Sunday, October 15, 2017

Banned Birds

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It is 2017 and this country is still banning books. It is 2017 and a book was just banned because it "made people uncomfortable". It is 2017 and in the United States of America "To Kill a Mockingbird" was just banned because people cannot handle the language contained in what is obviously a classic piece of literature. People in Mississippi, a place infamous for its racism and intolerance, just banned "To Kill a Mockingbird" because they cannot handle the "n-word".

To clarify, "To Kill a Mockingbird" (TKM) will no longer be TAUGHT in Mississippi schools, but will be allowed on library shelves. But the necessity for this book to be taught in schools, especially in high schools, is more and more evident every single day. When we live a time rampant with systematic racism, in a country whose leader took advantage of those preexisting prejudices and used them as a basis for his campaign, when African-Americans are being publicly mistreated by the law, when immigrants and DREAMers are being chased out of our country, we NEED this book.

In TKM we see time and time again, that no matter what, a person is a person. Nothing, and I mean nothing, changes this. Not skin color, class, age, situation in life, etc. This book is set in a time when the country was very clearly divided along racial lines, and in a southern state that widened this divide, in a time when anyone who wasn't white was treated as a second class citizen. Throughout the book we see Atticus, the father of the story's young narrator, Scout, treat everyone the same, from the destitute, to the addict, to the backwards thinking hillbilly's, to Tom, the African-American man whom Atticus must defend against rape accusations from a white woman.

It is through this narrative that we see that the law isn't always right, that some of us have a lot of privilege when it comes to how we are treated by the people who enforce those laws. It is through this narrative that we see that systematic racism is real, and it is wrong.

Teaching this book to people who have still developing brains is important, because we need those people to grow up and understand that everyone is equal. That as a country, we didn't handle things correctly for a long time, especially when it came to African-Americans. By teaching TKM, we show not only where we've come from as a country, but where we still need to go. By teaching TKM, we teach how to use white privilege as a tool to make the world a better place. By teaching TKM to high schoolers, you are teaching tolerance, compassion, understanding, empathy, and perspective. By teaching TKM to high schoolers, we are teaching an appreciation for diversity, a willingness to question society, and go against the norm.

The language (and violence) in this book is so incredibly important, because they illustrate where we were as a country in that time. The language frames a narrative that seems to be about coming of age in a turbulent time in American history, but is truly about the heroism contained within simply doing the right thing, even if the right thing goes against the status quo.

But most importantly, from this book, high schoolers will learn hope. Hope for a brighter tomorrow, for a better future for our country, hope for a better future for the people that live within its borders. And they will learn that they can make those hopes and dreams come true themselves, if they are willing to "climb in someone's skin and walk around in it".

There are messages in this book that cannot be taught in a better way. "To Kill a Mockingbird" stands the test of time because the reader connects with characters who touch on topics that America still struggles with today. How do we handle the mentally ill, those less fortunate than us, those of a different race? With grace, with compassion, and by treating everyone the same as you want to be treated.

Mississippi, you've made a mistake.



Alexis Olmstead is a 20something full time hot mess and part time diva living in Bellingham, Washington. When she's not defending the need for classic literature being taught in schools, she's taking photos, trying to find a job, and learning how to love herself. For more random updates, rants, reviews, and commentary on life with anxiety and depression, check back sporadically. 

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Unhappy

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So I'm doing this 30 day challenge on Instagram where every day there is a theme and you post a photo relating to that theme. Today's theme was happy. I read the word, five letters and two syllables that are meant to evoke some kind of feeling and I felt nothing.

I looked through my photos and all the moments I had where I felt happy just made me sad because instead of being with those people enjoying my life, I'm sleeping on couches, trying to find somewhere to live, and feeling like a failure.

I'm not happy anymore. And honestly, I love Seattle, but I regret coming here more and more all the time. I frequently wish I could go back to Omak, surrounded by the people I love, with my cat, and my friends, and away from all the shit that is bringing me down.

I've made new friends here, but I've recently lost any trust I had for one that I that nothing could shake my trust in. Do you know heartbreaking it is to feel deep down that soon you're going to have to cut someone out because you can't handle the hurt anymore? It fucking sucks. It hurts so god damn much. And like, I know they won't care. You always feel like you're so tough and ruthless cutting someone out, but you know what? Rarely do they care. They move on with their life. They fill your spot with someone else. Well I've already been replaced so what am I doing sticking around?

