my family laughed and joked inside. With some inner clarity that crushed my heart, I knew that I never belonged to that world. To that family. I’d always be an outsider. I’d never make my puzzle piece fit. I was, as I had always been, alone.

Christmas day was bad. Terrible. Embarrassing. I had high hopes despite the night before, my sister and I had grown closer in the past year. She said it was tradition for us to spend Christmas day together. I must have had memory loss about the disaster that was the year before. It didn’t matter. She needed me, she wanted a part of her family mixed with her husbands’. She didn’t want to feel lonely amongst them. I could relate, and I never let my family down. It just wasn’t in me. Plus I had a silly crush on someone that would be there. It seemed a perfectly grand idea to sit in the sun, have a drink, laugh, and for once feel like my puzzle piece fit.

Hope was always a hard thing to crush inside of me. I desperately wanted validation from my family, I wanted to feel like I mattered, like I belonged, that I had a place to feel safe.

Problem was, my family liked to pull the rug from under me at every given opportunity.

My sister who needed me to not feel alone didn’t really talk to me that day. She spoke and chuckled with others and I slowly simmered. Wasn’t it enough that I showed support, loyalty, love? Why was it so difficult for them to give some of that back. Why did I always, always, end up alone?

I headed for the alcohol and removed myself from any embarrassment I might cause and laid on the greenest grass, away from the happiness, the joy, the laughter floating down to me, so close I could touch it but somehow knowing it would forever be out of my reach.

I screamed at my sister that night, filled with alcohol swimming in my veins and fury boiling my skin. I slept, woke up ashamed, whatever the provoking, I never wanted to be that person. That person was my mother, my father, and now… me. Of the many version of myself that I hated, drunk and angry was one that disgusted me, turned my stomach. Whispered a legacy I had yet to claim.

Over coffee, we talked. I apologized, told her that I didn’t want to be that person. I tried to stem the tears, not wanting them to be used against me, but I’ve never learned the art of shoving the pain down so deep that it doesn’t come out in physical ways.

“You have a heart filled with hatred.” She said it like she wasn’t going for the jugular. Like she wasn’t keeping her own anger locked inside.

“You need to get your shit together.”

I knew that. I knew that, but I didn’t know how.

Some kind of masochistic urge and maybe a bit of a test to see if she’s cut deeper made me ask, “Do you think he’s out of my league?”

My sister looked at me with tired eyes like I was exasperating, maybe even a bit pitiful to be asking about a man when we were discussing how my life had turned out, “He’s out of everyone’s league.”

It didn’t answer my question but it kind of did.

The car ride was tense. Even though I apologized, even though I told her it was stupid, that I was wrong, I could feel her distancing herself and I didn’t blame her. Who would want to be around someone with hatred in their heart?

I didn’t know it then, I was too wrapped up in self-hatred, afraid that my darkness would consume me and everyone I had loved would flinch in disgust — Ashamed that my blood polluted the waters.

But I know it now. I had reasons for that hatred. Justified reasons.

After the Christmas of 2020, I spent a week away with that family that came from out of town. I drove in the backseat and as the miles stretched on. Far away from my father, my sister. I knew, with crystal-like clarity that to get my shit together, I’d have to break a bone. It would be painful, something I would never imagine doing but something had to break and for the first time in my life, I was determined that it wasn’t going to be me.

The Caffeine. The Heartache. The Struggle. The Writers Journey.


It’s day 1267920218208 of my writer’s journey and I’m typing this post surrounded by an empty cup filled only with the dredges of coffee grounds and all my hopes and dreams.

Okay, that’s a bit morose.

Actually, this year has been wonderful for my writing career. I’ve written articles for a provisional newspaper and one for How to Love Comics. I’ve got more of my art out there and have made a decent dent in my journalism career than I ever thought was possible. I’ve even started to work on my mental health activism. I’ve come a long way from the woman of previous years that felt so lost and achingly alone. the woman who thought that the momentous things I’m achieving right now were a baseless fantasy. That anyone but me could do it.

I am proud… sometimes, mostly…rarely at all.

