Morgan Elektra's Blog, page 3

100 Days of Writing – Day #6

Project worked on: Burned (urban fantasy/paranormal romance)

Starting word count: 9006

Ending word count: 9277

Time written: 20 minutes

Thoughts:

Not a lot of writing done tonight but I figured out a big thing! Too excited to write much here, gonna get back to the keyboard.

100 Days of Writing – Day #5

Project worked on: Burned (urban fantasy/paranormal romance)

Starting word count: 8580

Ending word count: 9006

Time written: 20 minutes

Thoughts:

Nearing the 10k mark, and I finally found a piece to the puzzle of this scene I’m working on. See, I’m what they call a pantser, which means I don’t outline my stories before I write them. I generally have a vague idea of who the main characters are and what the main conflict is before I start writing, but that’s about it.

In the case of Burned, I knew my main character Alek had sold her soul to a demon and that she was, effectively, his immortal henchwoman. I knew she was investigating a string of ritual murders for her boss. But that was about it.

Mysteries are, I might have mentioned, not easy to write. More so when you’re figuring things out at the same time as your characters! Finding things out as I go along is one of my favorite things about writing, though. If I outline ahead of time, figure things out, I get bored and wander away from the story.

That’s about it for tonight.  Happy writing!

 

100 Days of Writing – Day #4

Project worked on: Burned (urban fantasy/paranormal romance)

Starting word count: 7700

Ending word count: 7894

Time written: 20 minutes

Thoughts:

I spent most of the day today working on a paper for my English class so I didn’t sit down to write fiction until late. It’s nearly midnight. I did get in my twenty minutes for the challenge, but I’m going to keep writing and see where this scene goes. It’s flowing a lot better than the previous scene and I’m excited to keep going. Writing a mystery storyline is a lot harder than writing a straight up romance, or even a horror story.

I knew it would be. It’s one of the reasons I’ve always been hesitant to write mystery. But Alek is talking to me, loud and clear, and she doesn’t seem willing to quiet down just because I’m intimidated by her genre.

Back to the keyboard!

100 Days of Writing – Day #3

Project worked on: The Lay of the Werewolf reboot

Starting word count: 0

Ending word count: 131

Time written: 20 minutes

Thoughts:

I swore to myself that I was going to stick to one project this time around but I couldn’t get this scene out of my head so I decided to get it down while I could. Ever since I read Marie de France’s Lay of the Werewolf, this idea for rewriting it as an M/M paranormal romance novella.

It might come to nothing, but it’s a fun idea to play with, and I’ve got a bit of a picture of the players involved so that’s a nice feeling.

Tomorrow it’s back to Burned, which is my major concern right now.

100 Days of Writing – Day #2

Project worked on: Burned (paranormal mystery/UF)

Starting word count: 7436

Ending word count: 7664

Time written: 20 minutes

Thoughts:

Today was a bad day. Depression has so many forms, and the form it took today was lack of motivation. I wanted to get up, go to the gym, write, do schoolwork. But there was no drive there. Mentally and physically I felt… grey. See-through. Like a ghost, unable to effect the world. That sounds so melodramatic, but it’s the best I can do.

I don’t know how to convey the feeling to someone else. But I hope you don’t understand, honestly. I wouldn’t wish this feeling even on people I don’t like.

Tomorrow is another day to try again.

100 Days of Writing – Day #1

Project worked on: Burned (paranormal mystery/UF)

Starting word count: 7004

Ending word count: 7436

Time written: 28 minutes

Thoughts:

This is definitely a rough draft. I’m not sure this scene will stay in the book after edits. I suspect it will be significantly changed if so. It’s been a bitch to write. This whole thing isn’t easy for me. I’ve never really attempted to write a mystery before, and it’s hard. The “now what?” keeps driving me, but a lot of the time it leaves me staring at the blank page because the answer, right now, is I don’t know.

This is part of the hard thing about being a “pantser” as they call it. I don’t outline, because if I know what’s going to happen in a story then I find myself bored with it and it won’t get written. Instead, I discover my stories in a linear fashion, as they unfold for my characters. Which can be difficult if I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

Today was not a bad day though. Rough scene, may be get later, but words got written and the  story moved forward. Not to mention, I think I know what happens next… at least directly.

I might even get some more words in tonight. But whether or not I do, I’m off to a good start. I’ll take it!