I used to laugh and smile all day long. Now I'm depressed. I go to therapy, I go to work, and I sleep. Sometimes I remember to eat, when my stomach starts to growl loud enough. But depression kills your appetite. So the other day I ate some top ramen and felt like literal worms were in my mouth.

To top it all off, my body has just like given up on me. For the third time in 12 months, I have a kidney infection. I tried to deny it, I got the diagnosis, I got the prescriptions, and then the doctor said, please stay home for a couple of days, your body has to rest because you're very ill. But I miss so much work due to anxiety and depression, that I couldn't afford to miss more work. I'm terrified they'll fire me, which will really send me into a spiral because I love the job I have, I love the people I work with, and even though I feel like they all secretly hate me because I'm worthless and can't make it to work 25% of the time, I would really hate to lose my job. So I went in anyways. I was in pain all day long. I felt horrible by the time I left. My manager graciously gave me a ride home, and in the car I made conversation, we had a fun talk, but all the while my back was THROBBING.

Cue me puking all night. Cue me trying to go to work this morning, getting on the bus, throwing up into my venti cup of ice and being asked to get back off the bus. So I had to call out again. I've cried like six times since 5 am.

So how can I post a photo of myself being happy or something that makes me happy when I can't see the joy in the world right now?

Someday I'll smile again. I hope.


Alexis Olmstead is just your average 20something diva living and working in Seattle, Washington. When she's not overthinking her meaningless existence in the vast void of space, you can find her doing copious amounts of crossword puzzles. 

For more updates on life, her mental health journey, and sometimes random rants, check back sporadically. 

Friday, August 25, 2017

It's Trich-y Is The Title

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The reason I don't do
no-makeup selfies right now
Ever since I can remember I've pulled out my hair. It used to be my head hair. No matter what I did, I couldn't stop myself. Somewhere between ages 8 and 12 (I honestly don't remember the exact time) I had a large bald spot on the top of my head. My family was stumped. I was often reprimanded for this impulse I could not control, once being asked "What's next, your eyelashes? And then what? Eyebrows? If you run out of hair on your face will you start pulling out someone elses?" After a few years I quit pulling out the hair on my head, my bald spot was gone, and it wasn't really brought up again.

Then I hit adulthood. I moved out on my own, my anxiety became worse and worse, and I started pulling out my hair again. This time, however, I wasn't hiding clumps of hair under my mattress, I was pulling out my eyebrows, bit by bit, examining each hair, feeling weird relief in this tiny behavior. After a while I started going after my eyelashes as well. And again, I couldn't (and still can't) stop myself from doing it. I try. I try really hard. Sometimes I realize what I'm doing and I stop. Other times I don't realize until its too late and I only have half an eyebrow, or I have a large gap in my brows, or I have no eyelashes left (see photo).

What I have is a classic case of trichotillomania. For those of you who don't know what this is, I'll do some defining. Trichotillomania is a disorder characterized by the irresistible urge to pull out ones hair. It often has great social impacts as most people with trich end up with bald patches or noticeable hair loss and have anxiety about going into public as a result of it. Before the days of filling in your eyebrows and the sudden popularity of falsies, I had a super hard time being around people after an episode. I was very aware of just how much eyebrow I didn't have, because I would try to hide it (to no avail) and because my family would often point it out to me. Because they never really understood that I literally couldn't stop myself from pulling out my hair, my very embarrassing disorder was almost treated like a joke. I don't hold any bitterness in my heart over this. It wasn't until recently that I even knew that this was a disorder, how were they supposed to know?

My brand of trich is automatic. I do it without thinking, when I'm doing brainless activities like playing on my phone or watching television. But like most people with trichotillomania, it also comes with a ritual. Pull out the hair, examine the hair, put it in a pile on a light colored object so I can see my collection grow. Bonus points if the root comes out as well. If someone walks in on this I hide my little pile of eyebrows or eyelashes, immediately embarrassed that I've been caught doing something that I repeatedly got into trouble for as a child.

The fun part is that there are a lot of different reasons as to why a person may have trich. It is classified as a mental health disorder but no one is really sure what causes it. It is closely linked to anxiety, depression, and OCD, but is not caused by any of those things. The fact that I have anxiety and depression, however, definitely relate to my trich. I'm most prone to pull hair when I'm feeling especially stressed, and often will pull out my eyelashes specifically during depressive episodes (btw, not having eyelashes is no fun. I get A LOT of shit in my eyes).

