It's the time of year when I break out my comfort book. I've lost track of how many times I've read it. Each time I struggle to find enjoyment in new things, I curl up under a pile of blankets with it. I don't usually post about my struggles with depression and anxiety. I try to put on a "normal" face for the world. I've gotten good at it over the years. I've learned to cope with my social anxiety and to wear a smile in public even on days when depression made it a struggle to just get out of bed. But every year as the days get shorter, it gets worse. This year it's bad enough that I'm seeking help again. And I feel embarrassed by that. Logically, I know I shouldn't. There's nothing to be ashamed of. But I'm afraid that if I speak up about it people will think I'm just fishing for sympathy. I'm afraid people will think I'm too fragile to be trusted with things (at work or in shows). But I'm ten years out from my initial diagnosis. I've done things I never dreamed I would be able to do. This next appointment is just another step towards living my life to the fullest I can. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of despite what the "black dog" might say. #depressionhurts #mentalhealthmatters #endstigma #sorryiwroteanovel #arrowsofthequeen #mercedeslackey
