I don’t know for certain that my writing is of any importance to others, but still I write.

When my husband asked me to marry him, it really was a fairy-tale perfect, Instagram-worthy proposal of proposals. He did everything I could have dreamt of...and I missed it.

Ten months into the best relationship of my life, I freaked out. I remember the moment it happened too - as if a switch was turned on and I needed to get out now. Thoughts like we can’t do this anymore; how do I know he’s the one; we have to break up were repeated over and over in my head like a broken record.

In my eating disorder, I held in all my emotions and numbed them out by starving myself, exercising past the point of exhaustion, and repeatedly throwing up. Now that I was no longer turning to those behaviors, everything that I pushed down flooded in like water from a broken levee.

I was making others feel great about themselves! Radiating positivity out of every nook and cranny I could, but saving none for myself. I preached body positive quotes left and right, but none were aimed inward.

Alcohol made me feel alive and cool and part of the crowd. It was not until a close friend hit a tree head on after drinking and driving that I was able to put the alcohol down.

On November 11, 2013, I woke up with a horrendous headache and a terrifying feeling. I couldn’t remember much of anything from the night before. There was this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt a nudge to check the trash can and there I found three empty bottles of wine. How had I gotten to this point?

Who knew that once I forgave myself for not being perfect, the need to be perfect would melt away? Self-forgiveness was exactly what I needed to find my way home again.

There is tremendous power in telling your story and letting go of the shame of sexual abuse.

To the survivors of sexual abuse, and their loved ones, know you are not alone, this is something that will be part of you, but it in no way needs to define you.

Learning how to mend a broken heart in the midst of grief and aftermath of suicide. 

Shaun's suicide was devastating and heartbreaking beyond measure. It caused a pain that until you have experienced it, you cannot fully understand how hard it is to face the never-ending grief that comes from losing someone by their own choice.

Throughout history, mental illness has been romanticized as much as it has been vilified, with every great intellectual seemingly blessed and cursed by a biochemical imbalance.

My brain has been going 90 miles per hour since the minute I took my first breath. It is a cluttered, jumbled mess of thoughts, worries, and to-do lists that I have been trying to de-clutter and unravel tirelessly throughout the years.

By the time he was two months old, all I could hear were his screams. They coated the insides of my ears and echoed in my brain during any unaccustomed silences. His screams.

“You still kind of suck.” The words rang loudly in my head as I stared at my petite body in the H&M dressing room mirror. 

September 19th is the day my heart breaks. September 19th is the day my heart is made whole again.

I remember daddy’s beard - prickly, red - brushing up against my cheek as we kissed goodnight. I remember running into his strong arms when he picked me up from school. He lifted me up so high.

I don't know how many layers we have. How deep the soul goes and how many times we can fall apart and get back up and re-invent. But I think I might keep trying to push it. To explore and shed skins and try again.

From one of the best days of my life came the deepest, darkest depression that ripped me apart layer by layer.