Life Is Ticking By

I have been really bad about taking time to just relax, write, and just be me lately. I’m always worried now-a- days.

The entire world is worried right now with this crazy pandemic. My sister and I respectfully insisted our mother quit her job. She has stage 4 COPD, and was a cashier at Walmart. So really, there was no way in hell we were letting her go back.

I’m glad it wasn’t too difficult to convince her to quit because man, it would have gotten ugly. She couldn’t get by me anyway, I’m twice her size. Plus she can’t breathe.

Easiest fight ever

Other than surviving this pandemic, my focus has continued to be on my grief and how to manage the incredibly invasive thoughts and memories flooding my brain on a constant basis.

I made a video about me, Jason, and his suicide. It was difficult to make, but oddly therapeutic. I posted it on Facebook, and at first I was really nervous about that. I was surprised that I was met with such compassion and understanding. I would like to share it with you all now.

My goal is to bring more awareness of the effects of mental illness and suicide to save lives. Please share this.

**Tip: Turn up the volume. The songs should have played at his funeral, it’s what he wanted.

Please share

A Break

You may have noticed I’ve taken a break from writing, you may have not noticed at all. I had to put it down for a minute because every thought I had was about Jason. I have been thinking a lot and you know what? I’m fucking pissed. Instead of telling you all the reasons I’m pissed, I’m going to tell you how I’m getting through, how I’m coping with the mess he has continued to put me in, although he is a world away. The fact is that Jason knew I would be ok, even though I didn’t know it.

It turns out, I’m a fucking fighter. This experience is not getting the best of me. I started this website to cope with my husband’s suicide and I’m continuing this website now because I have a job to do.

Since Jason’s death, I have talked to many people with legal issues. Everything from drug charges, extensive jail or prison time, as well as life threatening illnesses. Everyone I have talked to has something in common.

Their problems all stem from trauma.

This system we have in the United States isn’t working. Not only does it not work, it’s further stigmatizing mental illness and addiction. This problem is so severe, that as a society we’re oblivious to the fact that lives are being derailed and families are being torn apart right in front of us, and we don’t care.

People that do not understand the complexity within illnesses of the mind are content because the “bad guys” are in jail or prison. Why aren’t we looking at the situations which put these often good people in these situations in the first place?

There is something terribly wrong when we refuse to take trauma into account when we judge people addicted to substances, in prison or jail, and mentally ill. After people serve time in prison they are “thrown to the wolves”, so to speak. Sure, they have their freedom, but do they really?

NO!

Basic needs are food and shelter, and money with which to obtain these things. I have a really hard time finding a decent place to live that accepts section 8, but when I imagine the struggles of someone fresh out of lock-up, I feel like an asshole for complaining about that.

I’m going to break it down.

First, when someone gets out of prison, they need a place to stay. An ex-convict can forget about section 8. Not only can you not get a section 8 voucher with a felony, most apartment complexes and home owners won’t even rent to a felon anyway. So they better hope they have someones couch to crash on.

Once this person has found a place, safe or otherwise, they need cash flow and badly. Have you ever tried getting a job worth a damn with a felony record hanging over your head?a I hear it’s a bitch.

Most of our jails and prisons are full of folks with non violent charges. Mostly drug related. Most of the time, the drugs started as a coping mechanism to handle their lives and the trauma they have faced. They just wanted to feel differently.

Instead of treating the trauma, we punish them for the superficial things which are only visible on the surface. Using drugs, selling drugs, petty theft, prostitution, etc. What we need to be educated about, and take action on, are the events which led to these things in the first place.

So now we have this person, who served their time without treatment for the actual problem, they more than likely can’t find a decent place to live or work, and they continue to not receive help for underlying issues they are plagued with.

Ray Charles could see what will happen to these people, and it’s society’s fault. They often end up right back in the lifestyle which got them put in prison in the first place. How else are they supposed to survive?

This system is totally fucked up.

We aren’t understanding or compassionate either. I have heard things like, “Well, why didn’t they learn from the last time they got caught up?” That is such an unfair question. Learning is not the issue. Most of the time, they don’t even want to do this shit! They simply have no choice but to go back to what paid the bills before. Before you know it, they are deep in this culture of backstabbers and thieves, all trying to survive. Meanwhile, families are angry and resentful, often alienating the person needing love and support more than anything in the world.

