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frostclawdragoon · 5 years

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Prompt #25: “Learning to Trust”

((Small cameo by @verdantbard‘s character OF COURSE. This is going to be a reoccurring theme with us tbh.

Lots of Extreme Angst in this one. Cause resident catboi is a sad catboi. So putting it all under cut. :’D))

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Over and over, memories of the past flashed through his mind’s eye. Images of death, fire, war and chaos... Eternal solitude and loneliness. Of every sin he had ever committed, every machine he’d ever built that murdered and destroyed innocent people. Every face that laughed at his misfortunes or left him to suffer...

R’ouros was violently tossed about in the sea of painful memories, struggling desperately to stay above the heavy water to breathe, and to call out to those shadowy figures who were always present, always looming, always so far away. He reached toward them, his fingers and arm stretched as far as he could make them. He called out for help through wet coughs.

They responded by turning and walking away, vanishing in a sea of darkness. He screamed himself hoarse, begging for them to come back. But they didn’t.

They never, ever came back.

With a sudden rough gasp, R’ouros snapped awake. As his senses all flooded back to him, so did the extreme pain that shocked his system, causing him to grit his teeth and hiss softly in discomfort. He laid still, waiting for the stinging to subside slowly, and as it did, he eased back into his pillow and sighed heavily in relief.

Blinking his eyes opened, his vision adjusted. He was in a room, tucked safely away in an extremely soft bed with freshly cleaned linens. The light of the sun was shimmering through an open window, the wind gently rustling the curtains that hung there. He watched the curtains dance on the breeze for a moment, letting his jumbled mind untangle itself from the dream world to come back to reality.

That’s right… I’m still recovering from--...

Although his expression did not flinch or change, his eyes filled up with tears as he recalled the moment that put him in this position in the first place. The Battle of Ghimlyt… Khito running from him, leaving him to die… R’ouros had been told that he was found crushed under a bunch of burning magitek debris, and among the intense burns, wounds and broken bones he suffered, his right leg had been severed completely in the crash. It had taken several healers to bring him back from the brink of death, and even with the help of Windsong and any local conjurers, he still was a mess of broken… Well. Everything. And he’d be stuck in bed for a while.

R’ouros closed his eyes, letting the tears roll down his cheeks as he rolled his head away from the window beside him to look out at the rest of the room as he tried to rid himself of those thoughts. And there, when his eyes opened again, his gaze settled upon a familiar sight. Khamri’a. He sat slightly slouched in a chair near the bed, his arms crossed and head hanging low as he slept in his seat, likely having dozed off sometime after R’ouros had.

He stared at the slumbering Keeper, his gaze softening slightly with sorrow. Khamri’a… Windsong… They all had noticed his absence at Ghimlyt, they had rushed to his aid, pulled him from the fires and spent everything they had to save his life, and they continued to watch over and nurse him back to health at the expense of their own. And he couldn’t understand why. Why would anyone in their right mind want anything to do with him? He was a terrible burden, one that caused so much grief wherever he went. He was a pile of trouble that no one should have to deal with.

And yet… They constantly insisted otherwise. And he could not wrap his mind around it. To be cared for, to be worried about… These were concepts that were new and unfamiliar to him. The only people in his entire life that had ever gone out of their way to save his life had been Khito and Kara… And now…

He frowned deeply, his gaze breaking away from the slumbering Khamri’a. It was fake. It had to be. If the only two people in this world who cared about him turned their backs on him, why would Windsong be any different? They liked him now, sure, but tomorrow--... Tomorrow they could change their minds, they could have their eyes finally opened and see what everyone else did. That he wasn’t worth the time or effort, that his entire existence was a cruel joke. That he really was obnoxious, bothersome…

Khamri’a moving about slightly in his seat caught R’ouros’ attention again, and he watched as the Keeper shifted to try and get comfortable in the chair. Which would be no small feat, that chair looked awful to sleep in. But somehow he made it work, and once he was apparently content with his new resting position, he resumed his undisturbed slumber. R’ouros continued to watch him long after he’d stopped moving, his stomach twisting and churning with an intense warmth he didn’t understand.

