I’m a few months into being forty and I’m feeling good about it. I like saying I’m forty. I like being forty. I’m all around liking forty.
You may be wondering, what is this woman’s obsession with being forty? Well, I’ll tell you.
There once was a time when I didn’t think I’d make it to eighteen, let alone forty. There was a time in my life when I wrote in my diary that I was determined to take my own life before my eighteenth birthday.
I was in a very bad place, and eighteen – the official start of adulthood – seemed even more unmanageable than the teen years. My anxiety and depression ran haywire and I had little to no idea of how to manage them properly. My body image and self-esteem were deeply buried under tons of dirt and negative self-talk.
However, thanks to therapy, the idea was set aside and a plan was never made.
But then, as if the stars above heard my thoughts, I coincidentally got into a bad car accident four days before my eighteenth birthday, which resulted in having my head fly through a side-door car window. I lost consciousness and have no recollection, to this day, of what happened that dreadful night. Was I being taught a lesson? Were the stars trying to tell me something?
Whatever the reasoning was for what happened when it did, that was my wake-up call. I did not want to die, nor was I ready to.
Fast forward 22 years and I’m still here. I’m still going. I’m still pushing through, resisting my anxiety and depression’s attempts in taking me down. I’m fighting the negative self-talk and body shaming.
I’m a survivor. A warrior. A damn strong woman no matter how many times I tell myself I’m weak.
I won’t lie and say that I didn’t make some very bad choices after that incident, because I did. In all honesty, I would go through another ten years or so more of making harmful and self-destructive choices that would eventually spit me out on the other side, to this moment right here.
Since that time when I thought eighteen would never happen, I’ve graduated college and university. I’ve traveled. I’ve lived and worked abroad. I’ve met my soul-mate and married him, bought a house, and had a child. I’m not just living life. I’m thriving.
Being forty may not seem like a big deal to many. In fact, turning forty may even be a hard spot for some. But for me, it reminds me how strong I am. It keeps me in check, pointing out how far I’ve come from being that young woman writing terrible things about herself in her diary. I’ve made it an additional 22 years since my supposed end-of-the-line date.
Aging can be difficult and hard. But it can also be amazing and interesting. It can be beautiful and adventurous.
Well, at forty, I feel beautiful. I feel worth it. I feel free.
Life wasn’t – and isn’t – always simple for me living with crowded voices in my head trying to beat me down. But as I age – each and every year since turning eighteen – I appreciate the second chance I’ve been given.
Cheers to forty!!
I’m a few months into being forty and I’m feeling good about it. I like saying I’m forty. I like being forty. I’m all around liking forty.
Two years of blogging and writing and creating little memes.
Two years of spilling my life on paper – or screen, telling my story to anyone who will listen.
Two years of looking for connections and validation and camaraderie.
Two years of growing, and learning more about myself, my capabilities, and my strengths.
Two years of doing something I love to do.
I won’t lie, there have been days when I thought to myself, what am I doing? I can’t do this. I can’t write in a colourful and creative manner, drawing in readers from all over the world wide web to read stories about my life. Who’s going to care? Who’s going to listen to what little ole me has to say?
But then the community that I’ve stuffed myself into embraces me with warm words and appreciation. They connect with my words and suddenly, I’m not the only one who…
This community helps me grow and shares my words with their audiences. This community does nothing but lift each other up and I’m grateful I was able to leave my insecurities at the door and shove my way through like a cat through a mouse hole. Those in this community remind me of the importance of writing.
I want this. I want to write.
I write because it’s my favourite way to communicate. It’s the easiest way for me to release the immense and overwhelming amount of thoughts that go through my mind every day. When I was younger and going through the start of my depression, this was the way I communicated with my parents – through notes and letters. Yes, the same parents that I lived with and who I slept just feet away from.
Writing is my preferred choice of communication because I feel safe. I’m hidden behind words. I can say what I need to say without interruptions and confusions. I can lessen my anxieties by allowing my words to spill rather than drip. If you could see what goes on in my average sized head, you’d probably say it looked similar to an exploding file cabinet. Words – busy words – everywhere.
I write because it’s cathartic and it helps. It allows me to express myself in the rawest form and I get to decide if anyone else will get to hear my truths. I’m not bound by permanency until I say so.
