Category Archives: Living is Not Mental Illness

Living is Not Mental Illness – Pearls of VerMeer

Again, I fell into kinship with the soft moments of Vermeer’s expression. I increasingly saw something familiar and then it hit me: my ways of being nurture my true expression. Not much is actually an expression of mental illness, though. I draw from intangibles and craft them. It’s my nature, my way of being in this stream of time to seek quiet places. I write and paint, and photograph expressions. It’s my passion, and I love it. It’s my natural life way. Yes, I’ve had trauma, and felt the trauma of working through it but I am not mental illness, front and center, as a byproduct.

The space of mental illness does not need habitation 24/ 7, restofyourlife. It definitely isn’t a one-word definition of life in progress. Most realizations in this world linger in pauses, and blank spaces too often filled in with busy-ness and noise. Retreat and reflection work best for many things, for many people, and for many reasons. Yes, illness requires R&R. So does inspiration. Splitting hairs about what happens in our experience with life occurs only when we’ve but one word on the page typed again, again, and again. . .

My peace of mind is not fed by dense, continuous noise and gigantism of box stores. (mental illness?) Most of the time, the music of my day comes with the wind. (mental illness?) The tinkling of chimes, songs of birdspeak, and the shooshing of dense canopies of leaves in the trees tease smiles and a sense of cheer from me. (mental illness?)

This is not mental illness. Eliminate the (mental illness?) and it’s a gentle life of diversity.


I know Earth rampages, presently. I feel it without feeds from media. At times, I breathe with it while watching the clouds flow through the sky, or in rest on the back step as the day deepens into twilight. When I am present, aware of the raging, I breathe deeply, softly, and let tears rise. Their place is clearly part of sorrow. Then comes the shuddered breath of calm, of knowing where I am, and that it’s good I am here.

I remember why I love living, and do it some more.

I care for my yard with greater tenderness, knowing that other minds find rest here, too; whether through pictures in posts, or through windows of cars carrying workers to and fro, to and fro eyes smile. Birds charm walkers, riders of bikes, occupiers of strollers, and rollers on skates. Smiles are easy to share. Words aren’t important. Cheer is a fluid language in this space, and I’m present and a part of it. And yes, storms come and go from time to time as part of the cycle.

It’s natural. So am I. . .

I am natural. I am part of life. I am not a mistake, nor are my ways wrong. I write and play with light and color in photos, then bring them out for play here, on this blog. Genuine exchanges move rapidly through movements of thinkers I gather with. Inspiration vibrates on clusters of blogs, like blossoms on the vine of our internet feed. It’s a green movement. It grows. I share in this life and I’m glad.

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Living is Not Mental Illness

Sometimes, mental illness becomes a moniker for anything that seems hard.  I am guilty of defining my actions according to The Big Book of DID, particularly when I feel challenged by the unknown.  Everything about my behavior, my health, my pursuits, etc. is not a DID response to a trigger-happy life though,  even when my mind wants it that way. . .

I feel more at ease with taking a moderate look at my life.  I ask myself whether I’m having flashbacks, automatic neural spikes, grief… or, perhaps, experiencing anxiety related to hormonal shifts related to my current age of 54.  Once I ask myself this kind of question, I chill a little, encourage myself to remember life changes are normal, and often stressful for many women, but that it’s not the same experience as post-partum-meltdown-gone-rogue.

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