Even after everything was said and done. Even after Khamri’a’s apology, his reasonings, his explanation of the Echo… R’ouros still just--… He just didn’t get it! Why? Why did he matter at all to these people? To Khamri’a? Was it pity? Guilt? Obligation? Did they, like all the doctors in his past, care about him because he was hurt? If he got better, would they leave him too? Did they feel responsible for his foolishness and mistakes because he was a member of their Free Company? What was it? Why did they care?!

“Trust...”

R’ouros’ eyes went wide. The voice, so soft, gentle and sweet, had whispered to him in the back of his mind. Hydaelyn, Khamri’a had called her. She was connected to him, to the both of them, through the Echo; an ability she bestowed upon those she deemed worthy of such a gift. He used to be terrified of her, thinking he was steadily losing his sanity like everyone had said. But he hadn’t been. In fact, she had been trying so hard to reach for him, to possibly even help him, and he always ran away, always telling her to shut up, that he didn’t want to hear it.

But thanks to Khamri’a, he wasn’t going to run away from her anymore. He wasn’t going to ignore her voice, he was going to listen.

“Trust...”

A lump formed in R’ouros’ throat and, with what little strength he could muster, he lifted his bandaged arm, his fingers shakily and weakly reaching out for Khamri’a. His eyes welled with tears again, both to the pain that shot through his body from moving and from the thought that maybe, just maybe, Khamri’a and the rest of Windsong… Really did care. And that they didn’t have any other reason or hidden motive. That they just cared, genuinely, about his life, his well being, his health. They liked him for who he was and they wanted him to be part of their lives. That no matter what he had done in his past, no matter what illnesses plagued him, no matter who he was or where he came from… They’d stay with him. They wouldn’t run away. They wouldn’t hate him.

He wanted that. He wanted that so bad. He wanted a home, a real home, a real family. He wanted to trust them… He wanted to trust they loved him and cared about him. That it wasn’t fake, that they weren’t telling him what he wanted to hear, but were telling him what they actually felt.

Their hearts were reaching out for his, Khamri’a’s heart was reaching out for his...

“Trust…”

R’ouros’ fingers gripped the crumpled edge of pantleg around Khamri’a’s knee, his hand shaking to remain aloft. The subtle movement was enough to snap Khamri’a awake, tense and alert, until he spotted R’ouros’ hand on his knee. He visibly relaxed, then glanced up toward the Seeker and, as soon as eye contact was made, R’ouros burst out into tears, no longer wanting nor willing to hold back the emotional pain and fear of abandonment and loneliness that had weighed heavy on him for so, so long.

He was going to try. It was going to be hard, but he was going to try. He was going to reach back to them and trust they wouldn’t let go of his hand once they grabbed hold.

R’ouros didn’t mean to stir up any panic in Khamri’a, but when the fellow miqo’te took his shaking hand in his and tried to figure out what had caused his emotional barriers to finally shatter, R’ouros only cried more.

I trust you… He thought between his uncontrollable sobbing. I trust you...

#FFxivWrite2019 #my writings #REALLY SAD ANGST #Featuring Catboi Ouros and his struggles with Feelings

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elenaescribe · 5 years

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Why I write (an essay)

Picture me as a small 11-year-old girl, a tiny hurricane with glasses and braided hair. I always slumped in my seat because the world seemed so incredibly uninterested in whatever I tried to communicate. Smoke puffed from my flaring nostrils as something ignited within me. Back at my house, my childish hands hovered over a keyboard and furiously began to type. The filter restraining me in front of my classmates was slowly vanishing as I dissected my surroundings like a passionate critic. It made sense to spill my mind onto a piece of paper, it played a tune in my heart that somehow made it clear I was… different. Nevertheless, my views were private and muzzled by my preteen shyness.

