My writing is a window into my mental health. When I write, it typically means that I’m doing well. When I’m not writing, it means that I’m struggling.
There are exceptions, of course, but the premise generally holds true.
My silence, then, is because I’ve been struggling. Like many men, much of the struggle has been silent suffering. Yes, I’ve supports, but shame creeps in and stills my voice.
This has its own shame. I’m ashamed at my weakness in not being able to quiet the darkest of thoughts. I’m ashamed at not voicing my struggle, especially to those who seek to help. Hell, I’m ashamed of being ashamed.
Ironic, that someone who so openly shares his thoughts on this blog, is ashamed of many of those same thoughts. I admit, my mind is filled with horrors that beat at my essence, reducing me, making me less than.
Less than. Less than most anything you can name. Certainly less than I pretend to be.
The window is open. The sun streams in. And I am plagued with self-imposed terror. I Am Struggling.
But I’m also coping. One moment, one day, at a time.
The window is open.