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anxiety disorder

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I’ve Gained 26 Pounds

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

Last Friday I had an ECT treatment. I hadn’t been there in four weeks, so they asked to weight me (to calculate how much anesthesia I get). Usually, I avoid the scale. The number shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. Big time. I looked down after I stepped on the scale, and I was shocked. I’ve gained 26 pounds since the pandemic — 26 POUNDS! I’m almost 200 pounds, which I swore to myself I’d never be again. I mean, who has weight loss surgery and doesn’t lose the weight? Me, apparently.

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I have all the reasons in the world to lose weight and be healthy, mainly my kids. I want them to see me be healthy so that they can be healthy. I want to lose the weight because I want to live a long time. It would benefit my mental health greatly if I maintained a healthy lifestyle. But I don’t.

Even after my ECT, while feeling happy and more stable, I had the intense urge to overeat and binge. And I did. The ECT is supposed to reset my brain. Last week, I was so depressed and even had suicidal ideation, so I needed the ECT. But the ECT can only take me so far. I’m responsible for making health decisions for myself. And I need to hold myself accountable. At some point, I have to make the effort to be healthy without expecting something or someone else to help me.

I don’t know what drives me to overeat or binge. It sort of makes sense when there’s conflict in my life, and I feel the need to be comforted by food. But right now, there’s no conflict in my life. There’s no logical reason for me to shove food in my face. It bothers me so much that I don’t know why I binge, and I’m not sure it would even help if I did know. It’s just frustrating. And I know it’s a hard time because of the pandemic, but we’re not getting back to any kind of “normal” I know any time soon. So, it has to be now. I have to make changes now. But honestly, I don’t know if I will. I don’t know what it will take.

I bought a treadmill that will be delivered this week. I bought a food journal to help me track my water and meals. I have a brand new pair of running shoes to use for exercise. Conditions are favorable for change. My brain, my stubborn brain, is the only thing holding me back. Even now, as I’m typing this, I want to eat, to be comforted. To lose myself in the taste and texture of something delicious. I fear my urge to escape the real world will be permanent, as it manifests in other ways, too like abusing my anxiety meds. And again, I don’t know why or what I’m trying to escape. I have a great life — better than most — and I’m so grateful for everyone in my life and everything I have. So, I really can’t tell you why I want to escape.

At one time, I thought it was emotional pain that was holding back — trauma from my past. But I feel like I’ve dealt with that. I’ve talked to my therapist about it extensively. I wrote a blog about it that I will never share. I got if off my chest, but still the pain resides. At least, I think so. Why else would I be trying to fill this unrelenting void?

I so want to be able to wake up in the morning and not immediately think about what I’m going to eat. To plan my next meal, as I’m licking off my current meal’s crumbs from my lips. I live meal to meal, snack to snack, and I hate it.

I hope this week I can make changes to my daily life and incorporate healthy habits. I pray for strength and guidance. I pray for what feels like a miracle.

Next week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week. It may not seem like a big deal, but there are 30 million Americans who suffer with an eating disorder. There are so many people suffering right now, who are suffering more because of the pandemic. Only 1/3 of people receive help for their eating disorder. Eating disorders have the second highest mortality rate of any mental illness, with nearly one person dying every hour as a direct result of their eating disorder.

If you are struggling with an eating disorder, please know that you are not alone. It’s a challenging time for us, but it’ll be OK.

We will be OK.

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Imaginary Brakes

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

Sometimes my anxiety runs rampant. I catch myself moving my foot as if I’m slamming the brakes in a car. I guess I want time to come to a screeching halt, as if I’m in the driver’s seat. But I’m not. It’s the out of control feeling I can’t stand. And though I have anxiety every day, Sundays are the worst, as documented here.

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I’ve always hated Sundays from the time I was little, I guess because I NEVER wanted to go to school, especially on Mondays. I used to get a feeling of dread when I got older, too when I had a full-time job. The Sunday Night Blues or Case of the Sundays was always present, no matter what age or circumstance I faced.

And today, even though I don’t work outside the home, I feel it. The threat of responsibility looming is just too much to take and I feel the tightness in my chest and butterflies in my belly. It makes no sense to me — I don’t have anything unusual happening this week, nothing to be all doom and gloom about. But it’s there. At least, it’s consistent.