At the end of the school year, my class was assigned a project where we’d have to do extensive research on a topic of our choosing and give an oral presentation. Picture me beaming with enthusiasm as I realized this was an opportunity to unveil the fire in my mind. It was obvious for me to pick a subject close to my reality, so I decided to talk about childhood depression. This was the same year I started taking antidepressants and began to regularly attend therapy. It was also the first time my parents were called in to talk about a talent my teachers saw in my writing. I was not the usual depiction of a fifth grader. My classmates bullied me mercilessly for the markings on my wrists and my lack of conventionality; it would be less than a year before my first hospitalization.

That oral presentation would go on to define a large part of my identity: the need to open a conversation about important subjects that somehow fly under the radar. I found confidence in fighting for a cause many try to silence. It wouldn’t be long before these themes would take over my writing, dominating pages with sharp sentences about a decaying psyche. The more isolated I felt from reality, the more I found myself coming to life in the lines I wrote. The sentences spilling from my fingertips were a clear report on my state of mind and it quickly took on a new meaning: I was no longer dissecting those around me, instead, I was analyzing my inner monologue and taking endless notes on it.

Picture me as a rotting 14-year-old girl clad in oversized sweaters and tight leggings to give off the appearance of a thinner version of myself. Imagine counting calories and lying down in an empty bathtub as if trying to drown out the melody in your head telling you to carve lines into your skin with sharp objects. I was the ghost of the girl with fuel and purpose, my strong voice became a mere whisper and all I could think about was dying. There was no vision of the future, my body ached from fighting with therapists and shrinks and my family. I spiraled into a cycle of fear and neglect. The only place I felt remotely comfortable was in front of a computer with my hands on a keyboard. “This is my legacy” I thought. “A collection of personal writings in the style of Go Ask Alice”.

It came as no surprise that I was hospitalized a second time. The nurses were manipulative and abusive, it shocked me that there could be such a large loss of humanity in a place where people were supposed to feel safe and cared for. Hospitalizations are meant to serve as a time of rest and recovery, not as a suspenseful game of survival. This period also became the first time I could not bring myself to write. It was as if the bleak walls of the clinic had consumed my identity and swallowed my voice. I felt abandoned, weak, paranoid and terrified. The physical and psychological aggression I experienced in that prison-like environment wounded me deeply. Something was visibly wrong with me when I left that place and I knew things were changing; I was not the same person. This would be my first encounter with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It wasn’t until we moved to Costa Rica that I fell back into the habit of writing. I wrote as a mean of endurance, the ink bleeding from my pen became my oxygen supply. Desperate pieces describing the multiple shadows that followed me from Chile became my life’s backdrop. Something about being in my parents’ native land gave me the warmth and trust required to tell such overwhelming stories. Tales came out of me like a stream of never-ending memories; my body felt cleansed and slightly purified. The muck stuck to my lungs was plastered across word documents, loose pages, napkins, anywhere it would stay long enough for me to document it. I clawed my way out from the void and left a trail of evidence.

For a couple of years, I felt free- my attention was drawn to self-help and beautiful music. It was time to get rid of anything that reminded me of the catatonic girl in the bathtub. The only concrete evidence of her existence was in boxes stored safely in my room; the numerous things she wrote continued to live in their own habitat. As I found myself balanced and stronger, so did my art. I returned to my origins, my essays were detailed notes on the various scenarios taking place in a young life. They weren’t hurried or out of breath, in fact, they were… joyous. The inner monologue became about adjusting to a happier state of mind.