With all of this being said, I think my job is to advocate. The existing system isn’t working, and good people aren’t getting the help they need. They are judged, and then given enough rope to hang themselves.

Fuck that.

Something has got to give. There needs to be programs in place with possible incentives to stay on the straight and narrow. You can’t say, “Ok, now live right and don’t break the law. Also, you can’t vote, but you better find a job and pay taxes! Oh no, you can’t live there! You have to live in squalor and deal with a slum lord in the worst part of town. You know, where all your former associates are. Oh, but stay away from them.”

It’s ridiculous.

I have to do my part to change this deeply flawed system because it’s the right thing to do. I’ll start by finding like-minded folks and educating myself about the programs that are available, no matter how flawed.

Here we go…

Packing My Life

I came back to me and Jason’s apartment yesterday about noon. I had good intentions of packing since I have the moving truck on Monday, but I didn’t do much of anything. Yesterday marked exactly one month since the fatal accident that took my honey’s life, and every time I looked around I just saw the two of us here.

I thought about him unpacking the place so I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed and come out of my room. Now the fact that some boxes overwhelmed me is a fucking joke. Everywhere I look there is a thought, or a memory of me and Jason. The painting he bought me of Mother Earth, the ugly ceramic wall hanging of a renaissance couple he got for me at a yard sale, and the empty CD cases I griped at him about. Every corner and every surface has a memory attached to it.

My favorite night was a couple months ago. We were hanging out together listening to music and talking when he told me he had a confession. Oh shit, I thought. I figured he had done something that I was going to be super upset about. He told me he was full of shit. I laughed and told him of course I knew that. He said, no, you don’t understand the extent of my storytelling. He went on to tell me story after story, and what was complete fabrication, what was somewhat true, and then, what was totally true.

That was when I figured out that Jason had a different persona for everyone in his life. After a couple hours of confessing to me, he looked down and said, so you’re probably going to leave me… I said, hell no. At least you told me! He smiled a rare full out smile, and said he would never leave me. That was in November.

I heard Jason tell his fabricated life stories to so many people, even after he had confessed the real deal to me. I just let him have it. I figured there was a reason he felt like he had to do that. Then, I figured it out.

Most of his stories circled around a common theme. Family, and a sense of belonging. Jason never quite felt like he belonged in his family. He was adopted by great parents, but he longed to find out where he came from. He fashioned a life for himself that explained why he was so different from the people that raised him. The reality is that he felt like a black sheep and not knowing his origin exacerbated his loneliness. He dove headfirst into a life of addiction as a teenager and discovered he could numb his feelings and control his thoughts through substance abuse.

It’s all so very sad.

I chose to love Jason unconditionally and without precedent. I saw his struggle and watched his heart break when no one else was around. The disappointment he felt he caused everyone who loved him, was at times unbearable to him, and he would inevitably feel like a failure. So, Jason chose to focus on what he could control. His story he told everyone, maintaining his separate personas, and hiding who he was from the majority of people who knew him.

The people who really took the time and energy to see Jason, ended up seeing through the fascade and became aware of his warm, gooey center. He would say and do the sweetest things and when I pointed out how sweet he was, he always said , shhhh! Don’t tell anyone!

I’m proud of who Jason was when he was his authentic self. Those who never got to know the real Jason, truly missed out. He was very intelligent, although he hid it pretty well sometimes. We would talk for hours about the many different mysteries of the universe and how humans are beginning to exist on a higher frequency. At least, our energy is. We discussed subjects he refused to talk about with most people because we learned from each other. We discussed religion, same-sex marriage, abortion, and politics. Most people have heard him refer to those subjects as “The 5 things he will NOT talk about”. His views would probably surprise a lot of people.

I miss him… So incredibly much. This is all so painful. I’m going to continue boxing up me and Jason’s life together. I’ll put it in storage tomorrow and hold on to something he said to me a long time ago when I was missing my husband. He said, “you will always have your memories. No one can ever take those away from you.” How right you were baby. How right you were…

Home

Home is such a nice word and I never realized how lovely it is to feel “at home” until recently.

Following my boyfriend’s death, our apartment no longer felt like home. I told a good friend that I felt like, I want to go home, but didn’t know where that was.

Several days after I said those words to my friend, she called me. She started talking to me about her mom. She is a widow and lost her husband tragically as well. Then she told me her mom needed a roommate. It’s my friend’s childhood home, and her family has owned the house for 33 years. Another awesome fact is that the house is in my hometown.

