The First (Last) Step: Asking For Help

Help. For a lot of people this is something easy to say. If you’re struggling with something you should ask for assistance. Most people don’t mind an honest ask for help when you’re having trouble with something. But when it comes to mental illness this is one of the hardest words to say. It’s often the last thing that is said. Help from others becomes the last resort.

But why?


For me personally, asking for help was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Was it pride?

My ego?

Fear of judgment?

Losing friends?

Being rejected?

Honestly, it was a little of all those things. Many people don’t want to admit they need help, I can attest to that. I’d much rather try and figure something out myself than have a crutch or someone else holding my hand along the way. But there comes a point when even you can’t help yourself in your life. Eventually you start drowning too fast and can’t tread the water anymore. So when the water started filling into my lungs, did I ask for help then?


Because that’s when all the other fears from asking for help came in.

Article dear hope

Rid The Stigma: Using Mental Illnesses as Adjectives

I often overhear people saying “I was so depressed yesterday after watching that movie” or “my insomnia is so bad I’ve been up until midnight the last three nights”.

These need to stop. 


I started thinking about this after reading a blog post earlier today. Go check it out, it’s an awesome blog.

Depression is not a short term sadness after viewing something sad. That is just being sad. Everyone gets sad every once in a while. Sadness is something in everyone. Depression, however, is something that lasts a long time, an ongoing fight that is often daily.

Article dear hope

Thoughts, An Anonymous Diary: Poems, Prose, Lyrics and More. Entry 1 – Medicine


I was sick.

It beat me down.

I was conscious that it wasn’t the right decision. I’m convinced I knew that all along. I was so desperate to feel better that I took the medicine as often as I could. It made me happy. I was doing better. I was distracted from myself.

I was doing better.

That medicine is what kept me going. It hid the scars that I had buried under my skin that had recently grown so close to the surface. They were so close that you could feel the outline with the slightest touch…and how badly I wanted that touch to be easier for you. But while you were helping me I slowly began to break again. And I abused you.

The dosage was never consistent. Over and under-indulging nearly drove me insane. I can remember sitting alone wanting to take more, but I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find you. You had enough. You cried. You left. You were my crutch and I abused you until you snapped.

I thought I was happy.

I thought I was better.

But people are not medicine.

And you were not prescribed to me.

I thought I was happy.

I thought I was better.

But I am sick.

And I beat you down.


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Creative Pieces dear hope