Then came my first year of college. Film seemed like a great career choice, since I could take up screenwriting and tell inclusive stories about mental illness to fight social stigma. I was buzzing. Unfortunately, at the end of my second week there, I was sexually assaulted by an older film student. Picture me frozen, bruised, bitten, eating my skin in my sleep because the guilt was overwhelming. The reactions people gave me when I trusted them with my experience was devastating. I deserved it. It wasn’t rape. I was overreacting. I needed to get over it. There was nothing to be upset about. So, what if he kept trying to talk to me? That didn’t count as harassment. I couldn’t take legal action because there wasn’t a case to begin with. I would only humiliate myself. I would have to apologize to him. He was an artistic genius. His documentary won awards. People wouldn’t believe me. It was all in my head. My assaulter went as far as saying I had a penis phobia.

What happened blew out my light for a while and I refused to write about it. It was an experience too painful to revisit, all I wanted was to erase it and the damage it left behind. Thankfully, the event took place at the beginning of the Me Too era and I felt strong enough to share my story online. Motivated to continue to speak up, I wrote through tears and panic attacks; I murdered the stillness within me and set the fire ablaze. There had to be a way to let the agony out, a way to achieve total justice and open everybody’s eyes. Especially those that basked in the fake glory of keeping their blindfolds on.

I write because it is my way of making a difference. I feel it’s my purpose to expose the horrible things taking place in the darkest corners of humanity. The abuse in mental hospitals, the misconceptions regarding mental illness, our antiquated views on sexual assault, self-harm, eating disorders, trauma and so much more. It’s a never-ending list of cruel realities being swept under a rug so people can feel comfortable and safe. I want to be the guidance and safety I needed when I was a child. Art can and will shape the world and I desire to be a part of that movement. It is our time to inherit the earth and transcend hatred with wisdom.

Here is an extract (roughly translated to English) from Ode to Envy by Pablo Neruda, a poem that captures this idea perfectly:

"I will write not only

so as not to die,

but to help

others live,

because it seems that someone

needs my singing."

#essay #writers on tumblr #prose #writing #female writers #personal #writeblr #personal essay

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shawnpyfrom · 6 years

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SOMETHING MORE TO SHARE...

I read the news about Anthony Bourdain last week. But I needed to take a bit of time, to consider my own consequences, before putting this out there. It scares me… But I’ve decided this is important to share. Despite my fear of sharing something so personal, I recognize it’s potential to do something good. So I must put my fear aside to do what’s needed. And since this seems to be a fashion of mine, off I go…

First, I’ll acknowledge the impact Mr. Bourdain has had on my life. His show, No Reservations, was not only a favorite of mine growing up; but it’s among the few things that has inspired my love for travel. I’ve been to a number of places, I never would have traveled to, at the result of his intelligent and mellifluously articulated recommendations. Many of those words have compelled my movements. And I owe a prodigious amount of credit and gratitude to him for helping to shape something that has, now, become so much a part of me. His influence reached beyond my television screen. If not for my travels, I would not be the person that I am.

When I was stuck in one of the worst cycles of depression I had ever experienced, I found myself moving to Paris at the end of 2016. Something I wouldn’t have done without the impetus for travel - that Mr. Bourdain helped provide me. And when I returned, in 2017, I moved to Thailand for three months to further understand myself - to figure out what was killing me, slowly. Or, perhaps, quicker than I realized…

In 2015, I was sucked backwards into the pull of my depression. And the anxiety of being without an outlet to express myself - one that validated the person I thought I was.

I’ve been an actor since I was four years old. It’s all I’ve ever known, for a long time. It’s what I identified as, for the better part of my life. It’s the only part of me that received acknowledgment, for quite some time. When I worked, I was given what resembled love (or just enough of it). And when work slowed down, my world went quiet. I was criticized, told what must be “wrong with me”, and treated as though I didn’t exist. I came to crave work. I needed it to feel whole. To feel accepted. Understood. And to feel loved. I came to know acting as a way to feel human - one that was worthy of affection - during childhood, and into my adult years.