Anxiety and depression are also linked to excoriation (skin-picking disorder, formerly known as dermatillomania) which is another fun thing that I do that I'll talk about later but I bring up because lately now that I've got no eyebrows or eyelashes to pull, I've moved to tweezing out my leg hairs and picking at my skin to better get at my leg hair. Because of this I have permanent damage to the tissue on my legs, and some awesome scarring that I hide whenever possible. Last weekend was the first time I wore a dress or skirt without tights since February, when my trich and excoriation got really bad.

I go to a lot of therapy now, because I'm still classified as a suicide risk (don't worry, I'm sticking around). However, part of that therapy lately has been focused on trying to find the underlying issue to my hair pulling (if there is one) and helping me recognize my urges without acting on them. However, as anyone with an impulse control disorder can tell you, that's fucking hard as shit.

Life with trichotillomania is hard. But life is hard in general for most people. But I've promised myself I'll be honest with myself and my friends from now on and admitting to this is part of that honesty.

I have trichotillomania. Thank god for eyebrow pencils and falsies.



Alexis Olmstead is a 20something barista living and working in Seattle, Washington. For more updates on her mental health journey (or sometimes random rants) check back often. 

Also her bff Chris just put out an EP and it's super good. You can get it for $5 here: https://www.mkt.com/theuptown4/item/chris-taylor-nostalgia-ep (Alexis did not get paid to advertise for this and will recieve no profits)

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Painful Truths

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I spent Thursday night in a hospital being treated for attempted suicide. For the second time this year I laid in a hospital bed, waiting for a social worker, wondering how it came to this. When did I, a girl who by most people's accounts was destined to thrive, become the girl who took 20,000 mg of ibuprofen and just waited for life to end?

For those of you who might not know, I struggle with depression. And lately it has been eating me alive. I have resorted to self-harming, suicidal attempts, and am quickly withdrawing from most people. I am now in constant crisis counseling, and am setting up intensive outpatient therapy with medication management. If I go back to the hospital for the same reason this year, I will be involuntarily placed in a mental hospital for treatment. I don't necessarily see this as a bad thing, I mean, if I'm desperate enough to try this again, maybe I do need 24/7 supervision.

I went to the hospital alone, driven by the kind soul who is letting me sleep on her couch, and had no company but the teddy bear I've had since high school. I sat in that room, hooked to IV's and an EKG machine, throwing up into a bag, not allowed to have anything in the room but my bear and the water cup, not even my own clothes, and I sobbed. I cried for the girl I used to be. I cried for all the people who are buckling under the weight of trying to help me shoulder my burdens. I cried for my loss of joy. I mourned everything I had lost and felt I will continue to lose because of my disease.

I felt (and still feel) like all the joy has gone from my life. I looked at my arms and wrists, all cut up, and cried because my scars make my once clean arms ugly. I looked at my legs, scarred from constant picking due to anxiety, bruised because I can't get enough iron to stop myself from bruising like a banana, and cried because never again would I be the girl with long, beautiful legs. I looked at my stomach, starting to pooch out beneath the hospital gown I was wearing and thought about the amount of weight I had put on since going back on citalopram. I cried some more.When the hospital tech came in to hook me to the machine that monitors your heart, it was a man, who had to put stuff on my hips, and it gave me an amount of anxiety I couldn't describe because I was already hysterical. I later explained that unknown men touching my body was currently an issue due to some sexual assault I had suffered recently. They explained he wouldn't have to touch me again, but he would be back to monitor some stuff and I cried again. I basically just cried from 10 pm to 130 am in the morning.

Sitting there I felt every single thing I was losing and could almost visualize it slipping away before it my eyes. I was in intense pain, I was sick to my stomach, and there was no one there to hold my hand while I got poked and prodded to get my blood drawn for all the tests I needed to have done. I took an amount that could have shut down my organs, and made my blood acidic. Luckily, I'm young and fairly healthy, because it just made me throw up and fucked up my stomach lining for a few days. I did a horribly dumb thing. I wish I had cried out for help in a different manner, but here we are.

