A certain autoimmune disease

I realize I’ve posted quite a bit in the past few hours, but this is blog is a major new coping skill for me, and when my chest is bursting with thought, this is where the contents will fly to.

I’m hating myself for being stuck in my brain. Lobotomy, please.  Lobotomy please!!

I don’t REALLY wan’t a lobotomy because there are many things I love about myself and my brain. But they are SO hard to appreciate when my there are many other things that I hate about my brain. I’ve come to a very important conclusion:


Now that that’s been said, I want to go crazy when I’m spending time with a friend and my head is just stuck in itself. It’s almost like I see the world through the screen of my self-consciousness, anxiety, and depression. And because of that screen, I don’t see everything or enjoy everything or feel everything the way that I think others do, the way that I think I am supposed to. It is really difficult. It makes me wonder how much this is all worth pushing through for. My friend was talking to me last night about a boy, and instead of taking in her word like a normal person would, all I could think about was “what is she thinking about me?,” or “should I say this or that, or would that sound silly,” or “If I sit in this position, she is going to think I’m weird…” Seriously, this is what is seemingly constantly tearing up my every day experiences. Sucks.


But that does bring me to another point. I believe that depressed people, and people with mental illness, while unable to see things that “normal” people can see, can understand and see things that “normal” people can’t. And that is beautiful! Seriously! Think about the authors that you read in high school english– Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, and the list goes on and on. Think about all of the famous people you know have depression, or something along those lines. Are they not intensely beautiful, gifted, unique beings? They are. Yet they are also “tortured souls,” if you will. They are trapped or freed, however you choose to look at it, for the duration of their lives. So what does that make who I call “normal” people? I don’t know. Are we all “trapped” to some extent? Perhaps. Are we all “freed” to some extent? Perhaps.


Peace, Tanya

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