Eighteen: Shaken

Have you ever just heard horrible, awful news that shakes you to your core?

Awful, isn’t it? Finding out something that just destroys every little piece of you with no hopes of recovering from it until you shake yourself awake from this horrible, awful nightmare… That’s what it’s like every single day for me.

Well- that’s how it is as of late.


I’m not quite sure what it is that has every piece of me breaking as if I were a poorly made glass figurine made by the apprentice blowers at a novelty tourist shop in Helen or Stone Mountain. You know the ones.

The glass figurines designed only to be looked at behind a thick glass box with one eye shut and the lights dimmed just so you can only see it when you tilt your head far enough to the side that no movement will shake the ground your standing on.

That’s what it feels like I’ve become in the last few weeks… months… years.

A poorly made glass figurine that will break just at the wrong look being thrown my way.



My eyes can’t handle the slightest shine of the sun in the wrong direction when they were expecting to be shielded by the shadows of the weeping willow of a soul.

My nose can’t handle the whiffs of a harshly made roasted chicken that’s slightly darkened burned on the underside because it crossed the street wrong.

My ears can’t handle the clicks and clacks of the keyboard as my fingers slide across the keys when they’re used to the sound of a pencil scratching the perfectly laid papers.

My body can’t handle the unsteady ground my feet stumble upon when it’s gotten so used to the expected pace of a man-made machine with buttons to regulate speed and destination.




I don’t know why I’ve suddenly gone from managing and capable to powerless and breakable.


Seventeen: Shutting Down.

Wow. I haven’t written in weeks… Honestly i’m thinking of shutting this blog down.


My mind is shutting down. My heart is shutting down. My body is shutting down.


I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

Sixteen: Yet, Here I Am.

I have this ridiculous image in my head that focuses on this… idea of a forever.

I’ve never been able to think about a real future before this, but now it’s all I can hope for. I’ve always been the person that motivates and pushes everyone else into everything they’ve ever been able to dream of, but I’ve also always been the person that planned and hoped for a future with no actual intention of ever getting to that point.

It’s … stupid and unfair that I’m typing this when I know that so many people in this world have it a lot worse than I do. I get that- honest- I do. I understand that completely, but, for some reason, God thought it was fitting that I’m here in this world with every possible opportunity present and yet here I am…

Being the self-destructive person that I am, crying and hesitating anytime anything remotely good could happen to me because I can’t seem to find any way in this world to be okay with the possibility that I may actually be here two years down the road… HAPPY.


I just wrote and published my first book…

I just wrapped out an incredible show that I was able to offer my time to.

I just reorganised and cleaned out my incredible boyfriend’s room and got rid of his ex’s things because he and I are almost three months into our relationship and we’re discussing marriage.


Yet here I am… laying on the couch in his living room with his daughter laying on top of me while we watch Greys Anatomy & Elmo… All I can think about is that what if I’m no good for them?

What if my love for her, my love for him… isn’t enough?

What if my past is too much of an influence on the foreseeable future?

What if I can’t let go of everything that’s wrong with me to realise that they are everything that is right?


Fifteen: You are More.




oh, my god. I feel SO terrible for basically deserting everyone that might happen to occasionally catch my ridiculous blogging habits that only ever happen when I’m on one end of the scale or the other… (aka. BIPOLAR IS FUN, KIDS.)


SO. Quick update.


Today, 2/13/18 is my TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY!!!!


Now, I totally understand how most people would be all “eh, it’s your 23rd whoopdee freakin doo” BUT here’s the thing…




Forreal. I never even WANTED to until recently. I never thought anything good could come out of my measly little self.

You know that song? “What’s My Age Again?” by Blink 182?

I SWEAR. Like. I NEVER thought I could make it to the day that I would blast the song as loud as I possibly could on my 23rd birthday because I had DREAMED for so long that I would be gone before I could even graduate high school.



But here I am, at 23 years-old with a job in the career field of my dream, a boyfriend I’ve loved since I was 12, and a BOOK RELEASE ON MY BIRTHDAY.


That’s right. I’m 23 years old and I published my FIRST BOOK ON MY 23RD BIRTHDAY.


Can you believe it?! I CAN’T AND I’M THE ONE THAT WROTE IT.




  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 7 years old is TWENTY THREE and is IN THE CAREER FIELD OF HER DREAMS.


  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 12 years old is TWENTY THREE and not only loves a boy BUT LOVES HERSELF.