I used to journal religiously back in high school, spilling my deepest most frightening thoughts on paper, writing vigorously until my arm cramped and I was forced to stop. You know those times. The years filled with teenage angst and emotions. Unsure where to turn or who to trust. The regular teenage hormones coupled with my developing mental illnesses became a terrifying concoction.
And writing was my life saver.
I write because I reach people. I have had a handful of people write to me, thanking me for sharing my words, the same words that have been stirring in their minds, but in which they couldn’t expel. I’ve also had people write to me to tell me that they’re there should I need them.
It’s an amazing feeling when you can share a less-than-fabulous moment about yourself and receive positive and supportive feedback from people you don’t know outside of social media. That connection is incredible and so appreciated.
I chose to start writing because I wanted to find myself again. I wanted something that was mine. I wanted to prove to myself that I could.
I keep writing because I want to.
I woke up this morning with a headache and I’m pretty sure it’s the same headache I had yesterday. I’m also pretty sure that it’s not my usual run-of-the-mill headache. No, this one is different, and I know what it means.
It means that my depression is starting to resurface.
It means that my mood is starting to slip the way paint slides down a page, slowly yet steady. It means that I better look into my invisible yet handy resource bag stat and pull out some tools I can use to get through what’s coming.
These depression-headaches refuse to give way to any kind of warding. No amount of pills or essential oils or sleep can stave off what’s coming.
As I feel my depression inching its way up like a caterpillar climbs a tree, I know what it’s looking for. It’s looking for food and it knows where to find it.
This isn’t anything I’m not used to, however, my anxiety has been in the front seat for a while now so this is a pretty hard kick in the gut, especially when things have been pretty steady as of late.
While I’ve had my usual anxiety hanging around like the last leaf on a tree that refuses to break off before winter, it hasn’t felt debilitating in a while. Not only that, I’ve been feeling good about my writing and making progress in my future plans. To add to the good list, my son is in school, my marriage is healthy, and I’m back at work.
It’s getting close to summer and everyone is racing to lose those extra 5, 10, 15 pounds they consumed over the cold winter months. For me, the gorging was unstoppable. I drank and ate whatever and whenever I wanted. I left all my insecurities outside in the freezing cold and was able to shut the door on them.
Now that the warmer weather is floating in, I’m left feeling bloated. Not just that, my face has broken out and I feel heavy and frumpy. I don’t feel like myself. I regret the way I’ve eaten and the promises I broke to myself in favour of gluttony. It was fun while it lasted, but now I’m paying the price.
All over my social media are ads for different ways lose those extra pounds. Such ads include Shakeology, 21 Pounds in 21 Days, Hydroxycut, and Whole 30. My world, they are all so appealing to me, however, I’m keeping my distance.
Now, before I give you my reason why I’m steering clear of the various weight loss methods out there, I need you to understand that I am not bashing these practices in any way. I know they work for some people, but for me, they read “danger” in red bold letters splashed across them.
You see, I have a long history of disordered eating. I live with Body Dysmorphia Disorder and, over the years, I’ve taken on several bad habits to lose weight. I’ve done diets, fad diets, popped more pills than I can remember, drank teas, counted calories, and tried cutting out foods. I even once tried a colon cleanse that ended poorly. Once I get it in my head to start diet or a cleanse, my obsessions come flooding back in like the water over a broken dam. I get caught in the storm and I have a hard time getting out.
Now being a gorger with limited willpower, it takes a lot for me stay in control. It’s not unheard of for me to binge and then work out excessively with the hope to lose the weight. I’ve gotten a lot better at managing my impulses, but I still go through this at least once a month.
My love for food and my need to be thin are at a constant battle.
I know that if I try to use one of these weight loss methods, I will go downhill. Fast. I can’t risk it. It’s taken me too long to get where I am right now and I’m not even where I want to be. My work on accepting my body as it is is a slow process, but it is moving forward. With the help of the Body-Positivity campaign and people all over the media tearing down the one-size-fits-all age-old idea of what the body “should” look like, a difference in being made and I’m coming around.
One of my biggest fears is having my son witness my old habits that are harmful. I don’t want him to know that his mom is insecure about her body. I don’t want him to hear my sobs as I look at myself in the mirror while pulling back my rolls and lifting my skin. And while he witnesses me weighing myself on a regular basis, I don’t make a peep when I see that I am a few pounds heavier than I want to be. This all here is enough to make me want to continue down my path in recovery.