I went to meet my future roommate the next day and hit it off with her immediately. I got a ride to her house later that same evening, and I stayed.

The energy in this house is good, and you can feel the history. It’s comforting. I feel safe for the first time in a month.

I do miss Jason so much. I still keep looking at my phone, expecting him to call or text me. When I look at photos of him it feels like he could just walk through it and kiss my lips. I wish he could. A part of me wishes I had kissed his lips one last time. I couldn’t have done that though, I was too freaked out. He landed right on my chest, like he was sleeping there. I knew by the hole in his head that he wasn’t asleep. Fuck.

How do I get that picture out?

If only I had let him sleep that morning. If only we hadn’t been arguing. I can’t stop doing this shit to myself, and it’s crazy. Couples argue all the time and don’t wave guns around. They most certainly don’t put guns to their heads and pull the trigger, even if they think it’s unloaded.

I have this dialogue happening in my mind every freaking day. Usually by the end of the day, I’m mad at Jason. Jason and I went through a time when he was very abusive. It was awful. Sometimes when I’m feeling really angry with him for leaving me like this, it dawns on me that this was an abusive act in any situation. If he didn’t mean to die, then he was trying to scare and manipulate me. Abuse. If he did intend to kill himself, he wanted me to see it. He wanted me to suffer for my words. Abuse.

Immediately after I have these thoughts, I feel incredibly guilty. Milliseconds after Jason shot himself, I blamed myself. It looked like he did it because I had just said I wouldn’t marry him, after I had already said “yes” an hour before. He had pointed that gun to the living room where my friend slept and threatened to kill him if I left him. I told him that his drama, behavior, and bullshit was why I wouldn’t marry him. Then he pulled the trigger. I blamed myself immediately, before I even got out from under him. What I wasn’t expecting, was other people blaming me.

Now I’m on my way to me and Jason’s apartment. Our home. Only now, it’s not our home. It’s a time capsule containing bits and pieces of our life together with bits and pieces of me and Keith’s life together as well. I have to pack everything. I have to be out on the 29th which is exactly one week away.

Then, I’m going home.

Is This Fucking Real?

I am still in shock. I know this because I am not really dealing with Jason’s death. I have so much on my plate right now, it’s kind of ridiculous.

I had to wait for a bio-hazard cleaning crew to clean my apartment before I could go home, and they had to get three estimates before hiring a crew. The apartment manager had the first estimate done a few hours after the investigation was completed, a mere hours after Jason died. I was hopeful the cleaning would happen quickly. Well, they took their sweet ass time. I waited two weeks to be able to go home.

The walk from the parking lot to my front door seemed like a five mile trek. As I approached the door, I noticed a very mean looking paper attached to the clip on the door. I knew what it was. I unfolded the paper and read the words, “30 days to vacate the premises”, and the worst word of all, “EVICTION”. All of this before I even opened the fucking door.

Once I opened the door, I immediately noticed all of the carpet was gone. I walked into the bedroom, and the bed of course, was gone. I sat in my recliner and took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe I was having this feeling. Again. Deja-fucking-Vu.

Just a little over two years ago, I walked into me and my husband’s apartment for the first time after his death. I sat on my couch and breathed just like this. I had the same feeling, that my love would never walk back into this place again. This apartment would never feel the same. Life would never be the same. What I never thought in a million years, was that I would be sitting in a different apartment two years from that moment, feeling the exact same feeling about someone else.

I thought I was immune from this type of tragedy happening again, I really did. Whenever Jason would take off for hours or days, I would be comforted by the thought of at least not having to worry about him dying the way Keith had. Shit. The universe has sick fucking jokes, let me tell you.

Jason has been gone three weeks now, and I have hit brick walls in appealing my eviction, I still have to pack up this place, and I have two weeks to get the hell out of here. To say I’m stressed out is the understatement of all freaking time.

I also feel so incredibly alone. I have some support and I am so grateful to have it. I never thought I would be left high and dry like this by a certain handful of people, but I know from experience that death can bring out the absolute worst in people sometimes. Especially when the people are grieving the loss so hard. At the same time, how the fuck do these people think it feels to be me?!