  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 17 years old is TWENTY THREE and is OFFICIALLY A PUBLISHED AUTHOR.


  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 22 years old is TWENTY THREE and is ACCEPTING HER DEPRESSION AND TURNING IT INTO HER BEST ASSET.



The book is a collection of thoughts and experiences in poetry form that have helped me cope with some of the things I’ve felt in this life of depression and other mental illnesses- it’s main focus being depression.

Even if any of you reading this decides not to buy my book, I hope that this blog post will inspire you to rethink the gun in your hands, the handle of jack on your nightstand, the bottle of pills in your medicine cabinet, the rope in the grocery bag… Whatever your weapon of choice– I beg of you and I pray to God that you are NOT successful in your death mission because YOU ARE MORE !!!

Fourteen: What is a Mountain without its Valley?

So, I realised this morning that I haven’t posted in a little bit over a week and I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly I want to post…
Have you ever heard that thing that people say: “The bigger the issue, the smaller you write.”?
I know that I made this blog as a way of self-expression and self-exploration, but the more I dig, the more I want to keep buried. I’m trying to work my way out of this- I really am. But for some reason, every time I think I can move past this one particular thing… 
I can’t.
I’m just not sure I’m ready for the backlash I know I’m going to recieve for it. 
I know that I need to get it off of my chest. I know that the person this most directly involves (aside from me, obviously) doesn’t even try to keep up with what’s going on in my world… So they would probably never even see this, but for some reason, I just can’t let all this out.
And it really freaking sucks because need to. want to. Or atleast, I want to want to. I know that the only way I can move further into my healing is by getting through this particular mountain. I just can’t.
I feel like… Whenever I finally build up the nerve to take that first step out of my safe little valley, I look up at the mountain in front of me and all it does is grow.
How am I supposed to conquer something that just never ends? 
I just… It’s as if this particular mountain is my own personal Everest.

I’ve been a valley for so long- constantly being flooded and looked over and travelled through and trampled on… I’m not sure I can bare the responsibility of becoming something else. Someone else.
I’m so afraid of hurting other people that I never try to stop what all of this is doing to myself… I talk about it to some of the people that see all of the pain I’m in. But they knew about it all before I ever realised it, myself. 
I’m constantly being told that I just need to confront the mountain I’m facing… They think the mountain will become a valley too- as if that’s supposed to be a good thing.
What is a Mountain without its Valley?

Valleys are the only reason mountains thrive…
Mountains are the only reason valleys exist…

What is a mountain without a valley to compare?
Explorers climb for the thrill,
Settlers live for the comfort.
What is an explorer without a home to remember?

Once a valley has flooded all that is left
is the land of high and nowhere else to go.

What is a Valley without its Mountain?
(I… I know that, whomever is reading this, doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. But, this isn’t for anyone else, really. Like every other chapter I’ve written, I will reiterate-  this is for ME and if anyone is still reading this: thank you for tagging along, I’m sorry this journey isn’t going all that smoothly or quickly.)

Thirteen: Exhausted

I’m actually, genuinely, really struggling right now.

I uhmm… I posted fairly recently that 2018 was going to be the year that I get over my depression but now that it’s here…

I’ve realised that it’s not something that I can get over. My depression is something that I have to get through. I mean, all of my issues… they’re always there and I’ve always known that there’s not a day to come that they won’t be… but, I have always hoped otherwise. Ya know?


Sometimes I’m able to convince my body to work against my mind and I’ll be happy and cheerful because I’m moving around and working constantly- sleeping only when I have to because I’m alive and living and life is great. But then there’s a break and my body has a chance to rest, and that’s when my mind realises that I was only fooling myself.

All of the baskets that I had filled with all of the eggs I had managed to juggle during my hypomanic state… well, they all get dropped, and eventually, the eggs? They crack.

And right now, in this moment… I’m not sad, no, my depression isn’t sadness. My depression is tired. No, not tired: exhausted. Worse? It’s the kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix.

I don’t know if you’ve ever read Perks of Being a Wallflower but there’s a part of the novel that Charlie says he wants to sleep for a thousand years and lately its as if that’s all I can manage to do.

And that’s how I know I’m getting bad again.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.”

Twelve: Feeling Feelings

So hey people that might happen to catch my blog … this one is probably gonna be fairly long and/or a two-parter. Or at least, that’s what my hands are telling me right now as the words just keep flowing out before I can even think about what I’m gonna say next.