The Challenge

As a writer, routine is something I wrestle with. And not in a fun, Turkish oil wrestling kind of way either.

(Which, if you haven’t seen… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2keIfaPHgw . You’re welcome.)

But seriously, routine is hard. I’m a delicate, artistic flower. *flutters lashes*

Yet, when a friend on Facebook started posted about this challenge she was participating in, I became intrigued. Every day she was writing 100 words or for 10 minutes and then journaling about the experience on IG (@the_red_string). Her journal entries, though they were brief, were very real and I connected with what she was going through. As she posted, day after day, I cheered her on, and when she reached her goal of 100 days, I felt like I had gone on a journey with her. So, when she announced she was doing the challenge again a few months ago and had started a group for anyone who wanted to join her, I thought why not?

I joined the group, but I have to admit I missed more days than I like and I didn’t take her advice to journal or track my word count. I half-assed it a bit. But I had a good time and her daily posts really motivated me when I was in the middle of a rough patch of writing.

Now, she’s doing yet another round of the 100 Days of Writing Challenge, starting tomorrow, June 1, 2019. And this time I’m 100% on board to not only write, but to write about my writing process, and to keep absolute honest track of my daily word count. Since I didn’t think I would necessarily pick up a journal and write it in every day, no matter how briefly, I thought of this blog.

As anyone out there who reads this blog knows, I am anything but regular. So, in addition to pledging to write for 10 minutes or 100 words for the next 100 days, I’m also going to blog every day about the process.

The blogs will probably not be very long. A couple hundred words at most. But I will be talking honestly about my process and how many words I wrote that day. If I like the words, I might even share some. If some of my fellow challenge-mates may be showing up to offer their thoughts too, I don’t know. I haven’t actually asked them yet. But you get the idea. For the next 100 days, every day, there will be a blog. You’ll get to see all the doubt and (hopefully) triumphs.

Or, maybe there’s no one reading these and they’re just for me. Either way. Starting tomorrow, there will be blogs!

~xxxM

It’s Been Awhile

Hi.

Long time, no post.

2018 was a hard year. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only who felt that way. I spent a lot of months down in a depression hole. But I kept writing, kept taking my medication, kept seeing my counselor, and I’ve got a great support system. And thankfully, I am currently in a lot better place.

I know it’s not “all better” now. I will still have good days and bad days. I will still have terrible days where everything feels hopeless. But, when I use all the tools I’ve learned and ask for help, I can get through them. I know that.

Depression is such a strange, unpredictable animal. I posted something on my Facebook earlier today that I think relates why I feel that way.

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It’s weird and sometimes incredibly frustrating, the things that can trigger an episode for me. Even I don’t always know what it will be.

A lot of people commented with praise for my speaking up, and thank you for that. I appreciate it. I’m glad if it helps someone else, but that’s not why I do it. I speak up because not speaking up is part of my illness. And I always, always feel better when I do. When I name my monsters and shine a light on them. Even if they’re sniveling and ugly and mean. Especially then.

Anyway, I don’t want to get too deep in this first post back after so long. In fact, I’m thinking of setting up a separate blog to talk about my depression and other health issues and keeping this one strictly for writing. But I don’t know. I don’t want to bum anyone out who comes here looking for sexy stories, but I also don’t want to be disingenuous either.

I’ve been getting some new hits here lately, people coming over from my Instagram. (HI IG PEOPLE!) I think it’s because of my toe pictures. People are fascinated by the extra toes. (I’m polydactyl, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that before. I’ll post a picture below, or you can go look at my IG @morgan_elektra). People coming here for my romance or erotica writing and people coming for my awesome toes and people coming for my depression and/or PCOS posts, it could be confusing and drive people away.

I’d prefer to have it all in one place, honestly. And not only because I am lazy and forgetful either, but because all these things are aspects of who I really am. I’m kind of a mess, but I like sharing that with y’all.

But what do you think? I’d like to hear from anyone who actually comes here and reads these. Should I keep those things in separate spots, or leave them all here for anyone looking for the oddity that is Morgan Elektra?

I am going to be trying to post more this year, so your answer is important to me.

So for right now, this is going to be the one-stop-shop for all things me. That may change in the future. Stay tuned. Comment and let me know your opinion. Tell your friends. Make it a thing.