Not being able to indulge in my preferred methods of weight loss allows me to practice healthy self-care and my family has got my back. We cook healthy foods and my son is an awesome motivator. While he doesn’t really eat the foods we make because he’s four and eating is rarely on his list of things to do these days, I still make them because this is what I want him eat, should he decide he’s hungry one day. I’ve cut myself some slack in the workout department as well, because sometimes life is better when it’s lived than when it’s not. Sometimes that after-work workout isn’t going to happen because coffee with a friend is more fulfilling. And that’s okay.
I don’t want to be controlled by this obsession to look a certain way.
The ads may dangle in front of my face like candy to a child, but I resist.
I resist because I have to.
I need to do this the old fashion way and if it takes me a little longer, then so be it.
The recent passing of celebrities Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have opened up the conversations we need to keep having: mental illness is a real thing and while invisible, it can be debilitating and lonely. It is not enough to only talk about it when it occurs. We need to keep that conversation going, to ensure people that they are not alone.
Last year I wrote a piece on the passing of Chester Bennington, a brilliant musician who lost his battle with depression and died by suicide. Today, after hearing about the second celebrity suicide in one week, I revisited that piece. I took time to reread I was reminded why I wrote it.
I’m here to bring awareness about a very real situation.
I am a woman who has lived with depression and anxiety for over twenty years. I am also a suicide survivor. It took me a long time to find the words to describe my experience to share it with the general public, but I did it. I did it because there are too many people living under their cloaks, afraid to take them off. There are too many people who find it necessary to paint over their faces and souls because they can’t to be vulnerable.
Depression is a disease. It’s an illness. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It doesn’t discriminate and it has no preference who it attacks.
About 4000 Canadians die by suicide every year.
We – society – is in the habit of viewing celebrities as content and happy people because they can do whatever they want. They have the freedom to travel and live limitless lives.
But the reality of the lives of some celebrities became clear this week. Money and fame don’t necessarily equal happiness. To me, Anthnoy Bourdain, a celebrity chef, had it all; he had a career I could only wish I had. He had fame, fortune, had his own show, traveled the world to experience different experiences and foods, and had his own cookbook. But unbeknownst to me and the rest of the world, he was battling demons we knew nothing about.
The stigma that surrounds suicide and mental illness is staggering, so much so that after I had my published piece on suicide out there, I was worried about what people who didn’t know about it would think about me. I was worried they would think I was selfish and inconsiderate. But what a lot of people are forgetting is that for those suffering, it’s much more than that.
We need to understand that the stigma around mental illness doesn’t just affect us ‘general’ people, it affects everyone.
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, we really do need to keep the conversations about mental illness and suicide open.
If you’re reading this and your lost, or confused, or feeling alone, I promise you this, you are not alone.
I hear you. I see you. I am you.
Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention
Canadian Mental Health Association
I don’t know about you, but I’ve had moments – many moments – where I’ve looked like my mood. You know? Like the way you feel is directly represented in the outfit you chose, or the way your hair looks defines your life at the time. Looking back on the past twenty years or so, I see a lot of mood in the way I presented myself. A lot of negative mood, if I’m being honest.
The morning I went for a hair cut was the morning I took a long look at myself in the mirror. My hair looked like a bird set up shop on my head. It was literally starting to dread itself. All it needed was a few twigs from the trees outside and you’d think I was gunning to be a model for one of those extreme fashion shows. It was limp in some areas, nappy in others, and I couldn’t tame it for the life of me.
It took a mere second and I was judging everything about myself.
Suddenly I became frumpy and bloated and I didn’t like the girl staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. I tried on several different outfits before finally picking one that I felt covered up my frump the best. It was an outfit I threw on with no care at all, not even thinking how it fully complimented my strung-out hair and fowl mood.
I got through the day by placing one of my signature fake smiles across my face – making sure it reached my eyes. I held it there until it was time to go to my appointment, which felt like an eternity. However, the moment my new miracle-worker held my hair in her hands, my mood started to shift. I knew things could only get better from here. And they did. Once she completed her magic on the confusion happening on my head, the fog started to lift. She did a wonderful job and despite the crappy outfit I had on, I felt fabulous.
Fabulous. A word you never would have heard me utter about myself 20+ years ago. A word I’m still learning to use when describing myself.