I have spent my life alongside this man. I sacrificed a lot, including my family to be with him. Not only did I watch him end his life, the nightmare is continuing for me in ways only I am having to deal with. I have the threat of losing me and Jason’s home and my housing program all together, my children are barely speaking to me, Jason’s family seems to blame me for everything and are pretty much pretending I never existed. Jason’s friends either can’t handle being around me, or blame me as well. My mom is battling stage four COPD and my sister is so self absorbed I would be surprised if I even enter her mind on a semi-regular basis. Well, unless it’s to talk shit about me or accuse me of using drugs. I’m sure the accusations make it easier for her to turn her back. Otherwise she’s just a shitty sister, right?

So, my reality right now is fucking crazy! I am getting better sleep, however. My psychiatrist gave me a new medication that is keeping me from dreaming, and that has been such a blessing. The final moments of Jason’s life replay in my mind all day. Before this medication, even my sleep was invaded. There was no time-out for the flashbacks. I am finally getting rest. Not a ton of rest, but more than I was.

I have managed to couch surf my way out of staying at my apartment for the most part. It’s incredibly difficult to stay there. It was hard to stay at the old place after Keith died because it had been out home together, but he jumped off a bridge. Nothing could have prepared me for the feelings involved with being in my current apartment after Jason dying there in our bedroom. The residual energy left by Jason is completely different from what had remained of Keith. It’s much thicker. It’s practically alive if that makes sense.

I stayed in my apartment on Valentine’s Day, I am not so sure it was the right choice, but at times throughout the day I was comforted by Jason’s palatable presence. At one point I was laying on the couch and took a photo of a heart sticker I was wearing for Jason in honor of the occasion. I posted the photo on Facebook and upon further inspection, discovered something resembling a face. Jason’s face. I’ll share it so you can see for yourself.

Hmmm…

Whether it’s Jason or not can’t be proven of course, but the photo gave me comfort. To me, it was proof that Jason’s spirit is with me, watching over me, protecting and loving me.

My world is completely upside down and crazy right now. Jason’s presence is having a grounding effect that is so needed and I am grateful. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to want to keep him with me, and a part of me does hope his spirit will eventually move on to wherever he’s supposed to be. At this moment, I’m satisfied feeling that right here next to me is where he is supposed to be. I need it. I guess I’m more of a selfish person than I thought…

This Bitch Of A Road

I talked to a psychic the other day. If you don’t believe in that kind of thing, open your mind a little bit because I’m here to tell you, that shit is real.

I am very intuitive myself, but unfortunately I cannot turn it on and off when I want to. I can tell you however, that when I’m “on” I’m “on”.

After hearing this woman speak for 20 seconds, I knew she was “on”. I soaked in every word.

She said a lot that gave me great comfort and I was so grateful. I would like to share with you the most profound thing she said, and it was actually just plain old good advice.

She said, “I know you have been asking why. Why has this happened to you twice? Right?” I said, “well, yeah.” She replied, “well, imagine you are on your way to Oklahoma City, and you are going down the creek turnpike, but you would like to be on highway 44. All of the rest stops, restaurants, and people you see are all along the creek turnpike. People around you exit and take a different route all the time, but you can’t. You’re stuck on the turnpike. Your husband couldn’t hang, he exited but exited the planet. Your fiance exited as well. You need to exit. Just not in the same way they did.”

“Ok, so how? How do I freaking exit?!”

She patiently replied, “well first, you have to turn on your signal. You’re a good girl. Tell yourself that fact every day. Also, tell yourself that your feelings matter. What you want matters. It’s not going to feel right to you because you are a caretaker. You feed everyone, give people a place to stay, you put others before yourself even when those others don’t care enough to help themselves. Stop that. Say, I’m a good girl, and my feelings matter. Once you turn on that signal, you will exit and get on highway 44 and there will be different rest stops, restaurants, and people. These horrible things will stop happening, and you will fullfil your destiny.”

“Ok. I understand”, I said.

Then she told me that I am supposed to help people, but not in the way I have been. She said that people who help thousands of others never have easy lives. Isn’t that the fucking truth.

I don’t know about the thousands of people, but hey, it’s a nice dream.

And stranger things have happened…

What Am I Supposed To Do Now?

I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel my mind drifting from reality into a dark place it hasn’t been to in a long time.

I need my family right now. My sister says I need “tough love”. So I am alone.

I wonder how she would feel if after her husband was missing for hours, she was told he jumped off a bridge? Then 2 years later, coming up on 72 hours of her boyfriend’s disappearance, not knowing if he’s alive or dead?

