Sorry I Suck

I have sucked lately. I mean SUCKED. As a friend, as a family member, as an employee, as a person, you name it. My mental illnesses have been winning lately. And not winning in a manageable way, either. My medication doesn't work, so I don't sleep or really eat much, but I do cry a lot and feel everything on a level that's almost painful. But what's the hardest is that it isn't obvious to most that I'm hurting, except for the fact that I've said I am. The words "high functioning" have been a blessing and a curse my entire life, because I've always felt I could just out fight my diagnoses by toughing it out and going to work, going to hang out with people, pushing it down. Deep inside I've known that's incorrect, and I've preached against this method of handling ones mental health issues since I was myself diagnosed.

But we can't always live what we speak. I worked myself so hard I crashed out spectacularly. And because I just show up and do it with a smile no matter what "it" is, I've always felt like no one can even notice when I'm spiraling out. I worked myself harder and harder to succeed at a job that I LOVED but I knew wasn't good for me. The pressure of touching people, being surrounded by large amounts of people, running into those who had abused me in some way in the past, and having to try to not have a panic attack while doing it, made me so sick I couldn't even get out of bed.

And then there was the pressure of just existing in a town that starts rumors about everyone who simply exists outside of the box that the town wants to put you in, the stress of having a niece born at 27 weeks, and working through medication adjustment after medication adjustment just to make my high intensity life seem a little duller (thanks to Borderline Personality Disorder I feel everything at an 11). Life has simply become TOO much. I am simply too much right now. I have all these symptoms I understand but can't fully control and no coping mechanisms.

I know I should be going to therapy, but my first experience with a therapist back here had them telling me to just meditate on my trauma. I'm sorry but if the first five therapists couldn't successfully get me to do guided meditation that was productive in my treatment, I doubt the sixth will be able to. I told her my reservations and she told me I had to actually try. I have not been back since. I miss my therapist back in Auburn, she looked like Anna Kendrick and was really good at just letting me rattle but forcing me to reframe negative thoughts and help me understand my illnesses, especially BPD, which is still a fairly new diagnosis for me.

Because of Borderline Personality Disorder, a lot of things that may not seem like a big deal to most people are read as a personal attack by me. Things as small as moving my purse can send me spiraling into anger or hysterical crying, because what the hell did I do to deserve for my purse to be moved, it wasn't hurting anyone, do they just want my things out of sight because they want to forget I live here? And if they want to forget I live here, are they going to move out and leave me? And then Abandonment Issues joins the party and we just keep spiraling through all the symptoms until I'm lying in bed, exhausted and out of emotions.

Because of Borderline Personality Disorder I've started to notice that I connect with people too quickly and rely on them too much. I've worked really hard to not be so codependent but when I feel that someone understands me, I want to be with them or talk to them all the time because no one else does it feels like. So then I rely so much on that person that I basically hug them to death and they run away.

I feel guilty being friends with people. I feel guilty telling people I'm hurting, because my problems seem like they are so numerous that if I open the door, they'll all fall out at once and people will drown in my problems. And then they'll run. I hate when people run. My support circle fluctuates so much because my symptoms have been so out of control.

Trust me guys. I know that I can be toxic to be around. I sit at home and cry about it. I didn't use to lash out at everyone, I used to really internalize things. But lately I've just felt ugly whenever I'm having a low day and I've become mean, and ugly, and I hate it. I feel so guilty after I'm rude, and I never know how to apologize for my brain literally just leaving me behind and making me a monster.

I'm sorry I've sucked so much. I'm trying so hard to be better and be happy and be healthy but it is a fucking struggle. I love you guys.

Alexis Olmstead is 25 years old and lives in Okanogan County, WA. She's currently working on her first photo series that explores what life with anxiety and depression really looks like. When she's not staring at her niece or sleeping, Alexis is watching too much Netflix documentaries about serial killers. Check back sporadically for more posts. But not too often, because this is the first post in like, a year. 

Thought Spill

Here's my attempt at being brief about things. None of these paragraphs are really connected, but they're thoughts I wanted to put out in the world.

