Bell Let’s Talk

 

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Know that everyday you are not alone. 1 in 5 Canadians if not more experience mental illness in our lifetime including myself. The conversation, may it never end, let’s keep the dialogue ongoing and open. Although Bell may be operating on potentially a double standard, it is truly amazing how many people I have seen sharing their personal stories & know that there is support and ears that are open to listening. There is no health without mental health so I thought I would share a snippet from my walk last week on the river. Practicing self care is important not just looking for what will raise our self esteem but also how we can practice compassion towards ourselves.

#BellLetsTalk

Since I am not brave enough to share with my main go to’s of social media I thought I would share this very personal piece on this blog. The following was written a couple of years ago I was slipping in and out of depression and struggling with bulimia. In 2012 I sunk to a low pit attempted suicide. Not long after the attempt, I was diagnosed with Bulimia, 2013 I did 6 months of therapy, in 2014 I was sought counselling for CPTSD (Complex post traumatic stress disorder). For 6 years I actively had an eating disorder and harmed myself in anyway I could except mutilation. Often people assumed I was too happy, high functioning, normal sized to struggle with mental illness. It was often invisible unless it was someone who had lived with me. It was not until around the end of 2015 where I began to seriously overcome it I like to think now I have recovered, built a strong foundation, and have acquired the right life tools. But then again life is a journey , I slip up from time to time, and I can’t do anything more than expect the unexpected and live day by day.

Anyways, here it is:

August.2015

Ballerina Tea Bags and Self Loathing 

My eyes open at face of dawn, the sun pushes its way through my blindness windowsill. I lay stagnant as my mind processes the day ahead and the wind brushes against my naked body. The blankets leave imprints upon my skin, the proof of a long slumber, My eyes scan my cluttered surroundings, I then look below to see my face, the tip of my nose, following my large breasts, flabby belly, hip bones, furry pubic bone all radiating heat. It was as if all the warmth had left my heart to console my body in my already warm room.

Before I sit myself up a plan has already been made, half already set out with work the rest left to my insecurities. The free time ahead brings a pending anxiety because I know as soon as I get up the mirror awaits me. I look at the mirror, and it tells me the answer. The same answer it is every time, that the world awaits, and I am not worthy of it. So my body falls to a made up string of false impulses, and my mind can’t help but to follow. A set of invisible challenges, falling to hours of self-destruction, time passes and the only clarity I get is the inevitable self-hate and the reminder that I picked it over my friends, I picked it over a nice cup of coffee, I picked it out of being productive, I picked it over my family. My eyes tear, fighting, falling, crying an invisible struggle.

Mindful stability alone has become a myth, a fallacy ruled by inconsistency.  Years of the same old self convictions of being unlovable, intangible, too much to handle, another troubled soul.  As result, I’ve created an iron cage of my own sickness inhaling the red dust, delirious from the thought of my own sadness and loneliness. As time passes, I will grow too large for this cage, and will inevitable sink in the soil, like an elephant in quicksand.

The line between yearning to be alone, has faded into my own bottomless pit of social anxiety, isolated by my own thoughts. The pacing within this head is tiresome, weak from the knee down, bruised from the waist up, disintegrating from within.

The ebs and flows of these tidal waves have become erosive, rolling away with fragments flaking away with each tide. Scattered reflections of a depressed self is seen by the way the clothes lay across my floor, a cupboard, a fridge of food half empty, and a toilet bowl full. A pile of empty laxative bottles, and over used three ballerina extra strength tea bags in the trash. Leftover remnants of a sexual escapade, or a computer filled with erogenous triggers. The only source of comfort received is the concrete that meets my feet and my arms that have the potential to wrap around my body. Hugs are painful a reminder to keep running shoes near in fear of another quick leaving soul to come and go through this broken door.  My dreams keep this soul alive, awaiting sleep to awaken to a hope that maybe one one day the sun shine and bring my body and mind back to life. That one day I will heal and truly learn to love me.

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