When I worked on Desperate Housewives, I began to receive excess “love” and adoration. It overwhelmed me. But it made me feel acknowledged, even though it was solely due to my vocation. And most of that “love” came with hidden agendas - motives that were only revealed once I had trusted a person. And I obliged many of my new “friend’s” desires, as a way to keep receiving their version of love. I gave them money, opportunities, experiences. But as soon as someone got what they needed from me, many times they left. I felt, often, used. And too often abandoned.

But the truth is… I didn’t know who I was. I had identified too much as being an actor - despite my deeper knowing that I am so much more. I received more affection as an actor, than I did as Shawn, and felt it necessary to accept that as the equation of my worth. So I started numbing myself to ignore the pain and emptiness it left me with, feeling that most people didn’t care to know me. For several years.

Until I got sober. Something new, which gave me strength. And a source of pride, for overcoming what was so difficult. But it became my new identity. Something I could validate myself for. So I wrote an open letter about it, almost five years ago. Which came far too soon, for me, despite it’s best intentions.

I stayed single for a number of years - the result of feeling unlovable... And then I met someone. And fell, quickly and deeply, in love with her. But it was a relationship that held physical distance - she lived in New York, while I lived in LA. Over time, I started to feel alone. And after my open letter about addiction, I found it tougher to get people to meet with me. It seemed my openness about being an addict had left people to question my reliability, when it came to work. And it made me feel unwanted by the world I still felt like I was a part of. An industry, that part of me still required validation from.

When I got sober, I started to feel strong. So strong, I believed I could do it on my own. I had done so much else “on my own”, so why not that? I wasn’t really working a program (AA/NA). I didn’t set up a failsafe. I only knew one way to quell my darkest feelings. But I was determined not to move backwards.

But the months of loneliness, while my girlfriend and I were in different cities, coupled with the lack of opportunity to do the thing I love so much - perform - started to tear away at my strength and healthy mind. I found myself getting on medications - some I apparently “needed” and some I definitely did not. As the void in me expanded, I began filling it with more pills. Which left me feeling like a failure in my sobriety. I had lost complete sense of who I was. My depression became worse. My behavior became more unpredictable. That put incredible stress on my relationship. I put her, and my family and friends, through incredible strain. Something that I now consider to be unbelievably unfair to them. When my, then, girlfriend had attempted every last measure with me; she decided she had to walk away. I felt rejected and abandoned, once more. I felt more unloved than I had ever felt before. Leaving me with a grief I had no tools to deal with. I didn’t want to live - My identity was already deceased. My proceeding actions were nothing short of appalling.

I put a belt around my neck. I swallowed all of my pills. If it weren’t for my roommate, mother, father, and the girl who had decided to leave; I wouldn’t be here. They all, quickly, rushed to save me - and did. I’m ashamed of my actions, and where they lead. I still carry an unimaginable guilt, for the way I inflicted pain on all of them - and so many others who became aware, after the fact. There was no reason for my response. But it was lead by my illness - and not me. Something I only know, now, with clarity.

After several months of grief and hard work, I found myself getting back on my feet again - with a new understanding of myself. And with much more caution. My ex-girlfriend continued to speak with me, despite her own grief and blame over the situation. And after a while, she gave me a second chance. That, along with the help of my friends and family - the support I received over several months - is what kept me going. They continued to save my life. Through my toughest moments, they were there. I had made my issues glaringly (and unnecessarily) obvious, after staying quiet for far too long.

After several months, back with my ex, she decided to leave again. Despite the fact that I was back to being healthy, she decided that knowing me was, still, far too much for her. I was devastated and confused. I didn’t understand at the time…but I do now. With even more time, and clarity, I recognize the immeasurable pain I must have put her through. And I don’t blame her for leaving again. She had to take care of herself. She had taken care of me long enough. But, with that… I moved to Paris.

There, I met several people who surrounded and supported me - while staying in contact with several others back home. I told people my story, and they listened. They were there for me. They understood me. And they validated the person that I am - not the actor that I was.

