The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of putting my mental health recovery first? "Just Do It!" Yes, that horrible Nike campaign.

I am twenty-seven years old as I write these words. I own my own home and I have a dog I adore. I cook and I clean and I talk to my family on a regular basis.

I try not to ask myself "Will I stay well?" too often. But it sort of lurks in the back of my psyche until, finally, I am confronted with it. That's part of living with a mental illness--whether it is chronic or in passing--and it's tough. Really tough. But what about before you were properly diagnosed?

I'm not sure, are you? Ask yourself the loaded question: "I have a mental illness. Am I really sick?" When I ask myself this question my mind conjures up this: "No, sometimes life just gets a bit tough, but doesn't it for us all?" And then my inner psyche rambles on about how the disease of mental illness, the 'sick' part of it, is nothing like, say, a broken leg or bout of pneumonia. But that's not the point.

I could write a million posts (granted my hands might hurt, my head even more) on how frightening life, before being diagnosed with a mental illness, is.

I have an ulterior motive when writing this blog, rather, I need to vent a bit. I write about the importance of a healthy lifestyle within these blogs: food, diet, exercise, medication compliance, staying away from excess alcohol and even further away from drugs that are not prescribed to us. Far, far, far away, next country far! I mean these things. I practice what I preach. But I have not, as I recall, mentioned cigarettes. Nicotine addiction. The chemicals that live in them. I have not spoken about this because I pretended  that nearly a decade of smoking, now at the age of twenty-six, I had yet to quit. Well, four long days ago I quit. Cold turkey.

When you are first diagnosed with a mental illness, you are presented with the following information: you will probably have to take psychiatric medication for the rest of your life. For the rest of your life! That's tough to hear and to understand.

Easier said than done! I recognize a pattern in my posts: I seem to be telling you what you probably already know. I write that recovering from mental illness is exhausting and that taking psychiatric medication leaves something to be desired. But these topics are important and they need to be discussed. So, let's talk about sleep.

For a very long time I struggled with severe and crippling anxiety. At one point, around the age of fifteen, I could not leave my home. Literally. Anything outside of my home, my four-walled room, was terrifying. School--impossible. For as much as I tried to emulate my siblings, to smile and laugh, to have friends and go to classes, to come home and talk to my parents-I simply could not. My heart would race when stepping outside of the door; my legs would wobble, unsteady, unsure (The Silencing of Agoraphobia).

Let's pull out the good old thesaurus to attempt to define a feeling that is so prominent when you are diagnosed with mental illness: > Singleness >Alienation >Isolation Now, I usually pepper these definitions with a large amount of sarcasm because, usually, they are bloody ridiculous. Having said this, the above definitions make sense on my end. Mental Illness has alienated me, isolated me, and made me feel singular--not the same as others. That's what I want to explore in this blog: mental illness can make us feel terribly lonely and in order to recover we need to work to understand that while mental illness can make us feel isolated, we can move past it. Mental Illness is a Lonely Disease