In June, I didn't sleep for almost a month. I was far more depressed than I've been in ages, and I couldn't understand why. I still don't fully know why. I just know that the depression preceeded the insomnia, but the insomnia brought anxiety, and the total sum of these was a lot of missed work. And a lot of crying because I couldn't work. I gained a pant size and now I cry when I look in the mirror. I hate the way my hair looks, but I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll always just be an average looking person, not someone who commands attention just from the aura that surrounds them and their overall beauty. I guess I'll have to resort to relying on my brains to get ahead in the world. Pity.

I've recently realized that I'm going to be 25 and I'll have accomplished nothing of note. Most of my friends have graduated college, have amazing careers in fields they love, and while they don't have it ALL figured out, they have a lot of it down pat. I'd hoped by this time that I would be a teacher, making a difference in someone's life. Changing kids by being the amazing influence that my educators were. But I can't even dream of going to back to college right now. I always say "next year, this year I'm saving up money". The next year comes, the money isn't there, I'm still working jobs I hate dreaming of the only thing I've wanted to do since I was in the fifth grade.

Recently I may have indulged in a drink or two at one of my boyfriends shows and made an ass of myself. There was a lot of drama, I woke up embarrassed, and now I have a lot of work to do to repair my reputation. The main lesson I came away with was that I shouldn't drink Jaeger. While my boyfriend assures me we're going to be okay, and that people fight, and that yes, I was a giant b-word, but he forgives me, please stop apologizing, I'm still having a hard time forgiving myself for the scene I caused. My greatest fear is that he won't realize how grateful I am to have him in my life. How happy he makes me just by being around. And with one big argument, I kind of showed that I don't give two shits about what he does for me, even if that really isn't true.

I used to think that I had a lot of friends, and I thought that was really important. But the someone smart told me that "we have friends for a reason, and we have friends for a season", and that made a lot of sense. There are so many people in life that we are friends with just because we have to be around them frequently, and then there are those friends who are going to stick around even when they have no reason to. I suppose I've just gotten to that point in my life where my "friends for a reason" have slowly begun to fade out, and my "friends for a season" are showing me that they're going to stick around.

 I want to get back in to performing, but I'm terrified of going up against the large scale talent that lives in the Seattle area. I'm just a girl from Omak who likes to play pretend. What if I'm rusty? What if I've always thought I was talented and it turns out I'm actually horrible? What if I actually get cast? There are so many possibilities that I get too anxious thinking about all the pros and cons of everything that could happen that I end up not going to any auditions, even if I'm really excited for them. But how am I supposed to get famous enough to be on Dancing With the Stars if I can't force myself to go sing 60 seconds of a song for a director?

These days I'm more questions than answers, more trainwreck than hot mess, and more stressed out than ever. I'll quit complaining now, I guess.

Alexis Olmstead is a 24 year old trying to cope with the gravity of turning 25, at which point it apparently "all goes downhill". When Alexis isn't working, watching her boyfriend perform with his band, or binge watching true crime shows, she enjoys reading, singing mediocrely, and playing an unhealthy amount of The Sims 3. For more random thoughts about nothing, letters from the road to mental health, and opinions on stuff you don't care about, check back often. 

As Seen On TV

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is my favorite binge-worthy show not produced by Netflix. As a lover of musical theatre and all things big, bright, and dramatic, this show is right up my alley. If you haven't seen Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and have thought of starting to watch it, please leave and watch all episodes out right now, and then come back to this post. I'd hate to ruin anything for you. Same goes for any current viewers who haven't seen the latest episode. Because that's all this post is about today.

If you're never going to watch a music sitcom (uhm, who are you? please do it), you need some context. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend follows the life of Rebecca Bunch, a Yale/Harvard Law Graduate who leaves her big practice in NYC to relocate to West Covina, California to find her happiness, NOT to get back with her drama camp boyfriend from years ago, Josh Chan. So she gets a job at a law firm, dumps all her depression and anxiety meds, and goes about getting the man of her dreams. It all goes wrong, at the end of season 2 he leaves her at the alter to become a priest, and sends her into a mental health spiral in season 3. It is a light hearted show with lots of original musical numbers, amazing, relatable characters, and a story line that could go on for seasons.