I try really hard to have a “countdown” methodology about anything — like countdown to Christmas, to the weekend, to my birthday, etc. So, as much as I’d like to look ahead to Valentine’s or my birthday, I need to be here, now. I look ahead at this week’s events, but that’s as much as I’ll let myself look.

It may sound silly, but as depressed as I am and how often, I get wrapped up in looking ahead and squander the perfectly good time I already have. I don’t want that. I don’t know how much time I have where I’m lucid and not depressed. I need to make hay when the sun shines, as my daddy says.

I still feel a nagging feeling in my belly, and I realize that I have an ECT treatment Friday. I wasn’t supposed to have it until March 5, but last week I felt the all-too-familiar signs of a depressive episode, so I moved my appointment up to stop it in its tracks. And even though I know it will make me better, I still get anxious and scared. Even though the past couple treatments have been pleasant. Even though…

Just thinking about it, I have a white-hot feeling pass from my head to my toes. It’s adrenaline, I think. And fear. I feel my foot try and stomp on the imaginary brakes and start to sweat.

Ugh, I’m not a stupid person. I should be able to address my fear and anxiety with the logic that I mentioned. Tears are threatening. I’m scared.

But come Friday, I will joke with the nurses. I will ask my favorite nurse to hold my hand while they put me under anesthesia. I will wake up 15 to 20 minutes later, not even knowing whether I’ve had the treatment. I’ll irritate David by (unknowingly) asking him the same questions over and over on the way home. I’ll get Chick Fil A on the two-hour drive and fall asleep until we reach home. I will be a better version of myself, a more patient and loving one. I’ll be free (for now) of self hatred and self judgement. And if that’s not the case, I’ll go back weeks later and repeat the same thing, always hoping to get the best version of Heather I can get, born out of fear and an induced seizure.

Whatever version, I know it will be a pretty perfect version of myself….just with amnesia and neurons that are unruly af. And hey, maybe the Sunday Night Blues will disappear for awhile. But I won’t countdown until they do. That, I refuse.

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Gifted and Talented

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

I’d like to preface this post but saying that logically I know that things will work out the way they’re supposed to. I’m just stressed and venting.

Last month, my daughter, who is in Kindergarten, took a test to determine if she qualified for the school district’s gifted and talented program. All Kindergarteners can take the two-part test. The G/T school here is amazing and is always being recognized district and state wide. My husband went to that school when he was younger, as he is very gifted and a legit genius. It’s a great opportunity for my daughter.

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I have not been stressing about the test, because I just assumed she’d get in. She’s very bright, and her teachers agree that she is gifted and would benefit from the G/T program. It’s my husband who has no chill when it comes to the test. But now, I too have no chill.

Last week, we got the scores back from the first part of the test. Her scores qualify her to take the second part of the test, but they were lower than we and her teachers expected. She received 7 out of 15 points, which is in the 91st percentile.

My husband and I are definitely proud of her, but there was a nagging feeling inside of me — anxiety. Her friends scored much higher, and I know I’m not supposed to compare, but I started to freak out. The elementary school she would go to if she doesn’t get into the G/T program is not great. I started worrying that David and I didn’t do enough in preparing her for the test, even though her preschool is famous for preparing them. All this doubt clouded my mind.

I felt like a failure as a parent and that I was also letting my husband down for not helping our daughter more. I have to remember that my success as a parent isn’t contingent on whether she passed some test.

The thing is — I know my daughter is gifted. She’s gifted with the kindest heart — last year she collected toothbrushes and toothpaste for the local homeless shelter because she was worried that the homeless couldn’t afford to brush their teeth. She collected more than 1,000 toothbrushes. She also donated all her piggy bank money to her preschool after she heard my husband and I talk about raising money for a new building. She’s 6 years old. Her compassion and empathy for others is a true gift and is something that can never be quantified on a test. And I’m so proud of her for that.

There are so many other qualities that I’m proud of and none of that is diminished by her test scores. But I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be disappointed if she didn’t get into the G/T program.

I have made a concerted effort to not talk about the test in front of her or put any pressure on her whatsoever. Because it is a lot of pressure! For parents, too. I remember years ago when one of my mom friends heard that her daughter didn’t make it into the G/T program. Her mom was crying she was so upset and in front of her daughter, no less. While I understand the sadness, I will not cry or show disappointment in front of Isla. My job is to prepare her as much as possible and support her as much as possible — whatever that may look like.

