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From MommyNoire

So I messed up. I mean, it wasn’t my fault…but it was my fault.

Let me start from the beginning.

The job interview was going exceptionally well. I sat across from the extremely petite 40-something woman at Starbucks as we laughed about how many things we had in common. By this point I had been seeing my psychiatrist and therapist for well over a month and the medications were working surprisingly well. The anxiety and moments of depression were on a sharp decline and I felt confident and secure.

I lost two clients and had to amicably part ways with one during my emotional breakdown. Yeah, I had sworn that I would never go back to the 9 to 5 workforce again since starting my own business three years prior, but by then the sharp decrease in clients was having an effect on my bank account; out of necessity I began looking for part-time work. So, even against my better judgment there I sat at a coffee shop having an easy breezy conversation with my future boss (fingers crossed).

“I’m writing a book,” she said.

“It’s been a labor of love for me.”

“I’m writing a book as well!” I exclaimed.

“Oh really?” she inquired.

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a book of poetry and inspirational messages.”

Ha! I wish I actually said that. That’s the lie I should have said, the lie that any normal person would have repeated. I mean, the book does include a great amount of poetry and inspirational messages, but it’s more than that—it’s a walk through my journey of mental anguish and now mental stability. Riddled with the poems I wrote during my breakdown and the starkly different poetry that followed coming out of that fog of despair, this was my baby and I was proud of it–but it wasn’t the time to put it on the table. Tell my brain that.

Instead, before I could stop myself, I instinctively and prematurely dropped the bipolar bomb. “It’s a book that tells my journey with mental illness through poetry, inspirational messages and essays.”

Crap.

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