Logically, I know I should be. These aren’t small things. It took blood, sweat, and so many tears to get here. But, still. Still, I feel I should be doing more. That it’s not enough.

You see, dear reader, I have a book I’m currently working on. It’s my white whale, my Everest. (mostly because I think I’ll never reach the bloody top) It’s the story I’ve been obsessed with since I was seventeen. That’s more than a decade of revisions, getting annoyed at the garbage I’ve written, and just scraping the whole thing. Bleaching it from my memory and hard drive. Not once, not twice but five times. Five, I tell you!

To be fair to myself, when I started writing it, I definitely wasn’t in the state of mind to think any of it was good. I was severely depressed and doubted my talent constantly.

Now, I’m in a good place. Surrounded by good people, and my story has more depth than previous incarnations. I’ve added all the things I adore; Fantasy, epic romance, angst, humor, and witty language. I’ve also added mental health into the mix because I feel strongly about it and I want my work to include that. I want my characters to struggle with similar things that the majority of real people deal with every day. Albeit in a fantasy realm.

So, yes. I love the story I’m slowly but surely piecing together. I’ve gotten further than I have before. 132pgs. That’s incredible and I should be proud, I should feel amazing about it and I was. When I got that tunnel vision to write when I focused on nothing but my story day in and day out. I was moving at the speed of light, I was problem-solving left and right, I was working out plotholes. Making the story character-driven. It would be about redemption! And found families! Two lost souls that inspired each other to do better! There’d be magic and fighting! There’d be love! Tears! Hugs! Punches to the face, repeatedly! There’d be emotions! All the emotions!!

And then! Then there’d be…Nothing.

Just nothing but a blinking line filling me with embarrassment at my failure to get any words out. The embarrassment turned to shame as my personal deadline of August to finish my first draft came and went. My birthday specifically.

My little congratulated note filled my screen as I blinked at the harsh light.

Well Done! It read, I’m so proud of you! You deserve this.

But I didn’t work hard or deserve it. I made excuses. Ones that seemed valid at the time but now seem woefully inadequate. I just didn’t have inspiration, I was exhausted, which may have been true at first, but then, while I wouldn’t call it depression, I fell into something. A wave of insecurity. maybe. My stories have been done before, what if I write something that hurts someone without me knowing it? Maybe my characters are two-dimensional. Have I said this before? I think there’s a lot of repetition. The last chapter I wrote confounded me, I just couldn’t move past it and all my ideas and inspiration fell through my hands like mist.

It wasn’t that I lost interest, I wanted to write my book. Desperately. I have a story to tell. I’d like to be a published author soon and to do that requires hard work and sacrifice. I know this, which led to that vicious voice in my head, the one that started out as my father and then morphed its way as my own.

You’re lazy, it whispered.

Scared of a little work, it said.

Think about how everyone has supported you, think of how you’ve failed them! It yelled

Think about how disappointing you are.

The thing is, logically I know I’m loved, cared for. It’s hard to believe, difficult to understand some days, but most days I can see the love people have for me. Most days I can see the love I have for myself.

I think the problem is that writing is a long and lonely process. I love that process and being an introvert I like being alone. But I still don’t do well with being all alone with my craft, my insecurities plague me. I hate admitting this but I’m nothing but honest so, I like positive reinforcement. I never had that growing up, hell I never had much of it for a long time. So, yes. I believe the most important thing is to have faith in yourself and your abilities, but I also can love when people tell me that my words mean something to them. It makes me feel like I’ve touched another person’s soul, it makes me feel not so alone in this big wide world.

But writing a book isn’t an instant feedback type of deal. I have to sit long hours fixing my story together in a way that makes me happy with the words I’m crafting to make a world. It can be isolating at times.

For the moment, I’ve stopped speaking about my book to people for many reasons, sometimes it’s because I feel like I talk too much about it and don’t want to bother anyone with my constant story ideas. Recently I haven’t been talking about it because I haven’t written anything and I’m embarrassed to say so. It’s also because most people don’t ask, so it makes me feel small to bring it up in conversation. Like I’m forcing my insane ramblings onto people. So, I don’t. I’m insecure about it even though I know I have talent.