Living with depression means that I think of lots of ways to die. It takes a lot for me to actually act on these ideations. I'm not going to talk about what pushed me over the edge, because to a point, I don't know. I kind of know. But I don't really. For a person who prides herself on being logical and insightful, I don't know what the fuck is going on in this brain of mine. A large part of it is some abandonment issues related to moving all the way across the state from most of my family. Some of it is intense stress due to the fact I've been here for months and have yet to find housing. In fact, I don't even know where I'm going to stay after Friday night. Some of it is the fact that a year ago I was alerted to the fact that a body was found that police suspected to be my father, who disappeared some years ago. His birthday is looming, along with the anniversary of my best friends death. I am drowning.

I was recently diagnosed with a personality disorder and PTSD. I have been sitting in therapy sessions recounting past trauma, and current trauma. It is all very triggering. While it should be a weight off my shoulders to recount all this to someone else, it isn't. It dredges up memories I'd have rather let stay asleep. I have been manic, anxious, and unpredictable. I am so far outside of who I normally am that I'm afraid I'm going to lose the girl I once was.

This is not a cry for help. I have help. I'm getting help. A lot of it, now. This is mainly just me being honest with all of you. I have told a few people off lately, stating that I couldn't handle them currently. And it is true. I can't. I cannot handle any problems but my own. And I'm barely handling those.

For a long while I've been embarrassed about the fact that I'm suicidal as fuck. But I can't be embarrassed about it anymore, because it has stopped me from getting help. I'm not ashamed that I'm sick. I'm ashamed that I have taken less than desirable routes to get myself help for these issues, and have almost lost some very important people in the process. But no more.

Currently, I will be worrying about me. I will be putting my mental health and my happiness first. If I think that you're not going to help that journey, you're out. Because anything that might push me over the edge is a major threat to me right now. I am currently a girl who can not be left around ibuprofen unsupervised, because the slightest thing might compel me to take the whole bottle. Because of this, I cannot be around anything that might give me that reason in the first place.

For everyone who I love and who loves me, thank you for your continued support and love. I will be okay eventually, and I'll be bigger and better than before. But I will not be the same. I am changing, and I hope that I'm turning into the girl I've always wanted to be.

Here's what I need you to do, though. I need you to change the way you talk and think about people who commit suicide. For a long while I haven't wanted to tell anyone because I am afraid of being called, stupid, or selfish. I am neither of those things. I am hurting, I am sick, and on Thursday night, I saw no other way to cope with that. So often I see people commenting on how suicide is so foolish, how the people who die by suicide should have said something, should have reached out. If they just would have said something, they could have gotten help. I'm in the mental health system. I've been trying to get help. Sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes your brain just wants to kill the part of itself that spews evil thoughts and hatred into your mind relentlessly. I have said things, I have reached out. This time, I was ready. I was ready to be done hurting. Because I hurt a lot. A LOT. I guarantee I'm not the only person you know who is like this. Maybe you're like this. I get it. Let's agree that suicide is not the answer.

With intensive counseling, I will be getting the tools that will help me learn to cope with my issues, that will teach me to work through them in a healthy manner and not do things like cut up my arms or take a bottle of pills. I need help, and I'm getting help, and this blog will now be the chronicle of that.


Alexis is a 20something hot mess working and living in Seattle, Washington. She is on the search for inner peace and small amounts of joy. For updates on her journey to wellness, check back sporadically. 


If you or someone you know is in danger of committing suicide, there is help, and you are loved. Please call the number below or go to their website for assistance. And as always, I am here for you.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-(800)-273-8255 (online chat available)

Thursday, July 13, 2017

PSA: I'm Out of Order

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Lately my blog has turned into a play by play of my mental health struggles. If this bothers you, I apologize, but we all need outlets in this is mine. Many people vent to their friends and family. I prefer to blog.

Tuesday I went to my clinician appointment so that I could get back on my medication. Because I had gotten the appointment through a crisis program, I was asked how I had received the appointment on such short notice. So again I had to recount my panic attacks so bad I felt like I was no longer in control of my body. The 14 hours a day I would spend sleeping, the extreme nightmares, the hysteria, the fact that on any given day I could lose three to four hours of time that I could not recount. I was asked about my childhood trauma, I was asked about all my relationships, I was asked if I still wanted to die (the answer is no, don't worry), and it was all very, very taxing. Laying yourself bare in that way is hard. Especially when you know that its not going to be the last time you have to tell your story this month.

