Summertime Sadness 

July has begun just as June ended: with a cold, bitter feeling on my fingertips. The constant change of medications every month has left me exhausted, and I have no idea how to tell the difference between side affects of medication or just a general low point anymore. I went back to back with my psychiatrist and therapist today, and I so desperately wanted to break down and cry because I’m tired. I am so tired and no one really understands that. Like no one has the full concept of how genuinely exhausted, overwhelmed, and drained I am. My therapist has this heart full of hope and faith, which is her job, but sometimes I just think like, if we weren’t as close as we are would she really be trying this hard? Because I know she knows that in my eyes this battle seems impossible. I just don’t have the energy to hope for anything but to lay down and close my eyes for the last time. Sometimes, her stubbornness to carry me through this is reassuring, but 98% of the time I do not want it. I just don’t think she has a grasp on how tired I am. How tired my soul is. 

So the fight in my head comes down to this this week: is all of this worth the fight at the end of the day if I can’t see a light at the end of the tunnel? If I can’t see where I’m going, do I still keep going? If I don’t want to keep going, do I do it anyway? Or is it all just this huge waste of time because “you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make them drink” kind of thing?

 The genuine exhaustion is defeating. 

Father’s Day

It’s been two years since my dad passed away, and it’s not a subject I speak on very often. I, myself, haven’t processed the whole matter yet, let alone accepted it I suppose. And it’s not that I’m in denial; I know he’s gone. I just never thought I’d lose him at such a young age, and have to continue on without him as I experience some of the most important times in my life. It’s hard. And as someone who isn’t actually experiencing grief or letting myself feel those emotions, I can’t imagine how it must feel to truly feel these things in your heart and soul. To be hit by grief every morning that you open your eyes. 

As I was driving to the cemetery today, it hit me.. I have to go to the cemetery to “see” my dad. My thoughts were racing and quite honestly, I was choking back some tears. I spent so much time absolutely glued to my dad’s side. You would have to drag me, kicking and screaming, away from him. And now he’s just there. In the ground. And I’m staring at cement with his name on it.

As weird as it all is, I’d also like to acknowledge the fact that he was in my life for the first 16 years of it. And for those 16 years, no matter what I was going through, how depressed, suicidal, or anxious I was I knew everything was going to be okay because I had him. My dad was there for me through the best and worst times. He would bandage up my self injury for me, as much as he hated seeing his little girl hurt herself, he would let me lay in his lap while he played with my hair when I was too suicidal to be alone, he would tell me how much he loved me and how beautiful I was every single day. That man taught me how to ride a bike, how to take my own showers, how to brush my teeth, how to run a business, how to drive, but most importantly, he taught me how to be just like him. He taught me how to be kind to everyone, to love and accept everyone, and to always give more than you take. He taught me what it means to be generous, gentle, and selfless. He was the most amazing man I had ever known, and I am beyond grateful that I got to have him for 16 years. 

Happy Pride Month! 

It’s June 2nd. Not only are we half way through 2017 (woah), but it’s also Pride Month. Here in Chicago, it’s become a huge celebration from parades, to clubbing, to the whole city having an itinerary for the month of June that everyone is welcome to participate in whether you are part of the LGBTQ+ community or just an ally. 

As I may or may not have mentioned before, I am lesbian. I’ve known this almost all my life, but started sharing it with my closest friends only about a year ago. The only person who did know as I was still trying to figure it out was my very best friend who is no longer with us; my dad. He was unbelievably supportive throughout the whole process, though I didn’t speak on it much because I wasn’t entirely sure what to think at 15. I was going through a lot of other stuff anyways. 

Now at 18, I have to admit that this month is one of the scariest months for me. I am terrified of not only coming out of the closet to everyone I love and care about, but I am just genuinely terrified of the simple fact that I, myself, am gay. I grew up in a household where my mother and I have never gotten along. I grew up in a household where not only she would make homophobic comments, but my sibling(s) also. I grew up in a private school that was so against homosexuality that I just put my head down whenever it was spoken about. I felt dirty. It was drilled into my head that I was wrong.

Despite all of that, I also grew up with my dad as my right hand man. My best friend. My whole entire world. He supported all that I did, all that I was, and all that I loved. He loved me unconditionally. He raised me in a church where it was made known to me that homosexuality is accepted. Where I was welcomed. My dad and I were very close to my pastor. He was like the parent I was missing. I couldn’t have asked for better men in my life, truly. And even now, almost seven years after meeting him for the first time, two years after losing my dad, my pastor is still one of my biggest supporters. 

I have much more support outside of that, but I won’t go into lengthy detail. It just saddens me that I still feel dirty and fearful. It’s been four years since I’ve been away from that school, yet I can’t seem to get away from the ideas they drilled into my head. Even with all this consistent love and support, I can’t seem to get myself to “come out of the closet” and be happy with myself. Be okay with myself. (And yes, that has a lot to do with my mental illnesses, but this is different in a way). A part of me is ashamed of being gay. Terrified of it, in fact. It’s 2017. I shouldn’t be scared to love. 

Sometimes, Love is Not Enough 

As things have become increasingly heavier, I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’ve not only spent a ridiculous amount of time in bed every day since finishing school, but I’ve really gotten deep into thought on so many things.

For example: what the fuck do I want to do with the rest of my life? And that question alone opened more doors than I intended on having the key to in the first place. The thing that ultimately came to my mind was this: nothing. And sure, you’re probably thinking simple enough. How could that lead to anything in depth? But that’s when I realized how miserable I truly am. 