And if you’re new here, hi. I’m Morgan. I’m a writer who suffers from PCOS, Major Depressive Disorder, general anxiety, and I have six toes on both of my feet. (As in, six on one foot and six on the other.) Those are just a few of the things about me. If you stick around, you’re bound to learn more. At least, I hope you do.

If you want to connect with me elsewhere on social media, you can find me on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook for now. I am not tech suave so I think that’s all I can handle for right now.

Thanks for listening. It’s been a good day. I hope you feel the same. If not, maybe tomorrow will be better.

~xxxM

[image error]The glory of all 12 of my toes!

Myths, Moons, and Mayhem: Ménage Magic

Myths, Moons, and Mayhem is an anthology of 9 steamy gay paranormal ménage erotica stories published by Sexy Little Pages and edited by Dale Cameron Lowry.

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In addition to a story by yours truly, there are 8 other tales of ghosts, werewolves, magic, and sex. The tone of the stories varies from fun to touching, and they portray many different kinds of relationships.

Celyn’s Tale by Rhidian Brenig Jones features a lonely young man who doesn’t know where he fits, and the two beings for whom he’s the perfect match. It’s a dreamy, timeless, sexy story.

Rhidian was nice enough to tell me a little about what it was that inspired Celyn’s Tale and his writing in general.

I live in south Wales with my husband, Mike, and a couple of dogs. Mike’s a doctor and I teach adult literacy, but we’re also great history buffs. The call for Myths, Moons and Mayhem gave me the opportunity to bring together a few of my favourite themes: Wales; the mythos of the Celtic nations; and (naturally) scorching sex.

 

Although I also write contemporary erotica, I’m more drawn to the freedom that an historical setting provides—the freedom to present stories in a context very different from the present day gay experience. I’ve done this with a fourteenth-century monk, an eighteenth-century pirate, and a nineteenth-century vampire hunter, among others, all of whom gave me a great deal of fun. I’ve taken liberties with my depiction of the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk of Welsh mythology, but isn’t that what writing is all about? Get your facts right as far as you can, then give your imagination free rein to make up the rest!

 

Mike and I live near Carreg Cennen castle, now a magnificent ruin. Check it out on Google. Probably the site of an early hillfort, it has dominated the countryside around since the late twelfth century. All-powerful nobles. Gorgeous knights. Freemen and serfs. Mmm, I think I feel a story coming on…

 

Cofion a darllen yn hapus.

 

Regards and happy reading,

Rhidian

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Pick up a copy of Myths, Moons, and Mayhem and read Celyn’s Tale, and the other sweet, silly, steamy, sexy stories within.

Myths, moons, and mayhem make the perfect threesome—and so do the men in this anthology.

Enjoy nine erotic stories of paranormal ménages a trois fueled by lust and magic, where mystical forces collide with the everyday world and even monsters have their own demons to conquer.

A werewolf gets a lust-fueled lesson on fitting in with the pack, a professor unlocks ancient secrets and two men’s hearts, and a pair of supernaturals find themselves at the erotic mercy of a remarkable human. Ghosts, fairies, aliens, and mere mortals test the boundaries of their desires, creating magic of their own.

Penned by favorite authors such as Rob Rosen and Clare London, as well as by newcomers to the genre, Myths, Moons, and Mayhem is an eclectic mix of paranormal lust and polymythic beings that will spark your fantasies and fuel your bonfires.

Buy a Copy Now!

Visit the Goodreads Page

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Darkest Before the Dawn

 

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It’s been awhile. I have gone back and forth about writing this post so many times over the last week. A large part of me wants to speak about the things that I’ve been going through, but an almost equally big piece of my mind wants to just keep quiet. These two opposing inclinations both have the same origin–self-preservation. It’s only I can’t quite decide what the best course of action would be in that regard.

Or, rather, I couldn’t.

However, one of the things I am having to come to terms with is my propensity to keep to myself, and how it’s not actually helpful to me. So, I am going to listen to the voice telling me I need to talk, need to share. Even though the thought of doing so is unnerving. Opening up and telling people what is going on in my heart and in my head are not easy for me. But I’m realizing more and more that, for my own well being, I must fight my natural inclination to play everything exceedingly close to the vest. I don’t really like the alternatives.

You see, two weeks ago, I wanted to kill myself.