You see, self-esteem is something I’ve struggled with since that kid in elementary school told me that if I think I’m pretty, then that means I’m conceited. That stung. I didn’t understand why thinking I was pretty was such a bad thing, but I knew I didn’t want to be labelled as conceited. Since I was around the tween ages and nothing made sense to me, I followed that kid’s advice and changed the way I saw myself. Since then, insecurity has followed me around like a lost puppy.
With a little help from my friends, my tapered-jeans went out the window and I was introduced to this thing called “90’s fashion”. I looked better, but I wasn’t cured. I was still riding the emotional teeter-totter. I would go from wearing my 1980-blue-elastic-at-the-ankle sweatpants to wearing flared-jeans and a fitted top. I went from keeping my hair up in a bun with frizzy bits poking out like I’d been zapped by lightening, to jazzing up my hair by either straightening my curls or styling them.
My refusal to invest in myself on a full-time basis continued into my early twenties. I was becoming far too comfortable with not caring about myself. There were periods of times where I thought I didn’t have to try because I should be enough, and I even tried to hit on guys while wearing clothes meant for sleeping, stains and all.
I mean, I’m cute right? Sure, I look like a hot mess, but it’s inside that counts, isn’t it?
Looking back, I can see the pattern that was painted on the wall in which I refused to see at the time. When you’ve convinced yourself you’re not enough, you become that: not enough. When you dismiss the idea that you’re worth the time, you fall deeper into the black hole that feeds on your unhappiness. The mind has a way to trick you into believing you’re not enough when in fact, you are. But it also can change your thought process, if you allow it.
When I got home from my hair cut, I looked at myself in the mirror. Like, really looked. As my hair draped around my shoulders, I realized that all those times when I was moody and felt crappy, I was also presenting myself as how I felt. Happy times meant neat hair, flowered skirts, and colourful tops. Crappy times meant nappy hair, and the same unflattering outfits. I may have seemed happy at the time, despite what I looked like – I have mastered the skill in shielding my emotions – but I can see now that I wasn’t.
We’re all worth the time and energy we need to spend on ourselves to make ourselves feel good. Wearing our fowl moods will only allow us to further bask in negativity. I’d like to start making more of an effort on myself, especially when I’m in a nasty funk.
I think I owe myself that much. I think we all do.
For more on self-esteem, come read This Woman Was Beautiful and I Wanted to Tell Her
It’s been almost a year since my last correspondence with you and yet, here we are again. It’s as if you didn’t even read the letter I sent you. So, because you seem to have ignored my previous attempt in communicating my issues with you, I continue taking that pesky little white and yellow pill each and every morning to help keep you at bay. Mind you, I still experience your aura sounding me as your presence is like a bad wallpaint job, but it’s hardly as bad as it could be.
I have to say, I was surprised to find you loitering around first thing this morning, ready to greet me with open arms. I wasn’t expecting you nor was I in any mood to entertain visitors at 7am. But there you were, sitting on the sidelines pretending you weren’t there but I felt your presence. In fact, I saw your presence pulsating through my hair. I’m sure you were the reason behind my extra big hair day.
Listen here, I know you’re trying to take over today – and pretty much every day – but I’m kind of over it. I’m over your attempts to take control. You’ve been around more often than not lately and it’s becoming tiresome. You’re like that friend who just won’t go home. You are constantly battling me as if we’re gladiators in the ring, fighting for survival. I have to be honest here, I don’t care much for your survival and I will continue to draw my sword and lift my shield to prevent you from getting anywhere near me.
Look, it’s getting old. I know you’re excited about the holiday season and how much is going on. I know you like to try to pass yourself off as your buddy anticipation, but I see right through you. You’ve been around for over twenty-years. Let’s not pretend we just met; we are inhabiting the same body, remember?
As usual we’re busy and I’m looking forward to all the plans we have, but your persistence is really putting a damper on my days. How about you give me a gift this year and back off, hhm? You’ve never really given me much to be exited about so how about we start this holiday season? How about you take a break and go find some alternate universe and just relax and take it easy. Think of new plans to try to destroy my happiness and kill my mood for no reason. Please, I insist.
I’m really trying to be nice, but I don’t want you around anymore. Especially this month. Especially at this time of year. I want to enjoy the holidays with family and friends and not worry about you lingering around like a creepy stalker. I want to be able to leave the house in peace. I want to finish my shopping and I can assure you that those around me would also appreciate your kind gesture of vacating the premises.
