“There are some things people don’t deserve to know about you.”

Said with love from my honey and rolling around in my brain for months. I have debated discussing this topic. It’s been written in my head a dozen times. I have jotted down the gist on multiple occasions. Each time, I have scratched it out. Decided against posting.


Well, here’s the hesitation. There are some assholes who will use it against me. They will question my sanity. They will invalidate my emotions. They will question my abilities. They will call me names. In short, I am a scaredy-cat.

My all time favorite lines are:

“Did you take your meds?”


“You need to go to counseling.”

Answers– said with love {obviously}:

Um, always; I want my mind quieter than you want my voice, trust me.


No shit, Sherlock. Been there, done that.

Oops, that was my inside voice coming outside to play.

Don’t get me wrong, these are valid questions when they are asked in the correct context, i.e. concern. But, more often than not I find them used in a less than loving manner.

But, what the hell, let’s talk. Let’s face the stigma with a big ol’ IDGAF, shall we?


Oh, but first, let’s insert a standardized disclaimer.

*DISCLAIMER: For your own sake and comfort level: if you are one of the judgemental assholes, go ahead and skip this blog. If you are genuinely curious or silently struggling, then I invite you to keep reading. P.S. I am not offering medical advice. I am simply telling my story. That is all.

Hi. My name is Sara.

I have been diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, depression and post-partum depression.

If there was a diagnosis of “you are f***ed up,” that would be easier and it would use fewer characters.

Oh, sorry, in case we haven’t met: I use my twisted sense of humor when discussing topics that make my skin crawl.

I have sought treatment for the last 12 years in the form of counseling and prescription medications. They are used to balance the chemicals in my brain as well as lessen the physical manifestations of anxiety that I experience on a daily basis. These include palpitations, chest pain, shortness of breath, regular and vivid nightmares, the inability to quiet my mind once a fearful thought enters it, and the subsequent behaviors I implement in an attempt to bring that oh- so- desperately sought after silence.

I fall prey to a panic attack several times a month. What does that feel like? Legit, like I am dying. All the above symptoms with uncontrollable tears and all consuming abdominal pain and nausea {even vomiting at times}.

I have begun to recognize what is happening which makes it easier to find my breath and breathe.

And to ask for help.

Thank you husband and yoga.

Those who know me usually think,

“Yea right, you are fine.”

Those who really know me, know.

Frequently, I hear,

“I don’t know how you do it.”

and I cringe.

There’s a misconception that I have my shit together.


I do things to keep my mind busy.

Long ago I realized that my quiet mind led to my loud, obnoxious anxious thoughts.

Here’s a brief rundown.

I think of myself as having good days and bad days. On the bad days I can barely find the inner strength to start my day. The thought of my body moving forward seems impossible. My mind has a tendency to go down a deep, dark rabbit hole that leads me to paralyzing fear and complete devastation.

I have been known to succumb to irrational fears and overwhelming sadness.

I know there is no greater blessing than the health of my children. I know my worth. I know I am lucky wake up and be given the opportunity to face another day. I know that there are people struggling with “real” problems.


However, I am tired of pretending that mental illness is not one of them.

I get up. Through the grace of God. Through determination. Through the tiny voices that wake me up with,

“Can I ‘nuggle you momma?”

I keep going. Even when it feels impossible.

As does everyone who chooses to keep fighting whatever demons they are facing.


I use counseling. And distraction. And meditation. And medication.

And, that’s okay.


Keep fighting.

Ask for help.

Don’t give up.

It will get better.

You are not alone.

You matter.


**Originally posted on Rebel Housewife blog.

2 thoughts on “Idle of Despair

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s