It Ain't All That Funny..

I've been avoiding the news and social media altogether, because I don't want to hear about how sad people are right now. I don't want to hear other people's opinions or interpretations of Depression, Anxiety or the mental well-being of an obviously brilliant man. Unless you walk the dark and lonely halls of this disease you cannot possibly begin to understand or fathom what kind of pain and torture everyday life can be like. The helplessness of your thoughts, the stabbing pains in your heart, the haunting voices from deep within that have been taken over by demons- possessing your very soul. Continuously telling you that life is just too much to bare. Too much to possibly live through another waking moment. Making the idea of "forever sleep" seem so peaceful, freeing and inviting. Trust me. You have no idea how we live with it. How on earth could you, unless you do...

A brilliant mind is always tortured. No one ever knows what madness lies beneath our eyelids. That is the craziest thing of it all.

Sometimes, I'm afraid.  Afraid that someday, the same will happen to me. That the voices of my addictions, illness and demons will drown out any Godly voice of reason within my own heart and mind; and win the battle over my existence.  Because truly, anyone who suffers from mental illness can tell you that the question "to be or not to be" is asked of oneself a little more often than we are comfortable with.  And those who claim that they've never contemplated it at least once is nothing but a filthy liar.

Ive always loved you Mr. Robin Williams. Hopefully now there is some sort of peacefulness within the darkness where once only fear and pain existed. There surely will be a lot of laughter in Heaven from now on. R.I.P.

In the words of Hamlet:  

To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--

No more--and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remembered...