Sure, I can sit here and think about how unhappy I am and how much I don’t want to keep fighting these battles, but to literally feel the physical aspects of this misery is a whole different story. This question and answer, themselves, just had my mind wandering. I swear, my thoughts were endless until I ended up on my therapist’s couch not even strong enough to look her in the eye while desperately trying to explain how hopeless I feel. So many things have been running through my head, but a main one being, I don’t know what I want to do with my life (anymore) because I can’t see a future for myself. It’s hard to explain the idea of not being able to picture a future for yourself, but also having to explain that even if you ask me to take death out of the equation, I still can’t see anything but wanting to die. 

So after what was an extremely heavy session, my therapist’s endless questions got me thinking. And then I started planning. I started planing on taking myself off the wait list I am currently on for a residential treatment facility. I started planning on canceling my therapy sessions slowly but surely. I started planning on stopping all of my medications altogether. I started planning on saying goodbye. I started planning on literally just letting myself wither away until I finally just ended it all. I just started planning on dying, really. 

I still can’t shake those ideas, or the feelings that come along with the plans. I feel as if I’ve done my part in this world. I feel as if I’ve fulfilled my purpose, and then I think, what if my purpose is to break hearts? Because yes, I do know that so many amazing people care about me and love me, and me killing myself would/will hurt them, but sometimes love is not enough. Which brings me to the title of this post, and one of the important reasons I’m writing about my recent struggles. After explaining to my best friend the ideas circling my head, her first response was, “Why would you do that, Natalie?” which lead into her opinion that giving up is completely selfish of me. I think I spent an hour explaining this:

I don’t care what anyone says, this is not selfish. There is not a single soul in this world who has any genuine idea or feeling of what I’m going through. And sure, people go through similar things and so many people choose recovery every day, but I am not those people. I am the one facing these demons day in and day out. Hour after hour, minute after minute, I am the one dealing with every disorder, every addiction, every thought, every temptation, every aching breath. My therapist is not fighting this, my psychiatrist is not fighting this, my best friend is not fighting this, I am doing this all by myself. Which then brought up the topic about her never forgiving me for ending my life. And again, that’s one thing no one will ever understand is that I am doing this on my own. It’s excruciating and it’s exhausting. It’s heavy and it’s impossible. I am defeated, and I’ve accepted that. I’ve truly, truly become okay with letting go no matter how much love I have in my heart for all the people who tried along the way. I know that I am loved, but sometimes that’s just not enough. 

Please, never spend the time telling a suicidal person how selfish they would be if they killed themselves. Don’t waste your breath. While most of us don’t see it that way, you could be guilt tripping the small percentage that takes that and runs with it, and making them feel worse. Please realize that this is not about you. This is about the fact that these disorders are stronger than any of us at this point, and by us I mean the person fighting this exhausting war and anyone on earth standing next to them. (You are only standing next to them. You are not fighting with them or for them to help win this thing). 

So yes, I know I am loved, but sometimes that is not enough.


As I wrap up my senior year of high school, I find myself at a weird place emotionally. Something I can’t even describe. It’s bittersweet. I have hated these walls since my freshman year. I have been miserable and alone. But my team of people made my four years here bearable. They guided me through the worst parts of high school, and held my hand through the worst parts of my life. It’s crazy. I never thought I would be alive for this.

I don’t have much else to say. I know I’ve been MIA for a month, but not much has been happening other than school, hospitalizations, and therapy. I am taking things day by day. Moment by moment, literally. I am just trying to breathe at this point.

It is all so bittersweet, really.


Today, my heart is extremely heavy. My whole body, actually, feels heavy. Like I am just dragging myself around at this point. I can’t focus in class, I can’t bring myself to be anything but apathetic, I have no energy, I don’t want to be around anyone, and at this point I don’t even want to talk to anyone on my treatment team. I have completely shut down, I have nothing left in me, and I am done. I’m done fighting this battle that I’ve been fighting my whole life. I am just completely shattered and empty.

With that being said, I am going to take a break from blogging for a little bit. I need some time to gather myself and figure out what is best for me at this point. I’m sorry. All my love.

Yours always,



Here is my apology for not posting at all lately. I had to admit myself into inpatient, as I was extremely unsafe and my team did not feel comfortable having me home.

Being home has been extremely difficult. I thought I was okay at first. I thought that the few weeks of inpatient was enough to get me through the rest of this semester. I think I was wrong. To be truthful, I don’t know that I was very honest for my discharge. I was tired of being there, I had seen everyone come and go, I was eating the same thing every day, but was hardly eating at all (my ed had a lot of fun), and some of the staff were tired of me being there. Not only has being home been hard for the fact that I’m not sure I was totally honest, but I went through an event two nights after being home that has completely destroyed me in itself.

I have written, and rewritten, and edited, and fought this post over the last two weeks. Today, I can certainly say that I subconsciously lied my way out of the hospital. I am lower than I have ever been before. I am apathetic, beyond depressed, unmotivated, and I have no energy what-so-ever. Here’s the most brutally honest part of this entire post: I am so suicidal that I cannot contract for safety with my therapist anymore when I’m being honest. Am I being completely honest? No. It breaks my heart that I’m hiding from my team again. That the walls are up, and I am pretending I’m okay. But fact: I can’t pretend for much longer.

I am so incredibly sorry that I haven’t been posting. It has just been really hard to even motivate myself to write, let alone gather my thoughts enough to put them into words.

I apologize for this post being so dark, but I promised you all honesty and my complete raw thoughts and feelings. All my love.

Yours always,