It’s okay to cry

This is my mantra as of late. I have spent a good lot of the past two weeks crying. I’ve spent a lot of time being ashamed of that crying, but it’s a release. It may not all be done, but I am calmer now. I am calmer, and I am happier. That could be the medication dosage finally being correct, but I managed to stay calm and even crack some jokes at work today, which I’ve had an incredible difficulty doing. Not being able to crack jokes is akin to taking away air for me. It’s been THAT rough. Things are getting better, though, I can feel it.

I’ve decided that I will NOT be ashamed to cry. I will NOT go quietly into the night. I will still be here. I will still keep writing. THAT is what I like to do. I will still create. I will still be here to contribute. My little corner of the net is pretty small right now, but I’ve got light, and that light will grow as my voice grows louder. I will eventually write a book.

My Mission: Mental Health. If I have to traverse hell and back over and over again to get there, then so be it. I’m stubborn. I’m determined. And I’m done. I’m done with the needless suffering. I am done with suffering without a purpose. I am done avoiding my issues by keeping too busy. I’m here to grab the bull by the horns and make a better life for myself. There’s GOT to be something better.

When I finally *do* procreate (eek!), I need to set a good example to follow. A buffer in the event my own children inherit this faulty brain chemistry of mine. I can hope and wish and dream all I want, but the brazen reality is that this is something that there is no control over. I know that my mom didn’t want this sickness for me. She did not want me to suffer as I have and do. There are things that she did due to her own mental illness that made it more difficult for me, but I don’t fault her for it. I am allowed to feel angry about it. I am allowed to feel like the wrong things were done. And I am allowed to carry the knowledge that yes, mistakes were made. They came at a great cost, but whilst fumbling around in the dark, there’s not a lot one can do. Nobody’s perfect. I appreciate the good that my mom’s done in my life, most certainly. I have for a long time. I haven’t, however, acknowledged how shitty is was being a family member of somebody with mental illness. It sucks. It sucks beyond belief, especially when completely left in the dark as to what’s going on and why. And then when I developed my own “Quirks”, nobody really knew how to handle me. Ouch. But, I still stand by my mom (and dad), and recognize that they did the best that they could with what they had. And it’s okay. It’s okay to cry about it. It’s okay to laugh about it.

It’s okay to just be. And I’m alright with that for the moment.

Now, where did I put the Prozac?