Normally I title my chapter before I even think about typing anything else but tonight nothing really came to mind other than “just write, AnnaLily. Just write.” I’m actually currently on the phone with a long-time friend that I’m trying to figure things out with and I feel kind of bad because I’m honestly barely paying attention to everything else going on in this world outside of my keyboard and the words on the screen. Oops.

That was a major run-on sentence, BUT OH WELL. That’s just kind of how my brain is working right now because I’m still just trying to process everything that’s going on in the rest of my world. It’s almost as if my body and my brain are on different wavelengths. I want to just relax and take things slow and let the world come and go but my head just won’t stop running through everything else in the world and my heart is pounding faster than I’d like.

Even though I’m very open and “out” with my mental illnesses, the people I associate with most are still constantly taken aback when I’m not the cheerful & happy person in a situation. “What do you mean you’re not in a good mood? But you’re always so happy.” I always respond with: “I just mean I don’t feel good.” Because being physically sick is more acceptable and understandable than being emotionally ill.
Even though my friends all know that I deal with bipolar … and anxiety … and borderline personality… oh and depression (i know, its a lot… and yes, I really do have all of these things) it’s still just easier for me to excuse all of it as a “stomach problem” or a “migraine.”

Because even though I trust my friends to not judge me for my issues, it’s a natural reaction for humans to respond with pity and affection when someone else is sad. Except, with me, it’s not just being sad.

How am I supposed to explain that just because I was in a great mood five minutes ago it doesn’t mean that I’m any less sad than I was when I couldn’t bring myself to roll out of the bed this morning?

How am I supposed to explain that, no, I do not want to watch a new movie, but yes, I will watch a movie that I just watched three days ago? Am I allowed to say: ‘because right now, in this moment, I would just very much like to know that everything is okay for the next 105 minutes and I don’t have to question anything else in this world.’?

How am I supposed to explain that, yes, I did sleep 12 hours today but that doesn’t mean that I’m not still tired and want to sleep for 12 more because- no, I’m not just tired; I am exhausted because I’m continuously fighting with myself over wanting to live but still not wanting to be alive: because they are not the same damned thing, is exhausting.

Even in my own mental-illness community, I’m pushed aside because “you can’t have bipolar disorder and borderline personality. You just want attention.” Yes, that is actually a thing multiple people have said to me. Hell, people in my own family have even said I’m “acting out” because I want the attention. EVEN THOUGH THEY WERE THERE FOR THE DIAGNOSIS.

Are you fucking kidding me?! Like… Seriously? Trust me. If I wanted the attention, I would not be talking about how I’m terrified to go to sleep because I’m not even safe from my own thoughts there. The fact that I dream of suicide and over-dosing most nights of my life only to follow up with waking up to a body that I can’t control enough to stop the shaking and crying is not something I’m proud of.

Yes, I can and DO in fact have all four of these mental illnesses, and guess what, I even have PTSD on top of that. Whaaat? I know. Crazy that humans are multi-faceted beings in this crazy judgemental stigmatised world. But, since people in the community can’t even seem to comprehend it, I’ll spell it out for the whole world to read.

Bipolar disorder- a mental disorder, affects my mood and energy whereas borderline personality disorder (BPD)- an emotional disorder,  affects my personality and relationships. What that means is that because I’m bipolar, I occasionally have mood swings that are uncharacteristic, yet having BPD is constant and present at all times. PTSD is commonly associated with both illnesses because it’s based on perspective and emotions are known to skew reality, causing an abundance of “triggers.”

Having depression and anxiety on top of three already difficult disorders? Well, let’s just say, there’s not a day that my head and heart aren’t at war with one another. My old therapist was constantly trying to get me to explain what I was feeling, but I’ve never really been good at that.

I can explain why I’m feeling whatever it is that I’m feeling, but the emotion itself has always been enigmatic, well, at least… to me. When I try to describe my feelings, my body shuts down and my heart feels like it’s going to implode because I just can’t make sense of the feelings themselves.
Honestly, (and I know this is going to seem ridiculous,) part of me can’t comprehend the feelings because I just feel so many of them and even though I know I can recall what made me feel a specific way, I can’t rationalise it and then I feel guilty.

But I recently found out that part of the reason I feel guilty for feeling these feelings is that I have borderline personality and it causes my heightened emotions to take on a form of responsibility even when it doesn’t involve me specifically.

I’ve always encouraged others to feel their feelings because they’re there whether you want them to be or not.

But now… I’m having to learn for myself that feelings can’t be right or wrong. They just are.