And as time has gone on, I have stayed open. I have informed people when I started to feel my depression creep in. Staying open, has helped people understand where I’m at and how to help me. It has helped people to know when I need help, and validate me when I’m doing well. I continue to build people around me who know me - always. And I now have a program. I am constantly working on myself - and will need to for the rest of my life. I’m doing better than I ever have before - but I’m one of the lucky ones. I know I will never be “safe”, but at least I’m protected. And I have a failsafe if I want it. And I do, now.

So I find myself feeling even more identified with Mr. Bourdain after his “apparent suicide”. And let me preface by saying that I make no assumptions about Mr. Bourdain…

I have suffered from anxiety and depression for almost as long as I can remember. I started having panic attacks at five years old. My parents have recalled moments where I would gasp for breath and tell them I couldn’t breathe. I recall those moments too. I can remember moments where it felt like I was being sucked backwards into a dark and endless void. I can remember feeling the weight of gravity on my body, and trying to fling it away. At five, six, seven years old. There’s no real reason for why a child should be feeling those things, aside from the explanation that there was something, chemically, imbalanced. An imbalance that lived in my mind. An illness that is mental.

My addictions stem from that. They are an extension of my anxiety and depression. Something I didn’t discuss in my first open letter. I have felt the impact of those words, shared in the past - along with the condition itself. I have been judged, criticized and given less opportunity for sharing about my personal afflictions. But I wouldn’t take it back if I could. That letter didn’t just help thousands of people - that I heard from and, perhaps, didn’t - but it also helped me. I took ownership. And it helped me as much it helped anyone else. This letter is no different. Because the better we understand one another, the easier our lives become. So I must make it clear that this letter is just as much for the people who don’t suffer from mental illness and addiction, as it is for the ones who do.

I don’t blame anyone for the way I’ve been judged. They are not at fault. No one is. We are still ignorant to the reality of mental illness, despite our present attempts at awareness. We are only now beginning to wake up to that reality. We are starting to take interest, and show compassion - display empathy. But we are still unaware. So I can’t blame anyone for a stigma I, and many others, still carry. Because how can we know what we don’t know? How can we understand what is still so complicated?

On a personal note (as this is, obviously, very personal), I appreciate the attempts of all that try to understand - whether it pertains to me, or not. When I read articles and posts from, and about people who have overcome their mental illness or share about their suffering; I feel encouraged. I feel understood. I applaud and cheer for those who have the courage to discuss and elucidate the reality they live in - when their minds have been overwhelmed by the fear of it’s darkest corners. My friend, Colton Haynes, has done this beautifully. As has Zelda Williams and many others. They are some of the many who have influenced my decision to open up this conversation further. And whether this letter reaches many or just a few; the message I’m attempting to convey is important. Because it’s about openness and understanding; that which is misunderstood.

Mental illnesses, like anxiety and depression, are incredibly complicated issues that I don’t have the words to fix. My words can only help others understand mine, and compel a conversation that points to support. Support is one of the more important treatments for anxiety and depression, in my opinion. Without it, those afflicted will only fall deeper into it’s void.

That said, I recognize the complications those face who aren’t afflicted by it’s immediate pain. It’s tough. I’ve experienced it firsthand with friends who suffer from mental illness. And I’ve witnessed the suffering of those, closest to me, at the hands of mine. I can’t stress enough how complicated I know this issue to be. But if you have the strength; deal with it. Because, at the end of the day, it’s tougher to deal with the impact of someone who has decided to take their own life.

I’ve been lucky enough to have the support I need, at times. And I’ve been fortunate enough to have friends and family who have picked me up, when I could no longer carry myself further. But I have pushed many out of my life, at the result of my illnesses. People I am, now, in the process of apologizing to. My illnesses have hurt more people than I can count. People I still love so deeply, despite their moving away from me. Because I see how hard they tried before they couldn’t anymore. I have the clarity now to see that. It is the source of great pain for me, knowing how many incredible people I have lost. But almost more-so, because they’ve been hurt by something that isn’t me. I am not my mental illness, and I am not my addictions. Knowing that, has helped me live with this. But I am fortunate enough to gain strength and understanding through all of that, while many are not. And to let my past guide my decisions now.