Perhaps ‘want’ isn’t the correct word. What I wanted was to stop feeling the way I was feeling, and at that time, suicide felt like the one way to make it–finally and completely–stop.

I have touched on both my physical ailments (my PCOS) and my mental illness in previous blog posts. I even mentioned that I had recently, for the first time, gone on medication. Well, as anyone who struggles with mental illness can probably tell you, no pill is an immediate cure-all. It’s not as easy as flipping a switch. In the case of anti-depressants, it often takes several weeks to over a month to build to what they call ‘therapeutic levels’ in your body. That’s what is generally considered peak effectiveness.

And that’s if the drug works for you.

Brain chemistry is such a complex, variable thing. A drug at the exact same dosage can affect two different people in completely different ways. Sometimes, the very thing given to someone with depression can actually worsen the situation.

Unfortunately, that’s what happened to me.

Instead of helping to alleviate the symptoms of my severe depression, the Wellbutrin that I was prescribed turned those symptoms up to eleven. I was no longer just anxious, I was having panic attacks. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I would start to cry and not be able to stop. Great, gasping sobs that I smothered in my pillow so no one would hear me.

It felt like a black hole opened up somewhere underneath my ribs, and every bit of happiness and joy and light was sucked out of me. Everything was sucked out of me, until I was hollow and empty and I hurt. Physically. Down to my bones.

At the time, it seemed like I could not possibly feel any worse than I did at that moment.\

I kept fixating on things I hadn’t done, or hadn’t done well enough. Every disappointment, fuck-up, and failure. Those words raced through my head on a loop I couldn’t break. I tried to force myself to think of other things, to concentrate on something else, but I couldn’t hold onto those other thoughts for even a second.

Depression lies. I’ve read that and heard it so many times. I know that. But in the grip of that moment, it was very hard to remember, because the voice of the depression was very, very loud. It sounded right.

I have had suicidal thoughts before, but usually in a very general, “I want this to stop, and if I wasn’t alive anymore, it would stop,” way. But in the early morning hours of August 1st, for the first time, things went much further than that. I began to plan.

Always before, when I began having those kinds of thoughts, I would remember what it felt like to be on the other side of that coin. I’ve lost friends to suicide, and I know how devastating it feels to be left behind wondering and wishing. So when I got that low before, those memories would come back and I would think, “I could never do that to my friends and family. Not ever.”

Two weeks ago, ‘not ever’ didn’t enter my mind. Instead, I was thinking, “I hope they will understand. I hope they will forgive me.” Because all I could focus on in the moment was how much pain I was in, how desperately I wanted it to stop. I couldn’t see past that. It was too big.

A small part of me, the part that remembered what a liar my own brain chemistry can be, was trying very hard to be heard through all of that noise. But the voice was barely a whisper compared to the insistent, incessant voices of my depression and anxiety.

I won’t go into details of what I had planned. Both because I do not at all want to give anyone else who might be struggling any ideas they might not have had on their own, and because I don’t want to focus on that. I will say, though, I had a step-by-step plan that I believe would have been disastrously effective.

The fact that I had a plan I believed would work scared the shit out of me. And that moment of fear allowed that small voice to get a teensy bit louder.

Unlike the few other, slightly less powerful instances that had taken place in the week prior to August 1st, I didn’t keep what was happening to myself. When my husband woke up and saw that I was crying (though I hadn’t managed to fully stop, I had quieted down a bit), he asked what was wrong and I told him.

Not everything. Not explicitly, because I couldn’t speak the words.

But I told him as much as I could.

It felt unfair, like I was burdening him with my problems when there was nothing he could do about it. I didn’t want to upset him. And when he realized what was going on, he was upset. But he was also wonderful. He listened, and he held me, and he didn’t make me feel bad for any of the things I did manage to say. He told me he loved me, and that he didn’t want me to be in pain, and that we would figure out a way to make it better. He encouraged me to call my doctor’s office and tell them how the medication was affecting me.

Had I been alone, I really don’t know what I might have done. I would like to think I would have still listened to that little voice, but I can’t say for certain. At the time, that voice was so small on its own. Without my husband there echoing it, it might well have been drowned out once and for all.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. Thankfully, I heard what both that tiny inner voice and my husband were saying.

