write what you know.

Write what you know”, Mark Twain said.
Which is hard to do when there is nothing even remotely poetic about heartbreak and mental disorders                               –     (there, I said it). 

I can tell you this, though: Whatever struggles you face, sporadically or on a day-to-day basis, they are worth addressing. Every gore, visceral aspect of your unhappiness is worth the attention. There’s no beauty in losing yourself to the voracious, venomenous demon that lives in your chest and makes you forget there’s a world worth wanting outside.You are worth the fight, I tell you. Trust me, I write what I know. So when I write about blood and vomit it’s not because these symptoms are imbued with some magic meaning, with the glory of the wicked; It’s because I am finally confident enough to ask for help. I am trying to extend my knowledge to the realm of the vulnerable and the brave. I found that sometimes recovery is as simple as choosing to walk on the sunlit side of the pavement. Sometimes it is a phonecall to a friend before you mark off another day of regret in your skin. It is counting every victory until you have no fingers or toes left, and you start with every hair on your head until your brain is reeling with admiration for what you are, but never expected to be, capable of. Some days, recovery is opting the mess of a bare, hurting heart over a facade of perfection. Some nights, it’s crawling beneath your desk with books on your feet and ribbons around your wrists to keep you tied to pinky-swear, locked-gaze, heartfelt promises. Recovery is a promise. To yourself and to the ones you love. Take care, be kind, we will make it through. We will crawl from beneath our desks, welcome the sun even when darkness huddles in the streets.  Write what you know, paint the picture, sing the songs. One day we will find ourselves again.


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