I came out armed with some new diagnoses, PTSD being the one I was most surprised with, and a prescription for an upped dosage of the medication I had been on before. So now I'm in the adjustment phase. And the adjustment phase is HARD.

I have slept from 11 pm to 3-4 pm the next day both days that I have taken my citalopram, and I have still been tired. I've eaten once since starting meds on Tuesday night after dinner, and am not hungry. Also, I feel like withdrawing in a large way.

So here's my announcement to the masses. For the foreseeable future do not expect a call from me. Do not expect me to text you first, or interact in any meaningful way. I probably won't answer the phone, or even most texts. Please don't ask me to commit to plans, and don't be upset when I can't or won't come to things you'd like me to. I can't do it right now. I love each and every one of my friends and family with my whole heart, but currently, I am out of order and needing to focus on myself first. If you message me and I see it but don't reply, know that it is not because I don't care, but because I don't have the energy to handle that right now. I am not looking for outpourings of support, or platitudes, or attention, I am here telling you that right now all that I can handle is staying in my lane and sharing memes on Facebook.

Once I'm well adjusted and leveled out again (thanks meds), I'll be back. But right now I need to focus on myself.

With love.


Alexis Olmstead is a 20something hot mess trying to figure out the key to successful city living. For sporadic updates on her life, check back occasionally. 

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Healthy Anger

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It's not RBF if you're actually mad.
For a long time I have repressed all the anger I hold inside my body. Things make me so angry I see red, I stuff them deep down under my abandonment issues, I cry a little, and I move on, never thinking about it again. Or at least that's what I'd like to think - but a day, week, month, later it comes back to haunt me. This anger seeping through every piece of me, eating me alive.

Sure, I show irritation. Yes, I get mad. At little things. I raise my voice, I do the arguing thing, about little stuff. The big stuff that I should process and be angry about in a totally healthy manner? Forget about it. I refuse to acknowledge that stuff. Because usually dealing with larger issues that make me angry results in me having to cut someone out, to tell someone I used to care about I can't spend time caring about them anymore, to stand up for myself and potentially be told that who I am makes them hate me. I am honestly scared of dealing with "the big stuff".

This anger eats at me. It turns into cynicism, into randomly blowing up at friends and family, large increases in depressive and anxious episodes. I have so many unresolved issues that their books could write books (or maybe infrequent blogs where they would rant about Romeo and Juliet being a tragedy and not a romance).

Tonight I got so angry I felt sick. I started to do the thing where I refuse to recognize my anger, and just push it down and don't worry about it. But I decided I was going to fix it. I am angry. I am so angry I'm shaking, and I'm angry about so many things I could just sit here and spout them off for like, a week. I talk about my depression and anxiety on this blog fairly often. You all know most of my journey and what I deal with. But I refrain from going overboard with the "poor me, poor me" posts because I don't want anyone to think I'm seeking out pity, or sympathy. I'm not. I'm just creating a dialogue about completely normal disorders.

Well being angry is also normal. And today I'm angry for a reason I've recognized and vented about but also so many more reasons. I'm angry I can't see my brothers before they move to a different state, I'm angry because there's a disturbed individual on this planet who sexually assaulted me, I'm angry because I'm broke, and I need money, and I need a place to live, and while two of those problems will be resolved soon, finding a place to live is proving to be discouraging. I'm angry because I'm going to have to go back on meds and the adjustment process and the trial period for depression and anxiety meds is a bitch. I'm angry because lately I feel weak. Everyone tells me that I'm strong, that I'm an inspiration for dealing with what I deal with, but I don't feel that. I feel fucking tired, guys. I feel weak. I feel like I can't handle all the weight anymore. I'm angry that I can't buy new clothes for myself and that all my pants are too big now, and I feel angry because some people called me too big before, and now others are calling me too small. I'm angry because I have two good days followed by three bad weeks. I am just fucking ANGRY.

I am refusing to hide this anger anymore. I'm refusing to swallow my anger and pretend it doesn't exist anymore. I am angry, I'm allowed to be angry, and being angry is a healthy response to shit that reasonably pisses you off. So here's to being angry. May we recognize it, may we love it, may we learn from it and be able to move forward, healthier and happier than before.





Alexis Olmstead is a 23 year old diva living and working in Seattle, Washington. Currently she's spending her days looking for housemates, obsessing over Dirty Heads and "Hamiltion",  and watching way too much Netflix. For more rants, introspections, and an inside look at a hot-mess of a 20something, check back sporadically. 

