Category: GAD

Anxiety, GAD, Mental Health, PTSD

Living in the Grey

Amanda Wilson

I had a small breakthrough in therapy a few weeks ago.

Lately, I’ve been stuck in a constant cycle of having either really good days or really bad days. Over the last several months, a lot has changed in my life, especially when it comes to my mental health. And no, I’m not merely blaming my shift because of Covid-19 or the new outbreaks my home province has been experiencing, but there has been a major shift.

After spending nearly a month in the hospital because I had started making plans to end my life, I’ve entered 2021 with almost a defeated attitude. Between adjusting to new medications, continuing my trauma therapy, and getting myself prepared for EMDR treatment later this year, I already feel like this year has taken it’s toll, and we’re only into the second week of March.

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Anxiety, GAD, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Motherhood, New Mom, PPD, PTSD

Today I was “That” Mom

Amanda Wilson

I was “that” mom today.

The type of mom that society deems “unfit”. The mom that other moms whisper about behind her back. The mom who’s judged by others wondering if she should have been a parent at all.

I was “that” mom that stuck her baby in a crib to let him “cry it out”. I was that mom who put her baby in front of an iPad for 40 minutes because she needed a break. I was that mom that let her baby muddle around on the living room floor while she took a 10 minute break on Instagram. I was “that” mom.

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Anxiety, GAD, Mental Illness, PPD, PTSD

It’s OK to go Back to Therapy

Amanda Wilson

One thing I have learned over the years when it comes to my mental illness, and living with my PTSD and GAD, is that healing comes in waves.

Just as my depressive episodes tend to come and go, depending on any number of factors, healing is the eventual next step in the process.

But for me, and for many others out there, healing has to be a choice.

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Anxiety, GAD, Life, PTSD, Writing

To My Future Husband: The Vows I Can’t Say Out Loud

Amanda Wilson

To my future husband,

As the days begin to countdown, far too quickly in my opinion, and we rush to finish last-minute wedding plans, making sure all our affairs are in order – gifts bought, cake topper selected, heckling people for late RSVP’s – I can’t help but take a moment to reflect back on how far we have come, of all that we have been through and to be hopeful in all we have yet to see.

And even though we have our ceremony planned and songs picked to walk down the aisle to, there are still some vows that I won’t get the chance to say to you on our wedding day. There are some promises that I don’t have the courage to say out loud to you, in front of all our friends and family. For these vows are too hard, and too deep, for me to recite to you.

But even though I don’t have the strength to say them to you out loud, I still want you to hear them, because I mean every single word; for these vows are as precious to me as the ring you placed on my finger.

With everything that I am, I make these silent vows to you.

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Anxiety, GAD, Linkin Park, Mental Health, PTSD

Losing my Shit Over a Sweater (The Red Flag I Ignored)

Amanda Wilson

If you’re a person who changes their outfit five times before heading out the door, raise your hand.

🙋

Now before anyone starts pointing fingers, I’m not judging. I am also picky about the clothes I wear, despite always reverting back to ol’ faithful (a tee-shirt and skinny jeans). As an adult woman, there is nothing wrong with this. Sometimes it depends on the occasion, sometimes it depends on my mood, and sometimes it depends on the weather pouring out of the heavens. (It’s hard to wear skits and dresses in a place where it can get up to -30°C without freezing to death.)

And while I have the potential to throw on five to ten different outfits before heading out the door – ignoring the eye rolls and the endless “You’re beautiful no matter what you wear!” from my fiancé – is not always warranted from being “just picky”. It sometimes stems from something greater, something more profound.

Sometimes my PTSD is the demon lurking in my closet (and in my fashion choices).

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