Tuesday afternoon, I called the mental health center (where I was prescribed the antidepressants) and told them that I was experiencing an increase in suicidal thoughts and they got me in to see the doctor the next day.

By the time I saw the doctor, I was no longer in the midst of a panic attack, but I was still shaky and prone to crying and unable to get the thought of suicide completely out of my mind. I told him all of that. And when he asked if I thought I would call someone if I began planning again, I couldn’t say ‘yes’. I wanted to say ‘yes’, but it would have been a lie.

The doctor at Gateway is an older man with lots of smile lines and kind eyes. A grandfatherly sort.

He listened to everything I said, he told me how glad he was that I had called and come in. And then he said he wanted to admit me to the hospital. I felt another moment of panic just then, a fluttery spasm in my chest, and I started to cry again but Dr. D smiled. He said he wanted me to be safe while they got me off the Wellbutrin and onto something else that would hopefully not have the same effects. He said they would help me.

I wanted that, desperately.

For a long time–over twenty years–I have kept all of this to myself. The Wellbutrin might have amped everything up, but it was only magnifying the thoughts and feelings that were already there, making them harder to ignore. Impossible to hide behind an ‘I’m fine’.

And really, I am so tired of trying to do it on my own.

So, when Dr. D said he wanted to admit me, I agreed. And then I immediately began worrying about everyone else. How would my husband take the news? Should I tell my family? My friends? I was terrified that I would tell my husband and he would lose it, overwhelmed by the prospect of my hospitalization. Because I felt overwhelmed.

While the doctor and the staff of Gateway went about organizing a bed for me at the Crisis Unit, I went out into the waiting room to tell the mister. And again, he was wonderful.

He didn’t panic. He barely even batted an eye. If he was overwhelmed at the time, he didn’t show it, and I’m so thankful. I couldn’t have handled anything else just then, and his calm and even hopeful attitude was exactly what I needed.

Things happened very quickly after that. Within half an hour, there was a bed waiting for me at the Crisis Unit and I was heading back to the house to pack up a few things for the stay, which Dr. D said would probably be just a few days, but I knew it might be more than that.

I decided to tell a few of my friends, the people I talk to every day, because I suspected my phone and internet access would be limited at best, if not nonexistent, and I didn’t want them to think I was ignoring them or something.

Again, I can’t stress how lucky I am. My friends were all incredible. Supportive, encouraging, upbeat. They told me I was doing the right thing and that they loved me. They told me we would figure things out, and that they were there for me no matter what, 100%. One of the members of Beta Team Voltron is a nurse, and she gave me tips for what to expect, what to bring, what not to bring. That gave me a bit of calm as I attempted to prepare for the unknown.

They (meaning doctors and therapists and the like) always say how important a strong support system is, and this was one of those occasions when that was eminently true.

My husband, my doctor, my friends, and my family when I called them to let them know what was happening–everyone was kind and calm and expressed their desire for me to feel better. No one made me feel weak, or stupid, or silly. No one freaked out and made me feel like I had to comfort them or complained about any inconvenience I was causing.

I can’t imagine what that afternoon might have been like if I didn’t have those people in my life, or if they had reacted differently. I’m glad I don’t have to. I wish everyone who struggles with mental illness had as wonderful a support system as I do.

I’m not going to lie. I was terrified.

Scared of how I was feeling. Scared of what was waiting for me at the Crisis Unit. Scared of what would happen when I got there. Scared of what would happen if I didn’t go there. (I was voluntarily admitting myself.)

But, at the same time, I felt a tiny spark of goodness. Because I was doing something. I was trying.

The  Crisis Unit is about an hour away from us, in a building Dr. D informed me they just moved into a few months ago. It’s a nice facility, though it’s clear they’re still getting situated. The Mister left me at the door (they don’t let anyone who isn’t staff or a patient beyond the door, even deliveries are brought in by a staff member), which was hard. My anxiety was a buzzsaw under my skin. But the staff was kind. The tech who was in charge of checking my belongings during my intake distracted me with chit-chat, and the nurse was friendly and had a comforting smile.

The first 24 hours was incredibly difficult.

I was scared and out of sorts and still had the Wellbutrin in my system. Plus, for a hermit like me, being around so many people (I was one of about 20 patients, plus 5-10 staff members at any given time) and so much noise was overwhelming. I didn’t sleep much that first night. I kept waking up whenever the staff talked or my roommate shifted on her bed.

