I could’ve sworn I’d mentioned before how much I dislike September, but I can’t find it anywhere in my archives, so.

I really don’t like September. The reasons mean nothing, really, to anyone other than me, so I’m not going to mention them. I kind of fell off the face of the earth (or, more accurately, the internet) for a month there, but I think it was a good idea. Not that I’m any more inspired now that it’s almost October or anything, but I think I’ve sorted out my feelings.

On August 30th, I wrote an entry that I immediately regretted and deleted. Something about feeling lost and not trusting doctors, yada yada. That’s actually a ridiculously large part of the person I am, and I almost never mention it and I’m not sure why. I don’t know if I’d say I am embarrassed that it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I cannot live a fulfilling life without the interference of some sort of psychiatric drug, but I feel almost as though it is not my place to talk about it.

Which is silly, because it’s my life.

This isn’t me saying that I am going to be keeping a log of the medications that have failed to work, and I’m certainly not going to share any personal anecdotes about breathing techniques or power animals that therapists have assured me will help me wrangle my feelings.

But I have promised myself that I’ll be more open. I got into kind of a rut recently because I thought I needed to put on the face that my friends and family needed to see, and that’s not healthy. So I’m not going to do that anymore.

This is me dusting off the ol’ blog.

Or trying to, anyway.