Mental illness is a phantom.

A phantom conjured by ceding your power, and living out of integrity with your body and soul.

And, I remember how those words would have landed when I was kneeling in the abyss with the taste of iron in my mouth.

My younger self never expected – nor wanted – to live past thirty.

It looks like I did, and not for lack of trying.

From the ages of 13 to 28 I killed myself every day with my thoughts and addictions… with knives wielded in the spirit of hatred upon my flesh.

Eventually, I was no longer satisfied by the petty, and I carved myself with finality.

I survived.

In the shame-filled twilight that followed I made a decision.

I’m not living like this anymore.

I don’t.

And no one needs to.

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