However, I know how difficult it is to say something when you’re living in and alongside it. It’s a challenge that I don’t consider light. But suffering in silence is what lead to my destruction. So I encourage you all to help and be helped. To find the strength to say something. Talk about it. I understand all of you. I understand the ones who suffer from the imbalances, and I understand the ones who don’t. This shit is complicated. And I know it.

And I know that my letters have a tendency to ramble. To jump and move around to topics that are directly related to me, and then address the broader extent of those issues - as they relate to others. But it is only compelled by my desire to understand, and be understood. Something, I know, we all yearn for. I just have the propensity to explain more, sometimes, as a precautionary measure. As a way to prevent misinterpretation. To over-explain, rather than not explain enough. I write in stream-of-mind - with a stream that is a bit cluttered. I hope you stay with me here… And especially since this letter points to understanding; I want nothing left short.

What helps me now, is knowing that I am not the things I’ve done. And I am not the consequences of my past mistakes. I am not my illnesses. And I am not my feelings. I am Shawn - the force that compels my greatest accomplishments, my deepest affections, my consideration for others, and so much more. I appreciate and love who I am now. And I don’t identify anymore with the things that just aren’t me. I challenge the voices in my head, that tell me I’m not good enough or that I’m unlovable. And when I hear them speak - I immediately move to prove them wrong. And I’ve been doing that, now, long enough to know how untrue those voices are. I use contrary-action. When I tell myself I can’t (do something), I show myself that I can. That’s how I’ve come to know who I truly am. I have had depression and anxiety for as long as I could remember. But as soon as I started challenging my negative thoughts, my conditions began to perish. I no longer take any form of medicine (which is not an encouragement to stop taking meds, if you’re on them), and I haven’t felt depression in over six months.

We all live with those voices - sick or not. Those voices are our deepest fears. The things that want us to never try - so we can stay comfortable. Stay in our patterns. Never explore. I encourage you to fight them - prove them wrong. Show them how capable you are. So you can discover yourself - prove what you are not, so you can prove what you are! Make every attempt to show those voices they're wrong. And show them by your actions.

This issue is something we can all do something about. We can all say something. We can all speak to that friend who’s beginning to withdraw. We can tell them how much they mean to us. We can acknowledge how special they are. And we can validate and acknowledge one another - all of our singularities. We can speak up. We can seek help. We can try to understand one other. And we can start to understand that there’s an awful lot that we don’t understand - and give space for that, without judgement. We can go a bit easier on ourselves and others. And understand that we’re all human. This is a human condition, that requires some humanity - but it also requires action…

I’ll end with this… we live in an age of social connection, where our friends and others live in our pockets. We have the ability to reach each another more than we ever have before. So perhaps the next time we reach down to check on our friends (and the people we follow), why don’t we take a moment to think about the one who hasn’t posted in a while. Or the one who is posting that photo, which seems a bit off. Or the one we haven’t talked to in a long time. The one who is showing signs. And send them a friendly message. Let’s keep starting a conversation.

I’m proud of how far our discussions have advanced. But let’s not stop talking, when the topic fades from our newsfeed. We owe it to ourselves to keep moving forward…

With so much love and understanding,

Shawn Pyfrom

This letter is dedicated to Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, their family, friends and coworkers. Anyone who has suffered, or currently suffers from mood disorders, mental illness, and addiction. And anyone who has suffered the impact of mental illness, addiction, and suicide.

#SUICIDE #MENTAL HEALTH #MENTAL ILLNESS #ANXIETY #DEPRESSION #HOPE #EXPERIENCE #OPEN LETTER #PERSONAL STATEMENT #ADDICTION #ANTHONY BOURDAIN #KATE SPADE

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