There’s some good news though, last night I got back into my book. Edited, added some context to previous chapters, and finally worked on the much-dreaded chapter I had stalled at. I’m happy to report, dear reader, that all together I wrote about 8000 words, give or take.

The funny thing is for weeks I had been procrastinating, telling myself I’d do it the next day and we all know how that typically goes. I just thought about the chapter, had a vague idea of what I wanted to do, then said to hell with it and got my laptop. I sat my butt down on the porch outside and worked through the night until daybreak. I wasn’t particularly motivated or inspired. I was actually feeling quite sad and dejected. I just knew that if I told myself to leave it for the next day, that day might never come and I’d be continuing the cycle again.

I know I’m too hard on myself. I know that I’m my biggest critic but somehow, someway, I’m going to find the balance of working hard while still being kind to myself and my needs.

I always want to be honest while I write these posts, so my feelings can come out raw and maybe to some like I don’t genuinely have a passion for what I do. Nothing can be further from the truth, I love what I do. I’d never, in a million years want to have a career in anything else (besides professional reader…or coffee taster, actually, no, I’ve got it. Professional Cat Cuddler, yep that’s the one.) but everything in life has its shares of problems. I share my own so hopefully, someone in the same paddle boat feels less alone.

Nobody walks this world alone, you shouldn’t have to either.

Much Love, Wren. xx

(Side note, I may make this into a series of my author’s journey. The high and lows of it all, the drafts, the agents, the publication. If anything, it might stem my procrastination!)

A Support System & the Linear Journey of Mental Health


Anxiety, depression and PTSD is…a lot, and so is the daily life of living with a mental illness. Not only do you have to struggle with your own bad days, but the people around you have to struggle as well.

First, before I go on talking about my experiences, I want to let you know that I’m in no way a professional on the subject. Yes, I have struggled with mental illness since I was a young teenager and I like I’m almost positive most people who have been diagnosed with mental illness, researched the hell out of the subject. But that’s about the limit on my credentials. I’ve researched with the power of Google, I’ve read textbooks like Abnormal Psychology (16th Edition) as well as other psychology textbooks, but there are absolutely no credentials to my name. I am fascinated by it and I like to help people feel they’re not alone. I’m not a doctor is what I’m saying. I’d be real bad at it.

There’s a saying these days regarding mental health: The process is not linear.

That helped me a lot. All that hatred and frustration I felt inside, that voice that shouted at me on a daily basis, “Why aren’t you better?”

Well, because as much as we wish it, talking to a professional, getting the correct tools to survive and in most cases the right medication, it’s not a cure. When I was diagnosed, I knew I’d be on meds for the rest of my life, I knew a lot of things in my life had to change. But I thought my recovery would be linear, I thought I wouldn’t have severe days that would regress my progress but it did. And I couldn’t figure out why.

One of the tools that were so helpful was a support system. It matters that you have people to turn to when you’re feeling the lowest and they give you a sense of safety. That even though you’re going through your worst they love you regardless. They love you for you and they don’t define you because of your mental illness. It’s a part of you but it’s not you.

There’s probably a more comprehensive list on what I’m going to talk about next but for the sake of this post I’m putting a support system into two categorizes. (these support groups can be friends or family)

  1. A safe and welcoming support system. (where there is no judgment but open communication.)
  2. A toxic support system (that generally leads to more harm than good.)

From my own experience, I spent several years in a toxic support system. Mostly because it was largely formed by family and family who are toxic isn’t the best place to form a support system. It can be a blessing when they are supportive but in the cases where family can effect you negatively, it’ll just spiral.

