Dust In My Mouth

Sometimes I feel completely alone. Like I am walking in some deserted desert with the hot sand burning my heels and the sun baking my flesh. Like I could call out and the dunes would soak up my voice and filter it out. Separating it from the sounds the rest of the world makes. It is silly to feel that way, we are never truly alone.

Sometimes, my mind feels like ancient artifacts placed on some dust covered shelf located somewhere in a museum display case in the recesses of my brain. My memories are carefully tucked and sealed in old canopic jars. Memories I have sealed to protect myself from my own thoughts. Each time I unseal one, the memories flood through my mind like a raging body of water, threatening to wash away the life I carved out for myself. Carved out like those that carved the blocks of the pyramids and stacked them ever so neatly just as the pharaohs demanded. And we know just how I like to keep things neatly stacked. Somehow I have forgotten the contents of my jars. My mental illness is showing again. My words are inscribed on brittle papyrus that crumbles from my mouth. Mute. I feel mute. Maybe someone will bury them underneath the Sphinx for later excavation. Maybe I can rinse the dust from my mouth. Maybe I can find some cool water to soothe my blistered tongue. Maybe then my words will have sound.

You should read history books about how violent and vile people were to each other in past times and they have the nerve to call me crazy?

Having mental illness does mean that you are crazy. [tweet this].

Growing up with mental illness rendered me mute to my condition for most of my life. It was a struggle to be able to speak about my hell. I could never be open and honest like I am now. Finding my voice was a challenge that I only achieved through this blog. It has given me confidence to be who I am and stop hiding behind smiles that never fully reached my eyes. When you read this, know that it is my voice speaking these words. My voice that has been mute for so long. I grow as my blog grows. I accept more as my posts are accepted. I have learned to be proud of myself for the first time in my journey with mental illness. Proud that I am not alone. Proud that I can be open with the world. It's a beautiful thing that there are so many others just like me. It's a beautiful thing, to finally be validated. It's a beautiful thing to finally be heard.

                                                         Neurotic Nelly