The latest episode ended with Rebecca attempting suicide. And I want to thank the creators of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, Rachel Bloom and Aline Brosh McKenna, for this episode, especially Rachel Bloom for depicting the journey to a suicide attempt so beautifully and accurately. As someone who has attempted suicide and sometimes just lives in the zone of "suicidal but don't want to die", this episode highlighted a struggle I personally could connect to more than I would have wished to.

Watching Rebecca pull those pills out of her pocket, look at them, and form the idea to overdose, was a completely silent few seconds that felt like minutes. I remembered that feeling. Pouring the pills out, feeling how they tumble onto your hands, knowing that's a lot of drugs and its going to mess you up. But then not caring. Because you want to be messed up. You want to be so messed up that you die. You swallow them all before you can change your mind. You have to act on the impulse before you get too scared. That's always the thing about it for me, is that I know overdosing is a bad idea, I know suicide will do more harm than good in the world, but I'm hurting and I don't have anywhere to turn.

You know I have somewhere to turn, reader. I know right now I have MANY places to turn. But in those moments, always in those moments, I forget I have people to run to, people who love me. In my mind they are all pretending. They feel sorry for me, they actually hate me and are just pretending, if I go back a failure they'll all ridicule me....my brain is an asshole when it comes to making up reasons not to get help when I'm low. From the episode it is supremely evident that many people will miss Rebecca if she is gone. It is evident in my life that I will be missed as well. But sometimes, my brain wins. Sometimes, it puts blinders on me and tells me I've been deluding myself into feeling loved by my circle. I could tell that's how Rebecca felt in this episode, too.

This episode was a gift. I know I have friends who struggle with suicidal feelings as well, but I've never seen a journey to the darkness that is acting on your suicidal ideations from an outsiders perspective before. I recognized so much of it. The insomnia and then sleeping all day. The loss of appetite. The refusal to trust others. The isolation of oneself. I recognized, and I understood, and in turn, felt that someone out there got it, and that's all I've wanted for longer than I can remember. Is someone to get it. Someone to know how all of this feels. Because none of what I feel is good when I'm in a depressive low.

But there is always hope. The episode closes with Rebecca holding up an empty pill bottle and asking for help. There is a beautiful moment where the call button above her seat on the plane she's on, which says help, suddenly turns to the word hope, and that's when Rebecca pushes it. She's foggy from the pills, she knows she's in trouble, she sees a stranger with a friendly face (a very sweet flight attendant) and asks for help. She has hope. She doesn't actually want to die.

That moment was a revelation for me. I've never fully wanted to die. I don't want my whole body to die. I just want the "bad" parts of me to be gone. The parts that are depressed, and anxious, and the parts that assume everyone is going to leave me, the parts of me that hate myself, the parts of me that tell me that I'm going to die alone and friendless. I want the voice that second guesses every good thing I do, to be dead. I've always kind of hoped there was a way to kill that part of me (I know, go to therapy and get back on your meds), and I think that's why I've always ended up in a hospital. Because I realize that you can't just kill parts of yourself. You have to fix them.

This weeks episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend gave me something to connect to. I saw the events of my recent past play out, and I didn't lose any love for Rebecca, which made me realize that if I could still love and appreciate a fictional character, than my very real friends and family are still going to love and appreciate me, even when I'm broken. The love doesn't go away.

Thank you, Rachel Bloom. This show is a gift.

Alexis Olmstead is a 20something part time retail worker, full time diva, living and working in Bellingham, WA. When she's not working or sleeping, Alexis is working on her first photography series, Alexis Is Alone. For more updates, rants, raves, and letters from the road to mental health recovery, check back sporadically.

You are loved, there is hope. Keep moving forward. 