I won’t go into all the details. Day-to-day on a locked ward was actually pretty boring. There’s a schedule for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and meds. They monitored our vitals and our state of mind. (“How’re you feeling today?” was a common refrain. Not in a pushy or obsequious kind of way, but just checking in, taking my emotional temperature and seeing if I needed anything or wanted to talk.)

Mostly, I read and tried not to worry about all the things I have no control over. That’s a hard one for me.

After a day or two, I accepted that there were things I could do nothing about and managed to convince myself not to worry about anything outside those walls. It was surprisingly relaxing, once I let that go. I can’t remember a single other time where I had so little to worry about.

Instead, I concentrated on myself and how I was feeling. When I started to have another panic attack, I recognized it and informed one of the nurses. While I was crying and shaking and embarrassed, she calmly walked me through some breathing exercises and gave me a mild sedative. Between the two approaches, I was able to calm down in a couple of minutes, instead of the hour or hour and a half it was taking me prior to that.

The nurse practitioner there switched me from Wellbutrin to Prozac (and a beta blocker for my anxiety), and I can tell you that within only a day or two, I could feel the difference. Just having the Wellbutrin out of my system made a huge difference. Antidepressants work different for everyone, but I felt like I’d gone from living on a planet with extra-heavy gravity, crushing me, to the moon. I felt lighter and better able to think through my emotions. Hopefully, that will continue.

I was released after 5 days, since I didn’t have any recurrence of the panic attacks after that first day, and wasn’t experiencing any more suicidal thoughts. I’ve already had a follow-up appointment with Dr. D to discuss my ongoing medications, and a transition counselor who went over my continued treatment plan, and today I had my first one-on-one counseling session. We discussed what had been going on, what I want to work on, and what our goals are going to be.

One of those things I need to work on is opening up to people. Sharing how I feel. Not keeping everything bottled up inside and downplaying and minimizing the things that happen to me. And that’s what this post is about.

Saying “I went through this. It happened.” Admitting I was scared and needed help.

That part of me that didn’t want to write this post, that’s the part I’m working on. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed, but I tend to think that telling people what’s going on in my head is pointless. Why bother others with the craziness?

But that closes me off from the people I love, and leaves me feeling lonely. I don’t want to do that anymore.

I think, as painful as the experience on Wellbutrin and as frightening as being admitted to the Crisis Unit was, it was actually a good thing. A really good thing. A blessing in disguise. It might not have felt that way at the time, at least to start with, but it does now.

Of course, I’m not “fixed”. I’m never going to be what would generally considered “normal”. I have to keep taking my meds, provided they continue to work, or looking for better meds (or a combination) if they don’t. I have to keep going to therapy, keep working on my coping skills. I have to keep speaking up.

Right now I feel better than I have in a long, long time. I feel hopeful.

I may fall down. In fact, I probably will. There will no doubt still be days when I feel like I can’t get out of bed. Where I don’t get out of bed or answer my messages. Nights when I lie awake thinking about all the things I’m doing wrong or not doing well enough. Times when I can’t stop crying.

Maybe I’ll even start thinking about those steps again. I might, at some point down the line, have to go back into the Crisis Unit (or some place like it) for another week. Or longer. Who knows?

Hopefully, if and when that does happen, I will be able to remember how it felt this time. How it felt when I got help, and my support network was there for me when I needed them. If not, I’m sure they’ll remind me. Like I said, I’m a lucky woman.

If you or anyone you know are feeling suicidal, please reach out. Call a friend or a family member or a doctor. Hell, call a stranger if that’s easier. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides 24/7 free and confidential support. Call them. 1-800-273-8255. There’s an online chat. Text ‘CONNECT’ to 741741 from anywhere in the US, for the Crisis Text Line, if that’s more your speed. There are crisis lines all over the world. Wherever you are. Reach out.

Someone is out there for you.

And if you can, consider being that person for someone else. I speak from experience when I say outside support is so, so, so important. I know it’s not always easy to deal with a loved one with a mental illness, but you could save a life. I wouldn’t be here if not for the people in my life who have had (and continue to have) my back. I have to do the work, but I couldn’t do that without them. I’m so thankful for them. I hope they know that.

And I hope you know I have your back too.

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