Thursday, July 6, 2017

Beautiful Struggle.

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I have depression. Some people will tell you that depression is a beautiful struggle to have. Depression is often romanticized by society, something pretty girls with dark pasts have, a disease full of tragic slides down the wall, ending in pretty cry face, musical sobs, a song so sad you'd cry too if you heard it.

Fuck. That. Shit. Because of this "beautiful struggle" view of depression, it's not taken as seriously as it should be. Suddenly depression is trendy, anyone having a bad day is "depressed", those who actually suffer from a serious illness written off easily as another Millennial desperate for attention. Do you know how hard it is to find qualified mental health care in this country? It's really freaking hard.

Depression, and mental health issues in general, are anything but beautiful. I can tell you from experience that out of all the things that depression is not, beautiful would be top of the list. I know beautiful people who depression, but that does not make it beautiful in any means. This disease is hideous. It's disgusting. At my best I've not showered for at least a day, at my worst I haven't showered, brushed my hair, or changed my clothes in a week or more.

Lack of motivation reaches to more than just not wanting to get out of bed and being "Sleeping Beauty" all day. It reaches down into your soul, convincing you to quit your job so you can stay in bed longer, to quit doing things you love so you don't have to leave the house, to give up regular hygiene so you can stay in bed, and as an added bonus, don't have to leave the house, because you're disgusting now. Who wants to be around a nappy haired filth person with bad breath? No one. So you stay at home, in bed, running out of money, running out of patience with yourself, with the world. Why do you matter? Why does the world matter? None of it does and that thought goes around and around in your head. Your stomach will growl, but you'll ignore it, because who wants to get out of bed to make themselves food? There's half a granola bar on the bedstand table. You'll eat it around 9 tonight. That's not beautiful. That's part of depression and it is horrid.

When people tell me what a "beautiful struggle" depression is, I think of what I must have looked like the first time I tried to commit suicide, tube down my throat, IV in my arm, my stomach contents being pumped into a bag, vomit coming out of my mouth, mascara running down my face. I was pale and gaunt, a familiar look when I'm at my most depressed. I had been rushed out of the house by my boyfriend so none of my clothes matched, my shoes were half tied, my hair in a bun that was falling out. The second time I was wearing a Christmas sweater in January, paired with some too big sweatpants, mismatched striped socks, and a pair of chic booties. I spent a large part of the night vomiting into little blue bags in the ER, curled up in a hospital bed, hugging myself until my Aunt arrived. My face, doing that pale and gaunt thing again, was thankfully free of makeup, and I didn't have to get the stomach pump, but I was constantly retching from the pills I had taken. This is not beautiful. This is a horrible sight to see. I could feel what I looked like each time, and it wasn't good.

My depression was written off for a long while as a cry for attention. That if I was given more love by those around me, I would get better, my abandonment issues would go away, I would quit laying in bed wishing I could just waste away, knowing that there is no meaning to any of this, we are all going to die and then nothing will come of us after that, and there's no point believing otherwise. At one doctor appointment I briefly mentioned that during my periods my mood swings got exceptionally bad, bordering on full on depression, leading me to take time off work while I was on my period. My doctor told me that was common and that it wasn't serious. I actually had a few doctors tell me that my worries that I was depressed or anxious weren't serious. It wasn't until I had my stomach pumped that I was finally diagnosed with depression and anxiety. Nothing about it was beautiful. Nothing about this was pretty. It was agonizing. I was hopeless. I'm still hopeless most of the time.

My point here, while all jumbled and messy, is that nothing about this debilitating disease is beautiful. That nothing about any mental health issue is beautiful. I wish it was. I wish I could openly tell people when I first met them that I had depression and know they would just think I was a more beautiful soul. But that's just not so. I used to hide my depression as long as possible because I was afraid of losing friends, of being someone who guys wouldn't want to date, of being abandoned. Honestly, these are still things I fear. Because depression has never been and will never be a romantic disease to have.

This thing is ugly, and evil, and ruins lives. Don't believe anything else.



Alexis Olmstead is just your average 20something living and working out of Seattle, Washington. When she's not spending ungodly amounts of time sleeping, Alexis enjoys exploring her new neighborhood, taking photos, and daydreaming of being a Broadway superstar. For more sporadic updates about life, love, and some other stuff, check back occasionally.