About a two years ago, I went through treatment. I took my meds, I was working with the tools the professionals had given me. I thought I was getting better, I wasn’t. I knew that deep down but denial is such a strong force. It helps you to not think about the unthinkable. There were a few problems to my attempt at recovery. Firstly, I wasn’t doing it for myself; that should have been a red flag, that I was pretending to be happy was another sign. I had been screaming for help before and after I had gotten it, when my father thought I had gotten it, it was easier to make myself believe that. Easier than actually making the realization that my journey wouldn’t be linear. It’s a hard thing to admit that there wasn’t a quick fix and how could I tell that to others when I didn’t want to think it myself? If I thought about it, then there would be obvious set backs and a glaring problem that I didn’t want to fix because it meant stepping away from my support system. From my family. How could I do that when I knew it would cause so much hurt? Not just to me but with everyone involved. So, I took the easy path. It may have worked in the short term but the price had yet to be paid for the long term.

That price would be my soul.

Because my family and more specifically my father had no clue on how to treat me, he came up with tough love, as I’m sure he’d say it was. To me it was verbal and emotional abuse. A pattern he had used before. And I felt crazy thinking that, crazy with the knowledge that he’d do that to me. So I denied it. For a long time. Because even if he didn’t do it out of malice it was still being done. He loved me but he kept on hurting me, and no matter how I tried to fix myself so he would be happy, it never really changed. There was always something I wasn’t doing right. His wife also suffered with depression, she has for awhile and she coped with it. He couldn’t or wouldn’t understand how I could not take her remedy and apply it to my own. So I went with the path of least resistance.

I got a 8 – 5 job as a receptionist. I got myself an apartment and paid rent and my writing was non existent because I was bone-weary, I was exhausted of just existing. I had all the things I should have wanted, a job that paid the bills, a place to call my own. Why wasn’t I happy?

Simply put I hated that life. Please don’t misunderstand, working at a job and getting the freedom you deserve is a blessing, and I wouldn’t take that away from anyone who is happy. Who finds meaning in their job and with it a sense of peace and security.

I didn’t. I hated my job, I didn’t like my boss. I felt criticized and humiliated on a daily basis, even though I thought I was doing my best at it. My boss was reserved and I got that, but when my boss started criticizing my anxiety or waved it away as insignificant, I felt small. My boss would say that because I had a job now I should be better, I shouldn’t have any real reason for anxiety. It’s somehow worse when I think my boss had a job in a medical profession. My boss and my job made me feel less than human. Just another cog in the machine. I didn’t get a shred of humanity working there. I didn’t have freedom, I had fear, stress and an abundance of anxiety. I tried my best to help them, even when it wasn’t in my job description but nothing I did was good enough, no matter how hard I pushed or tried, my work was sub-par. I was sup-par and I didn’t know how to fix it, how to change the working environment to be less tense, to change my work to meet with approval instead of a screaming match in front of clients.

I dreaded waking up and going to work, there was no purpose for me there, but when I told my misgiving to my father it was brushed away by “That’s how all jobs are in this life. You hate it. That’s reality.” That wasn’t good enough for me, I didn’t want that miserable long existence as my reality. Not if it didn’t make me happy. If I had to be at a place more than my home there had to be some redeeming qualities to it. I had to have some kind of purpose. And if that was what my father and family had experienced in their jobs, then it wasn’t going to work for me.

One of the hardest things I could hear at this time came from a member of my support system. It was when I had been looking for a job before landing the one I would eventually get. I had spent all day putting out my CV for jobs. Applying for multiples of them. I did that every day like it was my job. So after the hours I had spent doing that, I wanted to do something for myself, something that would be fun. The first thing I did was attend The Red Tent. My friend Altasha was hosting the event and asked if I’d be willing to write an article about it, as she had seen an article of mine before and liked my writing. I was genuinely humbled and so happy that she would ask. I love writing, I love telling stories, it is I believe one of my purposes in life. Other people didn’t seem to think that, it was a hobby, sure, but not a career to be followed.

The other thing I wanted to do was silly but I liked to do it cause it was fun. I like making amv’s and for people who don’t know what that is, you just take basic clips from anime you enjoy or a series/movie and edit it with music and upload it to YouTube. I love watching them and making them. It was just something fun for me, a way to decompress. I made the choice to tell this person in my support system about these two things I’d be doing, but as it didn’t pay she didn’t see the merit. I could tell she thought it was stupid when she looked at my amv. She thought it was downright irresponsible to write about the Red Tent when I wouldn’t be getting paid. When I told her that I got a free admission and maybe a start to write more seriously, she still didn’t enjoy that I was taking time away to do it. She had similar activities that she would do, like paint and crafting. But when it came to things I enjoyed doing it was met with derision.