I obviously want what’s best for her, and even if I think this program is the best, it just might not be. And that’s OK. I celebrate her for her heart, compassion, kindness, intelligence, unconditional love for the Olive Garden, and so much more. It is a joy, and privilege, to watch her grow up.

And I will remember that even after we get the test scores.

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Buried Secrets

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

I’ve lived with what I thought was a shameful secret for two decades. I buried it deep inside me, so deep I never thought I’d never have to deal with it again. But it turns out shameful secrets will come to surface no matter what.

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I binged for years, shoving food in my mouth trying to keep it down. I swallowed pill after pill trying to escape from the reality where that secret lived. I got tattoos and piercings, hoping that that pain would distract me from the pain inside me. The needles are nothing compared to emotional pain.

Alas, none of it worked.

It wasn’t long before I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and anxiety. I kept my mouth shut about that, too until I could no longer hold it in because I was abusing my anxiety meds and it was too hard to get out of bed, despite my growing list of responsibilities. I ended up at a psychiatric facility, which confirmed that I had major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, binge eating disorder and avoidant personality disorder. It cost tens of thousands of dollars for me to stay there six week and get back on the straight and narrow. Or close enough, anyway.

And one day, after a binge session and tons of guilt, I started to think: maybe I’m bingeing because I’m punishing myself. Punishing myself for what happened to me. Punishing myself for never truly confronting my demons. Punishing myself for being a kid and not knowing any better. And that’s silly. Because I was just a kid. I didn’t know better. If the same had happened to one of my kids, I would never let them partake in the blame game, because it simply wouldn’t be true.

Maybe I should forgive myself for whatever role I thought I played. I should forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself. It was not my fault. No matter what my brain tells me, it wasn’t my fault.

However, it is my fault if I don’t change my behavior and keep hurting myself to forget or escape. I am needed here, with my family, and hurting myself only hurts them. That’s my fault. It’s my fault if I don’t forgive myself. If I don’t do the work to forgive. I’ve spent two decades ignoring this bullshit, so I know it won’t happen overnight, but I can take the steps to forgive myself now. Starting today.

Starting now.

My life is so good. There’s no reason to escape it, through any means I might’ve relied on in the past. I need to be here now. I need to show myself love, because my kids are watching, and God do I want them to love the shit out of themselves. My way — my past ways — are no longer the way to go.

The thing about secrets is that they feed on shame. I was feeding it with my bingeing and abusing meds, but I don’t need to feed it anymore. I’m done feeling shame over it. At least I’m trying to be. I’m not giving this thing any more life than I have. It’s dying now. It will soon be dead.

If you have a buried secret, please forgive yourself. Love yourself. Do the work and work it out. Forgive yourself and live the life you are meant to live.

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In a Nutshell: My Week in Review

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

Y’all. Last week was ROUGH, likely due to me confronting some past trauma and not just shoving it in a drawer somewhere in my messy, complicated brain. Again, personal growth is so annoying.

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While I do feel better having faced my demons, I can tell it’s still bothering me a bit because of my binge eating and thought patterns. Either that or I’m just so used to used to “crisis mode” that I don’t know how to get out. And that’s OK for a little while but it’s no way to live everyday life.

This week I’m going to try and get back to my intuitive eating skills, because I think they’re so helpful and make me feel better about myself. Last week, I just chucked everything I’ve learned out the window and purposely overeat and/or binged.

I’m also going to do some thinking on where I want this blog to go and what I want people to get out of it, so I can take it to the next level.

All in all, I’m ready to get out of crisis mode and be mindful in everything I do. I know I can do it. It’s never too late to learn how to live your life in a healthy way. And even though it feels like I start all over every week and don’t make strides, I know I’m a million times better than last year. And the year before that. Progress is hard to see sometimes.

I hope y’all have a great week. Stay in the light, my friends.

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I Don’t Care About “Bumming” You Out

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

Recently, I was told I posted too much about depression — that I was “bumming” people out. This comment not only infuriated me, but it hurt my feelings. How often do people like me — the chronically ill, depressed and others suffering with a mental disorder — deal with some inane comment like that. A comment that’s meant to shame and only discourage people’s truths.

