Your cart

Your cart is empty

Can’t Come to The Phone


Living with what physicians diagnose as clinical.

Media emphasizes as an illness.

Teachers categorize as a deficit.

It can only be ingested as a negative attribute.

Something that society should nurture on your behalf.

A crutch to blame an outburst on or “off days” perhaps.

But as living proof, surrounding stigmas could only be accepted as such until not a cure, but solution could be done.

My life’s theme has always surrounded growth and learning from what/who hinders that positive motion.

“Clinical” Depression feels like anything but that when the feelings are felt head on:

without medicinal additives,

without distraction from another being


the liquid “feel good juice.”

Gloomy weather used to be an easy excuse for a rock to crawl under.

“The world hates me” days were an easy snowball into plots of “which bridge jump would be least likely to be resuscitated from?”

Missing loved ones whose spirit undoubtably traveled to eternally be with the power most Holy.

That introspection cataclysmically transmitted the idea of existence into being a deep belief that, with the Holy power is where I should have claimed home.

Now, those days are my most inspired, most educated and further self-understood.

A self-planner to who/what triggers the strongest of mental yet momental deterioration.

The guide to either re-adjust my reception of the situations or to politely excuse such from reoccurring.

To not allow habitual behavior to dictate who and what I embody.

Realizing that I did not have to die to feel alive...

is when i cut the chord to the landline that kept me forcefully bound to my depressive habits.

Releasing those along the way that were getting in the way.

Unmasking who was impeding my road to recovery.

The hardest pill to swallow.

The toughest mirror to stare into.

& Staring back...

Was myself.


Previous post
Next post