Then came the conversation I never thought I’d hear from her, more so because I respected her opinion, I trusted her. I knew she had a kind soul. So it blindsided me when she told me that “she could see I was trying but that I wasn’t trying hard enough.” That “I should be concentrating on making money and not on silly things that won’t.” It hit hard. Those words rung in my mind for a long time, that I wasn’t trying hard enough. Every time I failed or was depressed those words would haunt and mock me. You’re not trying hard enough!

When I did get that job my family was shocked that I could actually achieve it, it’s difficult to say but they’ve always treated me as stupid. Things like getting a course done in TEFL with high marks or getting a job dumbfounded them. It also made me realize that they would never consider me an equal. And when things got worse I had that thought, like a virus had infected my mind. “You’re not trying hard enough.” But that was the thing, I could never try hard enough because what they wanted from me would make me miserable. I couldn’t bend and twist to a painful degree just to fit the mold they laid out for me. I had tried and it landed me in a very dark place. I changed my wardrobe when it was clear they didn’t like the style I loved. I wore colors that made me feel unconformable in my own skin, it wasn’t me. But I tried anyway. I love high waisted pants but to them I was too fat to pull it off, they took pictures to show me how unflattering it was. So I stopped wearing them. I lost a lot of that part which felt like me. I thought that if I changed, not only my clothes but my personality, they’d be happy and they were, I think because they thought they were helping me with their comments. I just got better at pretending. Because I knew if I tried to be myself they wouldn’t like that person, mainly because who I am goes against what they believe is normal.

My father never understood me, he didn’t understand my anxiety and depression but instead of trying to be sympathetic or have empathy in regards to how he treated me, he went in the opposite direction.

Every room we entered was tense, and it never ended in peace. He criticized my clothing choice, called me a whore because of what I was wearing. He hated that I liked black. He hated that I swore, he often told me that I was supposed to act like a lady. Even sitting cross-legged would aggravate him. If I felt particularly overwhelmed and oversensitive to noise, he would turn the music up when I had put it down. There were small actions that he inflicted on me but it stated clearly that he didn’t respect or believe me. I was so worn down by his behaviour but instead of fighting my father I tried to minimize the destruction I wrought on him but in doing so I lost my voice. When I tried speaking to him about my depression his advice was always, Be Positive! Like I had the ability to do that with a flip of a switch, like I could take a walk and suddenly feel better about my life. It didn’t work for me, especially since my mentality was steeped in darkness.

There are a lot of things about my father that people would never see, that he hides really well. He lies, he told me to lie about his behavior to cover his tracks. His cheating, his alcoholism, anything that wouldn’t paint him in the best of light. Things he’d undoubtedly get in trouble over. Family is family, he would say. You do everything for them. But he never stuck to that, not really. As he would ask me to lie for him, he’d lie about me to others to make him sound like a better father. People have a skewered perception of who I am because it was easier to make me out to be a lazy ungrateful bitch than admit his own faults. He was an absentee father in my childhood, he drank a lot, married a lot. Brought his girlfriends home who loved him and treated me like an obstacle to that love. One girlfriend in particular gave me a lot of trauma, weight issues and trust issues. My father never really let off on the weight issue either. His girlfriend at the time had a problem with gambling so he paid off her debt instead of my school-fees. I have a grade 9 education because of it. She got an engagement ring. It never entered his mind that his choices would have repercussions. They did. When we had a meeting with one of my therapists, I honestly thought it went well, we opened up and promised not to hurt each other, to listen and communicate. It was only several months after that, that I had learnt what he took from that meeting was that I was telling everyone what a shit father he was. His actions and inaction’s have had a profound ripple effect on me. Unraveling the trauma and to an extent brain washing is like trying to diffuse a bomb. I don’t know which wire I pull will lead me to a panic attack, nightmare, or meltdown. On one occasion I couldn’t use the bathroom because he was on the phone to someone, just hearing his voice from a foot away had me paralysed. I hid in that bathroom for 30 minuets. The only thing I can do now is figure out what sets me off and try to fix it. Somethings are easier than others.