Difficult....But Worth It

I feel like I have a sign attached to me that says "difficult....but still worth it". And depending on who you are, you see a different part of the sign. Some people only see the word "difficult". They write me off as a lost cause, the girl too consumed by her depression to ever do anything or be anything of value. They see me as nothing more than the meltdowns and bad days. They see my days on the couch, the moody social media posts, and the constant mood swings in real life as the sum of my parts. I see myself as this as well. I am too difficult for anyone to handle. I'll always be alone. I'll never be more than the girl who cries all the time. The one aching to belong but never feeling fully included, even when I know everyone wants me there. If we're being totally honest, this feeling of being too much for everyone and being everyone's "pathetic friend" who they only hang out with out of pity, is so pervasive that I felt like I was unwanted and in the way at my own birthday party this year.

Then there are those who ignore the first part and only read the second. "But Worth It". They see me as a girl who is broken, but can still smile. The girl who climbs the mountain and makes it to the top. The girl who has meltdowns and panic attacks, but still sees the positive in the world. These people build me up, affirm me, always tell me their alive when I worry they might not be, make me laugh when I'm crying, and understand that I'm not doing this "being on your own" thing gracefully. These people make staying alive worthwhile.

Because the truth is, I AM more than all the shit that's wrong with me. Yeah, I cry over almost everything these days. I wait till I'm alone and then cry a lot, until it gets to be too much and then I just start crying over anything at anytime. Don't believe me? I cry over Youtube ads. Yeah. Anyways, I cry too much, but I also see so much beauty in the world around me. I laugh too hard at childish jokes, I make way too many bad jokes of my own. I can be snarky and sassy and blunt, but I love the people that I've surrounded myself with and like to make new friends. I say I don't like kids, but lets face it, that's a lie and anyone who has seen me around my CTL kiddos knows it. I get depressed, and I blow everyone off, but whenever I can make it to the thing, I do. I get anxious and sometimes can't ask for help in the grocery store when I'm lost, but if my friend is more anxious, I'm going to stiffen my upper lip and ask anyways. I'm a big heart and an old soul trying to figure out how to survive in a world that punishes you for wearing your heart on your sleeve.

I am dark days and stormy weather, but I'm also sunlight coming through the window on a spring day. I'm depressed and anxious but so eager to see the world and see what it has to offer. I meltdown over silly stuff a lot, but I will support any one of my friends through any number of meltdowns if need be. I've been there, I get it. I'm so much more than my mental illness. I'm so much more than my bad days. I just wish everyone saw that.

Alexis Olmstead is a 20something hot mess living and working out of Whatcom County, Washington. She is currently working on her first photo series, "Alexis Is Alone" which you can see on Instagram @alexisisalone. When she's not binge watching Forensic Files or belting showtunes, Alexis likes to dismantle the patriarchy and eat Thai food. For more updates on her mental health journey, life, and stuff that grinds her gears, check back sporadically. 

Unhappy

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. 

It's Trich-y Is The Title

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)

Painful Truths

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)

PSA: I'm Out of Order

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. 

Beautiful Struggle.

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. 

An Update.

Photo from an
upcoming series
by Alexis O

Since moving to Seattle I have been on a mental health roller coaster. I have spent a lot of time sleeping on the couch, and barely any time living. This transition has been hard. I left Omak and my medication behind, the medication being forgotten not because I'm delusional enough to think I don't need it, but because I didn't get a refill and then couldn't find an immediate way to get it over here in Seattle. I've been anxious and depressed, suicidal (no, I don't want to die, this a constant in my life), and exhausted.

As a result, my anxiety attacks have been through the roof. From melting down because I didn't know what type of ice cream sandwich to buy for my cousin to being convinced I had skin cancer (there was a pimple on my arm, I rarely get pimples, have never had one on my arm) and dissociating because of it, I spent three hours paralyzed with fear. According to the intake professional at Sound Mental Health, along with "flight or fight" reactions, there is also "freeze" and what I do is freeze.

Last Monday night I was in the ER being seen for emergency anxiety meds and some other troubling symptoms I'm sure is related to my anxiety, such as the aforementioned dissociation. After speaking with a social worker, I was set up with an appointment at Sound Mental Health within the next two days to get in for a prescription for my depression and anxiety, and to speak with them about the time-lapses and the (I suspect) intense PTSD that I have been repressing until recently, when being sexually assaulted and then upending my life to move across the state caused a lot of anxiety. It was there that I learned that it is very valid to say I have a personality disorder, along with my anxiety and depression. While the professional I spoke to wouldn't diagnose the exact personality disorder due it to just being an intake appointment, and I have some suspicions about what it will be, I will be going back to see another doctor to get more specific answers.

I have decided to start counseling and go on heavier medications to combat the anxiety and depression, because I'm ready to go back to living my life. Even having this idea that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, that I'm moving towards a more stable reality, has given me so much more energy than I had before. I've gone out and met people. I've made plans. I have medication from the ER to tide me over until I get in with a clinician next week, but mostly I have hope.

Having hope while having depression is something that rarely happens. I mean, I barely have the energy to brush my teeth, how am I supposed to muster up the energy to hope for things? Not only can I hope now, but today I did something I haven't done since moving to Seattle. I took a self portrait. I pulled out my camera and I just experienced the joy that photography used to give me. For the first time in months, I got that thrill again. Making art is so soothing. I'm so close to returning to the girl that I recognize as myself. I don't cry myself to sleep anymore, the isolation I first felt when I moved here is quickly disappearing, and I have more and more reasons to smile.

Taking the step to go to the doctor was hard and scary. Medical buildings of any kind tend to send me into panic mode. The feeling of unwellness that surrounds these places weighs on me and makes me feel unwell. I admittedly tried to turn around once I saw the ER doors. I have a great friend in this universe who has given me several pep talks outside hospitals and mental health buildings, I owe a lot of this greatness I feel to him.

I am feeling more broken than I have ever felt before, with more questions than ever, but I am hopeful and excited for the future. A better, stronger version of Alexis is on her way. Watch out.

Alexis Olmstead is a part time barista, full time diva living and working out of Seattle, Washington. She's currently on the search for answers about life, love, the meaning of the universe, and hopefully an affordable apartment. In her spare time she likes to change the lyrics to Earth, Wind, and Fire songs to be about her life. For more spontaneous updates on life with mental health issues, and random thoughts in general, check back often.

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)

Breaking

Last night my heart broke in a way I didn't think was possible. Not since I heard the words "they found a body and its probably your dad". But for the past 12 hours I haven't stopped shaking. My heart has cracked. I am broken.

I looked in the mirror for the first time before I showered and I couldn't recognize myself. Gone was the light from my eyes. Gone was the faint smile I've grown used to wearing to combat my resting bitch face. My whole face sagged. Who is the girl in the mirror now?

I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how to feel. I sat in the shower with the heat all the way up and I felt nothing but cold. I shivered. I am
numb.

I cannot breathe, friends. I cannot breathe. Because this is it. This is what has finally broken me. I am in pieces. Shaky, poorly oxygenated pieces. I feel like I'm watching myself make tea, take a shower. I'm not driving the car, I'm just a silent observer to my own life.

I did not sleep. I woke up every twenty minutes hoping it was all a joke. Hoping this was a bad dream. That I'd get a call and he'd say "I take it back, this is going to be okay, I'll see you Friday evening." That call never came.

I am breaking.

Fear and Loathing In Alexis.

I wish I could say all the things I've been wanting to say for ages now. I wish that a lot of things I need to say could see daylight. That there was no mystery to how I feel about certain people and things. Because while I am very open about specific parts of my life, there is much I have yet to own up to, or even recognize.

I find myself to be quite melancholy lately. I wouldn't say depressed, because well, I mean, I am, I take medication for that, but this is a different sort of emotion. A weighted sadness. One without definition that doesn't feel like the world is ending, but questions, why do I matter in side of this world?

As Watsky once said "there's 7 billion 46 million people on the planet/and most of us have the audacity to think we matter....I know its a lie but I prefer it to the alternative." Maybe I'm a little existential crisis-y, maybe I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm one very small person in one very large world. I can't make much of a difference on a large scale.

I recently lost my medication. I don't mean no longer am allowed to take it, I mean, I put the bottle somewhere, and haven't been able to find it since. Learning to cope with the negativity my mind can't normally handle without going off the deep end has been quite the adventure, I can tell you that. And trust me, my mind throws a lot of shit down.

I think I'm having a good day, my brain tells me that I'm ugly and my boyfriend hates me. I brag about how wonderful my little cheerleaders are and how proud of them I am, my brain tells me no one cares about my girls or the effort I put into making them good. I feel pretty, my brain tells me I'm unworthy of love or positive attention. No one can hit below the belt like your own mind can.

I guess I keep a lot bottled up because I'm tired of hearing myself talk about how shitty everything is. Truth is, I don't have much to complain about, my mind just tricks me into thinking I do.

That my friends, is anxiety. That my loved ones, is depression. It can literally ruin your life if you let it. I spent three months drowning in a pool of my own making, unable to come up for air, somehow comforted by the fact that I was stuck with this awful feeling now. My reality was waking up and hating my reflection, hating my inner self. As far I was concerned, I was just - bad. Rotten to the core.

I had a meltdown because we ran out of ice. I had a meltdown because Mr. Darcy the Cat wouldn't cuddle with me while I napped on the couch. I felt unloved, unwanted, and unimportant. Many were actively telling me how much I was worth, wanted, and loved, but my brain refused to accept this as fact. And often times, that's just how it is. I have to remind myself every so often that my mind is a chemically unbalanced bitch and I need to fight it with every part of my being.

And maybe because I'm feeling like this a little therapy for me, but we're just gonna say it is all related to my mother. My mother who told me I'd never accomplish anything. My mother who called me ugly, and kind of fat, and not that smart. My mother who chose a pedophile drug addict over me and my brothers. My mother who has a permanent place in my head, who is the voice of all my fears and self-loathing.

Every day I fight this voice. Every day I fight the urge to cry when I see myself, when I think about how little I've done. I know it will all work out. I mean, I hope it will all work out in the end. That hope for a brighter someday is all that keeps me hanging on. I dream of bright sunny days where I'm one of those bubbly girls in a white sundress running through a field of daisies. Until then I'm just hanging on, I guess.

Psycho Bitch

Raise your hand if lately you feel like your mental illness is destroying your life.
Keep it up if you have been called crazy, psycho, or some variation of those in the past week.
Raise your other hand if you can't help but to think that everyone is right, you are crazy.

Me too, kids. Me too. I know that I'm fucking everything up lately. From my violent mood swings to my current sinking feeling, it is all too familiar. I feel like I've always been depressed, but the switch from crisp fall air to winter winds sends me deeper down the rabbit hole than is normal for me. As more and more leaves fall off the trees, bits and pieces of me drift farther and farther down as well. Maybe it is like....I don't know, seasonal depression 2.0? Where you're normally depressed but then get SUPER depressed when the seasons change? Like, normally I'm on like a 3 out of 10 on the depression scale (thanks meds), but then winter starts to show up and I'm at oh I'd say, a 7 on days I'm medicated, 11 on days I forget.

The crappy part is, I forget that my boyfriend hasn't had to deal with this for very long. He doesn't know how to help me cope, how to help me get out of my funk, how to be there for me when I go from kind of needy to the most helpless human he knows. So then, on top of all the shitty feelings that I'm already pushing down to think on or deal with later, I add guilt, because I can't help but get angry when Cory just doesn't "get" it.

I know it isn't his fault that he can't sympathize with me. I know it is hard to imagine how low I can get over seemingly small things, like accidentally falling asleep instead of cooking dinner, or me putting his laundry away without him returning the favor, or him having a bad day and snapping at me. These are things that happen in life. Average things. Yet for me, they are catastrophic sometimes, and it isn't always easy to explain that my brain chemistry is messed up and I can't handle there not being honey mustard for my french fries right now because why does tragedy always befall me?

I know I'm all over the map right now (thanks meds), but I'm having a hard time processing through all these emotions that I'm feeling all at once. I'm exhausted from it. And I'm so tired of putting on my smile, day after day. Don't get me wrong, there are things that make me smile. I'm not always just putting on a brave face, I'm not a hero, I'm not an inspiration or anything, I'm just a cliche. I find joy in my cheerleaders, my boyfriend, my pets, most days my job. I have reasons to smile. I just never feel like it anymore.

I am grateful for what I have. I am not asking for pity. I'm just asking for some all knowing being to come hang out for a bit and tell me that I'm not crazy for crying over spilled ice cubes, Taco Bell is a healthy diet, and that I am always, always, always, loved, because I am. I know I am.

I just have a hard time remembering. Another thing I'm messing up, I suppose.

When You're Suddenly a Flake (I'm Sorry)

Lately as in for the past 6 months, I have been horrible about getting to things. I will make commitments then cancel last minute, just won't show up, or will just say no, that I can't be there. I've missed deadlines, lost motivation, and basically just dropped the ball on almost everything.

For all of these things, I would like to apologize.

For all of these things, I would like to explain myself.

I have depression and anxiety. Like, bad. If the wind blows strong enough I can't drive my car. I once had a panic attack because it was slightly drizzling and I still had set cleanup to do after a rehearsal. I got sent home because I obviously couldn't calm down (and wasn't expected to) and then bawled my eyes out for the entirety of the 20 minute drive back.

I take medication that makes me exhausted and helps everything, but not even medication can help on the bad days. The days where my existence is too much to handle for no particular reason besides I am me, and the weight of the world is crushing my helpless body.

I don't want to do anything anymore. I go to work, I go home, I sleep for a few hours, I do laundry, I eat dinner, I go to bed. That's it. I am supposed to be an assistant cheer coach and a photographer on the side. Because of the way my meds have affected me this past week I've barely left my house save for on my birthday when I felt the need to give myself at least one good day. I've quit taking photography clients and quit doing my most photography related things in general.

Depression and anxiety have made the way I live my life so much different. I am constantly worried that something will trigger a panic attack, I'm constantly degrading myself for no particular reason besides the fact that eh. I just suck lately.

I am sorry, friends and family, for my extreme lack of consistency. If you know me, you know this isn't like me. I'll be back to myself soon enough.

Hopefully.

Self-Help.

When I was younger, I continually broke down into tears over seemingly little things. Having to do the laundry when I was tired, having someone be angry at me, or just feeling like I was wrong. I often felt unloved and out of place, and attempted to be the center of everyone's world, I think as a result of feeling abandoned by my parents. I had incredible mood swings, with seemingly small things sending me from perfectly happy to raging mad, like the time I was planning for my 16th birthday party and my friends put mayonnaise on my sandwiches. I left after yelling at everyone and went outside, and filled by guilt, started crying. Then I felt stupid for crying so much, and cried so more.

For a long while many people told me that my mood swings and constant crying were a result of being spoiled by my grandparents. I was told that being sad for no reason was "stupid" and that I needed to "grow up". Inwardly, I always felt dejected, and like I would never go anywhere in life, a sentiment that was echoed to me by my mother once, but always stayed with me.

Once I became an adult this consistent "sadness" manifested itself in me sleeping all day, and shirking off responsibility. I get sick often, and got fired from a job that paid on the rent on my first ever apartment, I sign to me that I couldn't succeed on anything I tried. This came after me having to leave college, moving in with my family, moving out, and moving into an apartment in Spokane, only to end up fighting with one of my roommates over a huge misunderstanding, and because she was a friend that I ended up losing, I spiraled into a pit of despair of that moving back in with my family didn't help.

I felt like a fool, a failure. I tried to be happy and enjoy life, but for some reason I couldn't be happy. I moved in with a person I trusted, moving away from my family once again, and they ended up being not only verbally abusive, but emotionally, and occasionally physically abusive as well. But I felt I deserved it somehow. Because I was a failure and never would achieve anything, this house, with this horrible person would be the best I would ever get. I spent hours, even days laying in bed, sleeping, crying, not eating, not accomplishing or trying to accomplish anything.

Again, all these behaviors, which should have been a sign that I was deeply unhappy and even unhealthy, were treated as me being spoiled, a princess, that I needed to grow up. So I moved out.

For a while after moving in with some very close friends, I was happy. They had a baby who I loved, we all got along, I had a job that paid the bills, I was in a show as the lead, and I went to New York with money that I saved up. But occasionally calls from my family, or interactions with my old housemate, or even negative experiences at rehearsal would send me spiraling into hours of me feeling useless, unlovable, not worthy, and an unnecessary addition to the planet.

But then I got with a boy, I think out of a need to feel something for someone, and to have someone value me as a human and tell me I was worthwhile, and I ended up moving out of this place where I felt mostly happy. While he never mistreated me, I knew that he wasn't right for me, and I ended up breaking up with him, and leaving. Out of hurt, he sent me these horrible text messages calling me such evil things, that I couldn't help but believe. Because I had used him to feel good, and this was the payment for it. I deserved to feel bad because I was a bad person, and this new boy that I was with was going to figure that out and leave me as well. I felt so awful. But I had spent so many years hearing people telling me that feeling bad was me being spoiled and acting out, that I had no way to clearly evaluate all the negative stuff I was feeling. I figured that I was probably just being a princess again, and no one would care about how awful I was feeling.

So, after standing on the edge of the cliff for what felt like years, and being constantly nagged at by this hurting boy telling me how awful I am, I decided it was the end. I was done hurting, and no one needed my bratty self to bring them down or make them feel bad. Crying so hard I could barely breathe, I swallowed 3/4 of a bottle of ibuprofen. I told the guy who was harassing me that he had won, I wasn't going to be around anymore, and he wouldn't have to watch me be happy with someone else.

But then Cory found me and he wanted to know what was happening. What had I done. Why I was feeling so sick. So, figuring it was too late, I told him. Obviously it wasn't, and he took me to the ER to have my stomach pumped. Now apparently ibuprofen won't kill you, but it can cause a lot of damage to your insides. And it made me feel awful. Looking at Cory who was so worried about me, I realized I didn't want to die. I just wanted to feel better. I didn't want to be so sad. And then, after having my stomach pumped, I realized that I would never try to do anything so stupid ever again.

Soon after, I quit my job, and laid in bed for a month, maybe two. I forgot. It was a dark time. I slept all day, not wanting to eat, not wanting to get another job, not wanting to achieve anything. I hated everything. I hated myself. Everything was awful. I would just lay in bed and cry and sleep, and try to connect with my boyfriend, but cry when he get understandably irritated by my neediness.

I knew in my heart I was depressed, but I was embarrassed by that fact. I didn't want to be seen as someone who was crazy, or someone who was less than anyone else. I didn't want to have to tell people I was depressed and see them give me that look you give someone when you're trying to empathize or sympathize. I didn't want to be pitied, I wanted to be strong.

So I told myself to "get over it" like so many others had said before, and got a job. I love my job. I was happy there, and getting to a place where I was happy with myself and my life again. When bad feelings surfaced, I would cover them up with a smile, accept more hours at work to keep my mind off of it, and fill up all my free time. Soon I was so booked up with stuff to keep me busy, and in my mind, happy, that I exhausted myself.

I started to lose joy in anything that made me happy before. I didn't want to do theatre anymore, I didn't want to paint, thinking about cheerleading made me nauseous. I never felt hungry, I had no motivation, and I couldn't bear the thought of going to work when I felt this horrible. I felt like I was at the edge of the cliff again. I had to get help. I went to OBHC, but the process to get to see a counselor when you're not an immediate danger to yourself is mildly ridiculous. But after urging from my boss, I went to my medical doctor, who, after hearing just a partial list of my symptoms, confirmed I was depressed.

It was a long and horrible process that I just got help with, literally two weeks ago. So many people supported me along the way, and offered help, and comforting words that I ignored out of fear. I want to thank you all.

And I want to urge anyone who feels like they may be depressed, or have some other type of mental illness, get help. Don't wait. There is so much shit and so many stereotypes when it comes to mental illnesses that it can be scary. Ignore all that stuff, ignore anyone who tries to downplay what you're feeling, and get help. You'll thank yourself later on. This life is so beautiful, it's a shame that we would even waste part of it not feeling like our best selves.

Alexis Olmstead is a 20something bank teller living and working out of Okanogan County. She's avidly working to get her life back to normal after being diagnosed with depression, and going back to enjoying everything about her life. In her spare time she coaches cheer, acts, sings, and rambles on her blog. For more of this, that, and the other thing, check back sporadically.