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My mental illness is a part of me, and I choose not to fight that. I work on managing it to reduce its negative impact on my life.

Despite this, and in spite of myself, sometimes I find myself wishing that things were different.

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I wish that I didn't have destructive, intrusive thoughts.

Maybe I should cut off my fingers.
Don't cut off your fingers.
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I wish that a slight variance in my medication dosage results in vivid, graphic nightmares.

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I wish my brain wouldn't manufacture imaginary sounds or visual artifacts that make me twitch and flinch.

You ok?
Yup. It's nothing.
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I wish that my illness wouldn't gaslight me into silence.

I'm finding this thing really hard and upsetting for both personal and ethical reasons.

Well, don't fucking tell anyone, they already think you're a neurotic mess without you bringing this ridiculous fabrication up.

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And I wish I wasn't constantly sapped of the energy that I'd need to fight for spaces that are safe for me and mine.

Our community leader's opinions on how to respond to sexual harassment and assault actively protects predators.

Yeah, but if you speak up about this, it will be you against him. You know how that long, drawn out fight will go, don't you? He's got the power, the support, and the endurance to yell you down.

You're right. I'll just stop going to events, I guess.


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Earlier today:

I should write a funny, short comic today.

Orrrr... you could write one about how you obsess over all the ways that your fucked up brain holds you back.

Will that help me feel better?

No!