So my dear anxiety, leave me to be. I am politely asking that for the sake of the holiday season, you let me be.
An annoyingly Anxious Mom Who Has Had Just Enough of Your Prying.
For my first Letter to My Anxiety, go to: Dear Anxiety: It’s Time for You to Go
Perspective is something I’m working on these days.
I’ve lived with body image issues for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been small enough, skinny enough, or toned enough. There’s always something that I need to work on, whether it’s my belly, my arms, my thighs, my chest, or my back. Did I really just name every part of my body? Well, in all fairness, I think my calfs have always been just fine.
Now that I have a three-year-old, I’m starting to accept my body a bit more. Don’t get too excited too quickly. I said I’m starting to, not that I have fully accepted it. However, lately I have been having more okay days than worry days, so that’s something.
I’m starting to believe what people are talking about when they speak about bodies and perspective. I recently shared an article I saw on Scary Mommy called “Woman’s Side-By-Side Photos Prove Instagram ‘Perfection’ Is A Myth”. It was a wonderful article about a woman’s mission to dispel the idea that everything on social media is as it seems. Because it isn’t. And her side-by-side photos prove it.
The article got me thinking about my own body and my own self-image. It got me thinking to the two photos I purposely took while on vacation for this reason, but that I didn’t have the guts to share. I wanted to post about body-image and how easily we can be confused about what a person’s body actually looks like. But I just didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.
Today I have the guts. Today I will show my photos. Today I will bare my soul and conquer my fears and show you my insecurities. Why? Because I’ve lived with Body Dysmorphia for years. Because I am a mother and I need to display a healthy mindset about my body for my son’s sake. Because there are too many women out there who are too ashamed to be who they are (me being one of those women).
So, here I am.
Photo on the left is with my son. In it I see larger thighs than I care to have. I see fat under my arm that needs to go. I see stubborn rolls on my side and back that I can’t seem to get rid of. Now, photo on the right was taken the exact same day, maybe ten minutes later. In it, I see a flat stomach. I see a bit of my rib cage (which, unfortunately, has always been a goal for me). I see no rolls and no cellulite. I am happy inside. I’d love to tell you that that is how I look all the time. But it’s not.
The only difference between these two photos other than the fact that I am holding my son in one of them, is that the photos are taken from different angles. Anyone can look slim when you take a selfie or a photo from high up.
I won’t lie and say I am at ease showing the world this. I won’t lie and tell you I am completely comfortable with baring my truths online. But I will tell you one truth, if there is one: This is me.
The real me.
I am wearing a bikini because my rational mind says it’s okay. Later on, I will wear a one piece because my irrational mind will tell me to cover up. I have a lot of work to do, but I’m a work in progress and I accept that.
My goal is to reach women of all shapes and sizes and let them know that it’s okay to be who you are. No one is perfect because there is no such thing as perfect.
Be kind. Be you. Be real.
For more on Body Image and Acceptance, check out: This Woman Was Beautiful and I Wanted to Tell Her
We live down the street from a beach so there’s nothing stopping us from going to for a swim when it’s hot out during the summer. This perk is one of the very many things I love about living where I do.
After I finished stuffing my face with tacos, we got dressed and took off to the beach. Luckily, because it was six pm, there were very few people there. As we walked into the beach area, I noticed a full-figured woman on her phone. She was striking, like, stop and stare striking. But I had no time to be creepy as I had to catch up with my kid.
My son chased birds and conquered the shoreline with excitement. The striking woman went back to her spot where she was sitting with another woman. The two of them joined me in laughing at my son being going wild. They were watching their three older kids play in the water.
I finally managed to wrestle the kid down for a second to pull off his sandals before he tore off again. Again, the ladies laughed and so did I. My kid peed on the sand in his bathing suit and we laughed about how funny he looked doing it.
I was wearing my maternity bathing suit. A tankini and bottoms. It’s loose, no doubt, but I swear it fits! It’s totally comfortable and I really like the pattern.
You see, I was feeling bloated and when I feel bloated I believe everyone within a five-mile radius can see how imperfect I look. Yes, I can be that insecure.