This isn’t to condemn him and to find a platform where I can do that. With all my heart I hope he has a good life and has peace. I just don’t want to put myself in his line of fire, I don’t want to be involved in his life. I deserve peace as well.

My father and all the trauma he gave me, made me feel crazy, because he is a decent person, he has a big heart and is loyal to his family. And because that loyalty and love never shined on me, I questioned myself on a daily basis. I thought that if he couldn’t love me then I had to be fundamentally broken. I had to be crazy, I had to be the problem.

The thing is though; I wasn’t.

For what ever reason, my father resented me, he hurt me and he would never change that toxic behavior because he always thought he was right. Even against my doctors ‘ advice. It took one conversation with a trusted friend that made me believe I wasn’t insane. I can not tell you how just that, just words of support, and a space to not feel judged changed everything. Because it did.

After several years with him and a year at my old job, I finally quit and decided to cut off contact with my father. I moved 3000 km away from the only family I had ever known. I burnt a lot of bridges because of it. I hurt a lot of people who didn’t or couldn’t see how toxic my father was to me. They blamed me for his hurt. They never mentioned my own. And yes that was hard, it still is, but I couldn’t control their reactions, I could only control my own choices. And this choice saved my life and I’ll never be sorry for that.

I lost a lot of my family but I gained a true support system. That’s the thing, it’s vital to have people in your life that understand you. Who get your mental illness and don’t treat you as less than human because of it. I do still have my days, but I can tell you right now that it is not as severe or crippling as it was. There are people in my life now who understand that progress is not linear with mental illness. They know how I feel about crowds and will make sure I always feel safe. They get that as I’m working out my trauma and it will take time, sometimes I’ll feel worse about it all, but I will always ALWAYS feel better about it, because I am working on it and not burying my head in the sand.

I choose what I wear now, I can sit however I like and I can talk about my mental illness in deep conversations. With no judgement, only support and an ear willing to listen. I have coping mechanisms that work for me and if they don’t, I change them. I can talk about it and the relief of that is incredible.

It took two stays in a psychiatric hospital, moving to the other side of a country and breaking off ties that were harmful to me to get here. It was not a linear process and it still isn’t. There’s still work to be done but I’m not scared of that. I feel more like a person now than ever before. I feel like myself again, the dark of that but especially the light. I’m working on my writing career and I have no words to express how fulfilled I am because of it. It’s a gift that requires some sacrifices but they are the ones I’m willing to make. It comes at no cost to my well-being or my soul.

I need you to hear me when I say this: No one should make you feel crazy. No one has the right to fit you into a mold you want no part of. You deserve peace and safety. You deserve to be loved with no conditions attached. If your support system isn’t giving you that, if they make you feel less than you are, if they are hurting you, then they don’t deserve you. Because you deserve the world.

If it’s a struggle to find people who support you in your life then please consider a support group. Contact a support group online if you can. Research them and find out what they provide. I’m not fully informed on international ones but I will put a link bellow for the one I do know. It’s for the South African Depression and Anxiety Group. But they do have support groups for various mental illnesses not just depression and anxiety. It’s a free support group to join as well. They provide a safe place free of judgment to like-minded individuals.


I hope reading this helped you feel less alone. I know the journey can be incredibly difficult, that sometimes it feels like a mountain you’re too tired to climb and cliches really don’t help the matter. But I was there, I did feel helpless and so alone. And I’m not saying my trauma made me stronger, I’m saying I made myself stronger despite the trauma. I truly believe you’re just as strong and can make it. Believe in yourself and the endless possibilities and never be afraid to ask for help. It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s a show of emotional intelligence, of being human. No one walks this world alone, you shouldn’t either.

Love Wren ♥