I can tell you how I feel. TOTALLY FUCKING ALONE.

I have never felt so alone in my entire life. I understand my family not agreeing with my choices. I understand their choice to not enable my choices. I’m not asking for money. All I want is their presence. I want my mom to hold my hand and tell me everything will be ok. I want my sister to hug me and tell me she’s here for me.

I’m stranded in my apartment since my car is missing with my boyfriend. I’m sure the police are doing what they can, but this waiting thing is making me feel like I’m going insane.

The seconds feel like minutes, and the minutes feel like hours. Time has lost all meaning and the last couple of days seem like a lifetime of sorrow and anxiety. I have small moments when I don’t even want to be alive anymore. I don’t want to kill myself, I just wish I could pass away in my sleep and end this pain.

I never thought I would feel like this again… Isn’t once enough for a lifetime? I waited almost 10 hours to find out my husband was dead. I’ve been waiting almost 72 this time and the torture is so intense I feel like the feeling alone could destroy me.

Nothing makes me feel better. Music reminds me of Jason or Keith. I can’t focus on a movie or book. Writing is the only thing that passes time, yet all I seem to be able to write about is this.

No one wants to read this.

If I have already lost you dear readers, it’s alright. Click here for something more positive and uplifting. Seriously, go ahead, click it. I’ll wait.

Don’t you feel better? I do, a little.

Where’s Waldo?

My boyfriend is missing…

The thing is, no one is taking me seriously because technically he disappears all the time. He is usually gone for 24-48 hours and then returns and tells me some lame excuse for why he didn’t even call. 

This time is different. 

We live in the age of technology. We are always connected, my boyfriend is no exception. If he’s not texting or messaging through Facebook, he’s playing a game, listening to music, streaming porn. 

He walked out the door 36 hours ago and has not been connected one time. His phone can only be used with WiFi, it has no service. So for him to not be connected means he hasn’t sent a single message, checked messenger or sent any instant messages. He hasn’t played a game or played his silly casino slots he’s addicted to. Not a single time. 

It doesn’t look good. There is someone who I think knows something, but he isn’t talking! I am so distraught and I have no idea what to do about any of it. There isn’t really anything I can do about it except sit here and wait. 

I’m going insane with worry. 

I filled out a missing persons report this morning and now I’m writing this because I need help. I need someone with some knowledge of ways to search for people using technology; perhaps using an IMEI number or pinging his phone. Anything!! 

If you can help me please email me:

sarah.jones@bipolarlivingtoday.com

Meet The Fear Family

I didn’t think I could do anything to advocate for mental health.

I have issues. 

There are days, and sometimes weeks that I can’t bring myself to walk outside. It takes a very strong motivator, like seeing my kids, or when it becomes vital for me to eat. You know, to stay alive.

The age of online shopping is heaven for a person with agoraphobia. Amazon, eBay, and my new favorite, the Walmart Grocery Pick-Up service, make life so much easier for me; I have a lot less anxiety as well. 

The first time I ordered my groceries online, I was so thrilled to be shopping for food and breathing normally at the same time. A short time later, I received an email informing me I could pick up my groceries. 

I told the app I was on my way, apparently they can watch your trip in real time through GPS. Once I arrived a message popped up asking which stall I was in. A couple minutes later a woman walked out to my car with my groceries, she even put them in my car for me, it was amazing. When I returned home, I informed my boyfriend I was never stepping foot inside a WalMart ever again. 

Agoraphobia is such a strange thing. It’s hard to describe the way it feels exactly but I’ll try.

There is a town in the brain called the Amygdala and this neuron called Mr. Fear and his wife Nonsensical Fear live there. When I should be afraid, Mr. Fear uses his neurotransmitter which is kinda like a loudspeaker, and tells all of the other neurons that I’m scared. Every now and then however, Nonsensical gets on the loudspeaker and says some crazy shit. All the neurons know it’s inaccurate information, but what Nonsensical does is plant a seed of doubt. So these happy, healthy neurons who were perfectly content, now think it’s possible that a huge crack will open up and swallow me whole if I open my front door. I don’t know. That’s the only way I know to describe it. 

