I started writing short stories and poems when I was seven, but I think I was making them up for longer than that, as I remember lying in my bed with all my stuffed animals, making up stories about and for all of them. I've lived with Clinical Major Depression(Recurrent), anxiety, PTSD, and, DID. It's such a lovely alphabet soup of diagnosis, which often wreaks havoc in my life. 
I've always been drawn to the creative arts-and have tried my hand at most of them but as my klutziness makes dance impossible, and my artistic ability is mostly limited to stick figures, I've found that words provide the best outlet for expression. Writing is an escape for me,. but also, very therapeutic, as well.

When I'm writing, I feel at peace. To be honest, it's one of the few things I can actually motivate myself to do when my depression flares up, when my anxiety is at its worst, when the metaphorical Black Dog is snapping at my ankles and leaping at my throat. It's a way for me to express both my fears and my heart on paper, to get it out of my head, and sometimes to share it with others, some who don't understand, and some who do, in order to educate and hopefully be of some help, somewhere.
I wrote this a few months ago, about dealing with depression and anxiety and one of it's favorite companions, insomnia. It doesn't have a title, simply because I couldn't think of one, but I wanted to share.

My interior monologue
Speaks in an outside voice
At inconvenient hours
When half the world's in bed
And tells me
I wouldn't matter to you
Or anyone else
And how I'd not be missed.

It hisses doubt
And fear
And other untold secrets
Rejecting rational thought
And disturbing sleep.


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