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I’m sorry, not sorry that I’m “bumming” people out. People need to know what it’s like to have a mental disorder. I’m done being told to “chin up,” “get some fresh air,” and “exercise” to cure my depression. That’s not helpful.

When you’re depressed and anxious, you can’t “pull yourself up by the bootstraps.” In my case, when I’m going through a depressive episode, all I feel is pain. I get bone tired that no amount of sleep can alleviate. In my head, all I hear are criticisms of myself, how I’m a loser and unworthy. That nobody loves me. That I should kill myself. And the guilt — it’s overpowering. I feel guilty that I’m a depressed mom and that I have limitations that other moms don’t have. I feel guilty because I can’t control how I feel. I feel flawed, defective because growing up I came to understand that depression was something you could wish away with fresh air and sunshine. That strong people didn’t get depressed.

So, that makes me weak, right? That’s the stigma of depression talking.

I know better now. There’s nothing weak about me, or anyone who suffers with a mental disorder.

As I write this — and I’m not even experiencing a depressive episode — I’m purposely overeating, doing anything that will make the pain I feel go away. Overall, I’m doing great right now, but the thing about depression is that it lurks, always waiting for an opportunity to blanket my brain in doubt, fear and pain. And it’s so lonely. Not everyone understands and there are so many misconceptions about depression. My brain, my own brain, tells me to isolate from friends and family, making me even lonelier and in despair.

Luckily, I was able to go to a very good psychiatric hospital where specialists properly diagnosed me, prescribed the right medication and started me on electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). I’m so sick that doctors have to pass electric currents through my brain to trigger a seizure, resetting my brain. I have to do treatments every six to eight weeks, along with weekly therapy, just to feel almost normal.

My diagnoses are as follows:
Persistant depressive disorder (dysthymia)
Major depressive disorder, recurrent episode, severe
Generalized anxiety disorder
Binge eating disorder
Avoidant Personality Disorder
Opioid use disorder, moderate
Sedative, hypnotic or anxiolytic use disorder, moderate

I’m one of the lucky ones because I can afford a high-dollar hospital and therapy. There are people who can’t. There are people who are suffering in silence, all because some people feel uncomfortable and “get bummed out” talking about mental illness. It’s bullshit. No one — and I do mean no one — should ever suffer in silence. There’s nothing embarrassing about struggling with depression. It’s not a weakness. It’s the same as having any other disease or disorder. So many people put on a happy face in order to hide their illness, and that too is bullshit. And that can be so dangerous if that person has suicidal ideation. People literally die because they don’t feel free to share how they’re feeling. The CDC reports that more than 48,000 people die each year by suicide. That number is surely to rise because of the pandemic.

It has to stop. I’m done being embarrassed by the fact that my brain is wired differently. I’m tired of feeling weak, when in reality I fight for my life every day. I’m strong as hell. I’m scrappy and I have grit. I’m proud of who I’ve become. And I will certainly NOT stop talking about depression or other mental disorders. I don’t give a fuck who I’m bumming out, because I’m also giving a voice to those who can’t quite find theirs yet.

I’m free from the embarrassment and guilt. I’m done with caring what other people think — the weight of their opinions is far too heavy. I will continue to lend my voice because I want others to be free too.

Please let us be free.

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The Personality Disorder I Didn’t Know I Had

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

In 2019 I went to a psychiatric hospital (The Menninger Clinic) after battling suicidal thoughts, abusing my anxiety meds and hitting a low I didn’t know was possible. For six weeks, I was away from my family, which is almost as painful as fighting depression and anxiety.

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While I was there, I was assigned a psychiatrist, social worker, therapist and a psychologist. I underwent many psychiatric tests and was taken off all my psychiatric medications. It was rough.

I knew I had major depressive disorder, because I’ve struggled with depression for almost two decades. I knew I had anxiety, because of the crippling panic attacks and intrusive thoughts – thoughts telling me I should kill myself or that my family was going to die.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the diagnosis of Avoidant Personality Disorder. I had never even heard of it. Avoidant Personality Disorder, which affects about 1 percent of the general population, is described as having feelings of extreme social inhibition, inadequacy and sensitivity to negative criticism or rejection. It’s more than being shy or awkward in social situations (which I am). It makes it hard for those suffering with the disorder to interact with others and maintain relationships. It’s also common for “us” to avoid work or school, mostly because of extreme low self-esteem.