Sometimes, if I am late to an event or late for plans with someone, it’s simply because I am struggling to leave my apartment. When my brain is functioning correctly, I am never late. I hate being late for something. If I’m having anxiety over leaving the house, plus anxiety over being late, I will usually end up cancelling whatever I had planned, cry for awhile, then just go to bed, hoping that will push some kind of reset button and I will wake up normal and happy. 

The times agoraphobia is really bad are when I’m depressed, which makes sense. Depression already makes me not want to do anything. Combine depression and agoraphobia and you might as well forget about me leaving my apartment. I would probably have starved to death by now if Postmates and Doordash didn’t exist. 

Hopefully after reading this, agoraphobia makes a little more sense, although you might be confused instead. There is so much about mental illness that doesn’t make sense and thanks to a loudmouth named Nonsensical, I’m as confusing as they come. Oh well. 

You can’t have everything. 

 

Yes, It’s Me, Sarah & This Is Not Spam

It came to my attention recently, some people think that I’m posting spam, and then don’t read my posts or share the information I’m posting on social media. I get it. Those who really know me, don’t see me as a person to promote a cause or be particularly political in any way. That’s changed because I have changed…

I found the picture I added to this post, and it reminded me of my husband Keith. His stomach looked exactly like that after a suicide attempt where he stabbed himself so deep, that he punctured his intestines.

The night he stabbed himself we were at home watching Perry Mason, a part of our nightly ritual. At commercial, he got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. I assumed he was after his favorite night time snacks, bread and peanut butter, but he returned empty handed and sat back on the couch.

The show continued and I happened to glance over to the couch where Keith was sitting, and to my horror, discovered his white t-shirt soaked in blood. There was so much blood gushing from the wound that it was pooling in the creases of his shirt and jeans.

I didn’t have time to panic. I grabbed a towel, applied pressure to the wound and called 911. I continued applying pressure to his stomach until the ambulance arrived, crying and trying to get Keith to talk to me. He said nothing. He just kept watching Perry Mason. Only after the ambulance left with him, did I notice the long, blood covered knife lying on the kitchen counter, and drops of blood on the tile floor. 

After his surgery, his stomach looked just like the featured photo in this post. That incident was his first suicide attempt during our marriage. I did not handle it well. I didn’t know what to do or how to help him. I have issues with mental illness and have had a suicide attempt myself, so you would think I would know exactly what he needed. 

I didn’t. 

The timeline around my suicide attempt is very blurry, and I don’t remember the actual attempt at all, just a fuzzy ambulance ride, and the horrible 2 weeks away from home. I do remember feeling so alone, although the word “alone” doesn’t give the feeling justice. 

The “alone” I was feeling, was like a panic rising up inside of me, akin to how I imagine someone might feel if they were awake during a surgical procedure, but paralyzed, unable to talk or tell anyone they were awake. Once the first incision was made, you found not only were you awake, but felt everything. Then you were screaming, yet no sound emerged. 

That is the “alone” feeling which makes suicide seem like the only option.

Keith made a second suicide attempt. I came home one evening and found him on the living room floor. He had stabbed himself in the stomach again, only that time, he inserted the knife 5 times. 

I handled his second attempt much better than the first, hardly leaving his side unless I had to eat or go to the bathroom. 

Following his release from the hospital, he was placed in an inpatient facility for a few weeks. He jumped off a bridge 7 months later…

I have to live with the fact that Keith is gone forever. Living with the loss of a spouse, or anyone really, is so incredibly difficult. Suicide adds something to the loss that doesn’t make the loss worse than others, just very different. 

Keith had support, love, understanding, and his family by his side no matter what, and still lost his battle. 

I am realistic in knowing suicide, mental illness and addiction can not be eradicated. However, with the most up to date information we have about the effects of trauma during a lifespan, and the reality of mental illness and addiction; I feel it’s incredibly important for those of us who are capable, to speak out about our experiences, to help put an end to the stigma attached to mental illness and addiction. So many people are suffering in silence and dying. 

I have been through the unimaginable in my life, and all while battling mental illness and addiction. It’s hard. The way we look at these illnesses as a society is wrong, and people are dying, going to prison unnecessarily, and families are being torn apart. 

So, no, this is not spam. This is the reality many of us live and the more that is said out loud about mental illness, addiction, and what these illnesses truly are, the more we evolve in mind and spirit. 

Download my app! It is available right now on Android only. It provides easy access to my posts as well as my Facebook Page, also titled, “Inside My Manic Mind”.

               CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD FROM THE PLAY STORE!