05/13/2026
TW: depression, su***de, mental health, abuse.
I’m a writer. I always have been.
From writing fictional short stories, to writing and managing a blog page on my experiences of being multiply disabled, autistic, adhd, chronically ill, and the advocacy and intersectional social justice that is vital to the neurodiversity movement - a blog that once had 50k followers. To writing articles on philosophy, Buddhist studies and methods, to being part of various neuropsychology research studies that has gotten me peer reviewed and published more than once, to writing about socioeconomic critique and reformation, I’ve done a lot of writing.
For over the last five years I’ve been working on my own book about my experiences of being autistic and disabled and growing up in the US special education system and having little autonomy and the trauma that come from that in its hegemonic system, to becoming an adult and having to survive while not being able to have access to support systems, accommodations in community and employment, etc. Sadly, I haven’t opened or returned to this project in ages due to this mental and emotional blockage.
I’m not writing this to brag about any accomplishments in writing. They aren’t anything particularly impactful, or special. Rather, it’s something I’ve always loved doing. For a while it was my job, a huge part of my disability advocacy business I operate as a mentor, educator,; creating employment and scholastic workshops, working freelance as a research assistant and as a community advocate. All of it was connected, all of these things I’ve done, their roots were always in my love and joy of carrying my soap box around and always writing down my feelings, concerns, introspection, passions, and experiences about the world around me and the topics I have as special interests and hyper fixations.
But sadly, it all stopped. Suddenly, perhaps around a year and a half ago I just couldn’t bring myself to write. The stream of consciousness has held back by a dam of writers block - a miasma of uncertainty, boredom, lack of creativity, and motivation. It’s not as if I didn’t WANT to write, it’s not as if I still didn’t have anything to say, to express, or to create - I just couldn’t find the words within me anymore.
It was as if the radio no longer was picking up the single, the transmission was there somewhere in the ether. I just lost the ability to tune the dial to the right station anymore. It eventually turned into a cascade of guilt, self doubt, and imposter syndrome to the extent that it wasn’t even the lack of transmission of creativity being the main problem anymore, instead, I found it was actually me. I became the writers block and the dam. The radio wasn’t broken, the dial was on the correct station receiving the correct signal, but in my own delusion, I had simply just left it unplugged. All I had to do was notice this.
Two years ago, my life hit rock bottom. I was extremely mentally ill. I had hit total burnout, and had gotten to the point where I was in a perpetual state of dissociation and depersonalization, and was often having thoughts of su***de idealization.
This wasn’t something I was unfamiliar with. I had been hospitalized twice as a kid for mental health, self harm, and attempts at the age of 9 and 13. But this time was different. I knew what was wrong, I knew what my trauma was, what the causes and conditions were that was causing me such numbness, apathy, and despair. The numbness and dissociation became so familiar that it was hard to not feel and appreciate that darkness as a safe and comfortable space when everything took too much energy, too much bandwidth, and created too much anxiety to get myself out of my hole. I fortunately was able to have the courage within myself to realize this wasn’t where I wanted to be, that miasma, that pit of existential crisis, the darkness of apathy, depression and anxiety, they would all certainly and eventually lead to my death if I didn’t reach out for help.
I knew I couldn’t make a ladder to get myself out of the abyss of that rock bottom pit alone, I needed a support system, therapy, friends, and a change in life, and it had to happen in order for me to live.
Deep down, that was my light of hope. I just wanted to live, to feel rest, peace, and healthy coexistence with a world, an environment, and a society that was so sensory, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually exhausting.
It’s been two years since then. My support system has grown stronger. Im still in therapy. I went through a period of monitored, supported, and healthy isolation to meditate and work through the layers of trauma and dig deep into the unconscious self. I undertook months of psychedelic assisted psychotherapy with ketamine and psilocybin. I relied on the Dharma, the Buddha, the Sangha. I trusted my partner. I let go of the fear and shame of delusional failure of simply asking those who care for help. I’ve learned to advocate for myself, to hold firm boundaries, to know when to rest and understand and respect my own limitations, to accommodate for myself, and to appreciate the preciousness of life - that it’s suffering can be transformed into bliss through compassion and equanimity. That poison can be transformed into medicine.
I found that what brought me the most happiness and satisfaction in life wasn’t any form of self or financial gain, illusions of arbitrary success or status, (even though I never had them, nor have I desired them,) but rather, through the acts of helping others, providing care and service to those in need - that was always my greatest joy, my deepest passion, and my muse.
A lot has happened the past two years, a lifetime itself in just 24 months. Looking pack on it all in hindsight, I wouldn’t change the path and trajectory that these experiences and circumstances took place.
In retrospect, I can see what was robbing me of my own happiness, my creativity, my passions, my social life, my energy to work for others in need and my community my personal health, my hobbies and interests, and my love of writing. It was my mind, my suffering, my ignorance, my delusion, and my grasping at expectations and grief for how things were, how they are, and how I desired them to be. I was my own worst enemy. Not those who neglected, abandoned, or abused me in childhood, not societies misunderstanding and ableism towards disabled people, it was me all along. Not to justify or excuse the harmful actions of those who were creating pain in the lives of others and myself, but to look at things from a different perspective - my mindset, my heart, my actions and my thoughts were my responsibility in how I reacted and how I processed these feelings and experiences, both in the past and present.
It’s weird. I had no plans on writing all of this. None of this is edited or prepared. This is just me, sitting on my porch with a cup of good tea, the sun rising and a fresh spring morning breeze, and my thoughts and finding bliss in the catharsis of tapping into the stream of consciousness and the writing diarrhea of my mind at the moment. Doing the very thing I felt I lost, the love of writing. I guess it really was never gone, I’m doing it right now, at this very moment; without effort, without strain, just being able to finally nudge the dam out of the way and let that river flow again.
This tea and the morning sun is purifying, and while in near perfect contrast, the screaming birds in their mating season is grating and incredibly obnoxious - this duality reminds me of these past two years, the suffering of loss contrasted with the joy of discovery, recognition that there really isn’t any duality at all.
Maybe the happiness simply lies in seeing things as they are in this moment, without expectations, without grasping and desire, and instead just with acknowledgment, acceptance, and equanimity.
I don’t know if this resonates with you. I hope it does, and even if I don’t know you, I just want each and every one of you reading to this you’re not alone. You are meant to be here. The world needs you.
I know the feeling of being lost without any reason to go on, the persistent battle between your internal and mental demons and the desire to have the strength and will to just… live.
I don’t think I’ll ever be free from depression, and honestly I believe that freedom from mental illness is not only patience, loving kindness towards yourself and pain, but also knowing that trying to push through it all is like trying to fist fight your own shadow. The only way through is gentleness not resistance, acceptance and not denial, love and not fear.
I just want to say in the end, thank you for reading this, for sharing in my catharsis, and thank you for still being here.
Life is truly precious.
I think I’ll stay here a little while longer and have another cup.