It was hard hearing this new diagnosis. For one, I already felt saddled by depression and anxiety. I wasn’t fond of the idea that I had this disorder, another albatross around my neck. And yet, I couldn’t deny it. Reading about the disorder was like reading from my memoir; I knew the symptoms and behavior well. I’ve always been social awkward. I avoided school like the plague, and later when I worked, I avoided that, too. I haven’t worked outside the home since 2013.

There was no denying the diagnosis. And, even though I’d probably been dealing with it since adolescence, I felt more broken because my many flaws were well documented and it was “official.”

But that’s bullshit. I was broken but not because of the diagnosis. I was broken because I had kept my struggles to myself and hadn’t reached out until it was almost too late. I was stifled by the stigma that surrounds depression and other mental disorders. The stigma and keeping my struggles to myself almost killed me.

Having depression, anxiety, a personality disorder and binge eating disorder is nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what I have – not who I am.

Now, I blog about my troubles and speak freely to others about anything and everything mental health related. I’m no longer afraid of being judged. The weight of others’ opinions is far too heavy to bear.

Now, I’m free.

Reject the stigma. Be proud of the fighter that you are. Seek help if you need it. By doing so, we help eradicate the judgement and stigma. Be free with me.

If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, go to the nearest emergency room or call a trusted friend. You are not alone.

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Retrograde Amnesia

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb
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As many of you know, I have retrograde amnesia, caused by the many ECT treatments I’ve had to do in order to obtain relief from my depression. For the record, I must have these treatments — my depression is treatment resistant, meaning that most medications can’t help alleviate my symptoms. Not much does except the ECTs, which I started in 2019.

During a treatment, I’m anesthetized and electric currents are sent through electrodes that are placed on my forehead, inducing a seizure. It’s not known exactly how the treatments help; I’ve always looked at it as a hard reset of my stubborn brain.

I would be lying if I said I don’t mind the treatments — I actually hate them, because over time I’ve developed a phobia of the anesthesia. And it’s definitely bothersome that I can’t remember some things. My memory loss goes back years, decades even, and it’s very hard to retain information even now. It’s also pretty embarrassing. I’ve forgotten who some people are, their names and how I know them. And when I say I have amnesia, I’m met with blank stares. And then I have to explain ECTs, which sounds unbelievable if you’re not used to it.

When I do try to recall something, I see only a gray wall where the memory once resided. Things aren’t just fuzzy — they’re just not there most of the time.

This must sound awful, but there is one good thing about my memory loss: the memory loss.

That’s not a typo.

I’ve suffered for decades with major depressive disorder, an anxiety disorder and a personality disorder and it’s unbelievably painful. But, just like I can’t remember who I ran into at the grocery store last week, I also can’t remember the most painful, darkest moments of my depression. I only know about it from my husband’s or best friend’s account of it. Or previous blogs.

Even with the ECT treatments, I still suffer with depression, just on a much lighter scale. I’m glad I can’t remember every time I couldn’t get out of bed or every time the pain was so deep that I wanted to end my life. Because if I sit and dwell on just how bad it was or can be, then I might forget that I do want to live — and live happily.

I don’t know if that makes much sense, but I do know that I (likely) will be struggling with depression and anxiety for the rest of my life. That thought alone makes me sad, and I can see how that thought can make me — and others — lose their faith in life and just put their suffering to an end. Mental illness can be so lonely when you’re in such pain all the time. And people still don’t understand it; the stigma of having a mental disorder is still there, too. So, if you do know someone who struggles, please be more understanding and empathetic. It’s just so lonely.

Even if I have to go under anesthesia and have electric currents sent through my brain every eight weeks, it’s not so bad. Not compared to the reality I was living without the treatments.

I just have to remember to take notes anytime I’m awake.

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At My Worst

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb

The thing I hate the most about depression is that I can be feeling so good about myself and then — bam — something triggers me or I get into an argument with my husband or best friend. It could be something small, but it can throw me into a downward spiral of despair and pain.

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That’s what happened tonight. I was reflecting on my day and how good it was. I made progress with my intuitive eating program (I didn’t overeat at all). I started to put more work into my blog, which excites and drives me.

Then it hit — self doubt, self loathing and despair after an argument with a loved one. All of these things were lurking in the shadows of my obstinate brain, and it didn’t take much to pull them out of hiding. It scared me. I began having intrusive thoughts that I should kill myself* and that my family didn’t need me. I tried to sort through my thoughts, desperately trying to determine which were true and which were lies. Normally, I don’t entertain my intrusive thoughts; as soon as they enter my head I stop the thought and release it, thinking of something happier. But I didn’t have the strength to stop them this time. It was a barrage of darkness and sadness. And I’ll just stop there, because this is making me sad.

All the progress that I had made during the day was gone, so it seemed. I got ice cream and binged on a couple servings, even though I didn’t really want it.

I didn’t have much time to wallow after that because both of my kids came into the room claiming they couldn’t sleep. It was several more hours of coaxing them and threatening before they finally went down. I felt depleted and frustrated.

The argument I had was inconsequential, forgotten by morning. But what stayed with me was the idea that this — me and my mental health — is probably as good as it’s going to get. I don’t mean that like I’m giving up and in to depression — I mean that I don’t know if I’ll ever feel better than I do right now. Every day, I hustle to stay on top of my depression. I take my meds, I got to weekly therapy appointments, I do ECT treatments, I avoid sleeping during the day, I stay busy with the kids, writing, hobbies, etc. And there is always room for improvement, but I think I need to be OK with the fact that this may be as good as it gets.

It’s not so bad. I’ll probably always live with these demons, but what I need more than to accept that this is my fate and life is that everybody else accepts it, too. That they love and support me at my worst, which is kind of scary sometimes. But in the same breath, it’s taught me to be grateful for all the good in my life and happy moments. And there are many.

It’s hard for me to talk about the dark or bad side of my depression (is there a good side, lol), because it’s hard for people who don’t suffer with a mental disorder to understand. It’s unknown and scary to them. But if you have a loved one who does suffer, love and accept them at their worst. And let them know that you do.

It makes this “journey” a lot easier.

*Please note that I am not in crisis or suicidal. Intrusive thoughts are just thoughts — not desire. I am safe.

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The Art of Being Uncomfortable

by Heather Loeb
written by Heather Loeb
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After MANY therapy appointments, my therapist and I have discovered that I don’t like to be uncomfortable. Of course, I’ll write about it and I’ll be the first one to tell you that real growth starts by being uncomfortable. But holy hell, I will go to great lengths in order not to feel discomfort in almost all aspects of my life.

This “ah-ha” moment came yesterday after telling my therapist that if I eat something and it gives me pleasure, I will continue to eat that thing over and over in order to feel the pleasure. I’m always chasing that high you get when your pleasure center is activated. We then jokingly decided that I would make a fantastic drug addict. Maybe not that funny but it’s true. I wasn’t far off when I started abusing my anxiety meds in 2019. I would take six or seven a night — six or seven benzodiazepines. It’s a wonder I didn’t do serious damage to myself. But I’d take all those pills so I wouldn’t feel what I was feeling. And guess what that was? Discomfort.

When I went to The Menninger Clinic, a psychiatric facility in Houston, I didn’t have any choice but to be uncomfortable. I was hundreds of miles away from family, I couldn’t abuse my meds and I was forced to come face-to-face with all my demons: depression, anxiety, a personality disorder, Binge Eating Disorder and my medication abuse problem. And when I became uncomfortable, I had no excuse but to cope with what I was feeling in a healthy way. But out of that feeling of discomfort came growth.

And as previously mentioned, personal growth can be so annoying. But necessary. I’m by no means cured of all that ails me, but coming face-to-face with my demons has forced my hand — I have to grow. I have to survive. I guess I don’t have to, but that’s what I choose. It’ll take time and practice but I’ll do the work. I’ll be freed from the bondage of mental illness that’s had such a tight hold on me for the past two decades. My liberation — I already feel it. I see it.

Here’s what I want to work on: breaking the self-destructive cycle of binge eating, being compassionate and appreciative of my body (and even my weight), being mindful all times when it comes to eating as well as identifying and experiencing my emotions. I don’t want to bury or ignore my emotions. That’s just part of being free, in my opinion.

I want to feel unencumbered, empowered, in control of all my mental disorders. And I’m hopeful that I will. I’m looking froward to the journey and I’m glad you’re along for the ride.

Stay in the light, my friends.

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