I looked back at the woman and she smiled. She was full-figured and absolutely lovely. She carried herself with pride and confidence. She had tattoos up and down her arms and on her back. She had a labret piercing that only complimented her already gorgeous face. She had incredible long black straight hair that she held up in a pony tail. When I mentioned her to my husband, he let me know that he had already noticed her. This woman stood out.
Suddenly, I envied this woman. I envied her zero-fucks-given about whether she had a thigh-gap or not. I envied the way she held herself, back straight and head high. And gosh, she was in a bikini and she knew she rocked it.
It got me thinking. I weigh about as much as a two-year-old Great-Dane (my neighbour’s dog). I eat healthy for the most part. I work out regularly and I’m pretty active otherwise (I do have a toddler, so there’s that).
Why don’t I raise my head up more? Why do I slouch my shoulders? Why am I so concerned about my physical appearance?
Because I always have been. Because I don’t know how not to.
I’m married to a man who always tell me how beautiful I am and how much he loves my figure. I wear fitting clothes and bikinis at times because the rational half of my mind lets me know it’s okay. She was wearing a black and teal bikini.
The problem is the irrational half of my mind. The part that obsesses over looks. The one who tells me my thighs are chunky and I shouldn’t be wearing that. The one who looks at the muffin top or the loose skin on my belly.
The loose skin that appeared from having a baby, my rational mind replies. The loose skin that accompanied the fact that I carried a human in my body for close to 42-weeks of my life (the guy just didn’t want to leave).
Who cares, right?
This woman was beautiful and I wanted to tell her that. So, I did. I walked up to the two women, said have a nice evening, and then preceded to tell the woman I am speaking of that I am not creepy but she looks fabulous and she is lovely to look at. She smiled, laughed, and said thank you. She said I was lovely too, and I said thank you, but I wasn’t there for her to compliment me. I was there to compliment her.
We do so much shaming and judging. We are expected to look a certain way. And this woman looked the entire opposite of those magazines and was incredible. I wanted to tell her that. Since we’re so quick to judge behind people’s back, I thought I’d say something nice to someone, out loud and to her face.
This post was originally published on Tova-Leigh – My Thoughts About Stuff
For more on Body Image and Acceptance, check out: Body Image and Perspective: Learning to Accept My Body
“I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter”
I remember when I first heard the song “In the End” by Linkin Park. My sister was watching the video on the television when I came downstairs. I immediately fell in love with Chester Bennington’s voice. I immediately feel in love with the way Chester Bennington looked. I was fascinated with him. I loved how he sang the lyrics to the song and wanted to hear more. I had always hoped to see him, and the band of course, perform live.
Unfortunately, this hope will never come true because yesterday, Chester lost his battle.
According to reports plastered all over the internet and my newsfeed on Facebook, Chester Bennington had dealt with addiction and suicide ideation for quite some time. This is not foreign to me. In fact, this is something I know quite a bit about. While I’m not yet ready to write about my own experiences just yet, I am now (and have been for a while) eager to bring an end to the stigma that surrounds suicide and the ailments attached to it.
Linkin Park was my “angry music”. My husband would laugh at me because his angry music was more along the lines of death metal. I didn’t care. I love the music Linkin Park produces. The music, the lyrics, the voices that sing them. All of it. It was cathartic for me.
I’ve never written about a celebrity’s suicide, but since this comes so soon after Chris Cornell’s suicide, I felt obligated to put my two-cents in.
Suicide. The word scares me more than I can describe. It’s because I’ve been there. It’s because I have my own demons and battles to deal with. It’s because I know how precious and fragile life is.
Those who lose their internal battle are not selfish. Let’s make that clear right now. It is not a selfish act. You have no idea what someone is going through. You have no idea how hard it is. You haven’t stepped a foot in their shoes so please, before you start trolling and making comments, think about what you’re saying and try to understand what that person is going through. You have no idea how hard someone has fought to keep themselves here for themselves or their family.
Losing the battle doesn’t make one weak. Attempting to end your life doesn’t either.
To those suffering, you are not alone. We are all out there fighting our own battle. And while we may all feel like we’re the only one, we aren’t. Please remember that.
If you’re having thoughts of ending your life, please find someone to talk to.
It’s time we stand together and end the stigma.
For the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, please contact 1-800-273-8255 or https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/. It is a 24-hour, toll-free, confidential suicide prevention hotline available to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress. Available to Americans and Canadians.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE