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I didn't get a say in my birth. My mother and father took the executive decision to procreate without my input, and I landed on the scene in the April of 1985 before I could register any objections. Upon my arrival, the doctors deduced a few things: I was a boy. I was healthy. And, given the amount of wailing and thrashing, I appeared mildly inconvenienced by this whole birth scenario. For nearly 32 years after that, the doctors didn't miss much--except to diagnose me with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
Before I knew anything about borderline personality disorder (BPD) or antidepressants, I knew that pharmaceutical drugs were bad. Or, at least that's what I was told growing up. I learned from a young age not to trust therapists or doctors. Doctors wanted to poison your body, and therapists wanted to poison your mind. Why would I think that? Well, because then it would be easier for them to control you.
Something I have found about having chronic anxiety is that this often leads to avoiding triggers, which includes avoiding conflict. For example, you might find it difficult to set boundaries in a relationship, or you might find that you've been putting off having a difficult conversation with your supervisor at work. For me, this might look like walking away from arguments or being as diplomatic as possible in an interaction with someone to avoid some sort of conflict.
Many individuals are familiar with the fight, flight, freeze, or appease response to trauma. However, one thing I have learned after years of exposure to verbal abuse is that this automatic response can lead to detrimental procrastination in other areas of my life. 
I'll admit, it's difficult sometimes to separate a discussion of mental health from a discussion of race. It's difficult to separate a discussion of anything from a discussion of race, for that matter. During my mental health journey, while adapting to the nuances of navigating my illness, it was not lost on me that race itself was another nuance to navigate. This is just one example of a very long list of factors that felt completely out of my control. Although difficult to accept, realizing that I couldn't fix everything opened me up to more healing and more peace throughout my mental health journey. I realized I didn't have to feel guilty for compartmentalizing race and my mental health. This can be applied to any factor that may feel out of your control and cause added strain on your pursuit of mental wellness. It's okay to let go and prioritize yourself.
It's important, for a variety of reasons, to keep in touch with the events of the world around you. But what do you do when the news triggers your self-harm urges?
It's been over a year since I said goodbye to my sweet pup, Cannelle, a cocker spaniel. I adopted her when she was 18 months old and was blessed to have her by my side for 13 years. Throughout that time, Cannelle helped me in ways that she, of course, could not comprehend. My pup helped me through bouts of mental illness, among other things.
July 12, 2022, was when my life changed forever. On this day, I got diagnosed with double depression, and I have been unable to come to terms with it. Even though I suspected it for a while, I don't know how to accept this as my reality. And I know it will be many moons before I do so.
I tell myself that I write about borderline personality disorder (BPD) because I want to help others struggling with BPD and crisis, among other things. But, if I'm truly being honest here, I'm not writing to others — I'm writing to a former me. I'm writing to the me who spent hours Googling my behavior looking for answers. I'm writing to the me desperately seeking relief from my inner torment. I'm writing to a me I assume is long gone. This time, however, I want to write to a different me. This time, I want to write to the me that thinks she made it to the other side. I want to write to the me who pretends to have some kind of authority on getting through BPD. This time I want to write to today's me.
Over the weekend, I had lunch with a friend I had not seen in five years. During part of our conversation, we discussed the importance of friendships. In this post, I will discuss my friendships at different stages of my life and how they have affected my mental health.

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Comments

Mary-Elizabeth Schurrer
Hi Hugo,

Thanks so much for sharing! I definitely concur—mindful eating can be such an instrumental practice in eating disorder recovery, as well as health maintenance overall.
Hugo
I agree with you. Mindful eating sounds more correct especially towards those who struggles with eating disorders.
Borncute
This past weekend, I was with my maternal family, they went to sleep, I just couldn't sleep, and therefore I drank a full bottle of whisky and some beers,,,I was so drunk to a point I couldn't walk or stand, I fell, embarrassing myself and almost hurting myself. my mum and her sisters (my aunts) were also present, I believe they are very disappointed in me, my cousins maybe a little but I don't know how will i face my aunties after this ordeal i created. some of my cousins had to pick me up and hold me to walk.
Mahevash Shaikh
Glad you got it back :)
Thanks for giving me hope, Lizanne.
Tdawg
I pick at my fingernails, cuticles, pull on hangnails. I pick my nose. Bug bites, falling as a kid, any injury was pick territory. It still is. I'm going through a life jpheavel as I write this and just cut down my toe nails until they bled.
So, I noticed I was doing it. I came in here, and voila. I realize for myself that it is a form of fidgeting. I fidget with my hands when I'm nervous.
I learned how to knit. So I am now inspired to break it out and do some productive fidgeting.