When I think of  mental illness I wonder if I should have a t-shirt created with a couple choice phrases. The front would state: I am Completely Exhausted. And the back of it?  The back of it would state--in bold and angry script, I'm Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired! These phrases have, in part, defined my life. My entire life. Since I was old enough to throw things and scream for hours. Since I was a child. Before they gave me cocktails of medication, age twelve, before I realized that I was sick and tired of being sick and tired--and exhausted!

I hate to admit it, but when you live with a mental illness there are probably triggers to avoid--triggers that upset the stability we have fought so hard to find (Don't Wait: Prepare for Mental Health Triggers Beforehand). First, let's break it down a little bit.

When you are diagnosed with a mental illness it can feel like your entire life has collapsed. You fight to pick up the pieces only to have them slip from your hands.

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.

Knowing when to tell someone you have a mental illness is ... complicated. It's a serious topic and the answer is hard to figure out. And you have to figure it out for each individual person and situation (What to Tell a Date About Your Mental Illness). I've had to do it plenty of times, and here's my advice for when to tell someone you live with a mental illness.

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  have an appointment with My Psychiatrist today. In exactly six hours and forty minutes. Well, six hours and forty-two minutes to be exact. I know things like this. I have not seen her in a month. She was on vacation. She told me she would be riding camel's--I'm  serious--on her vacation.

Picture "forever" in bold font--picture it bold and neon-- flashing like those cheap diner signs offering grilled cheese for $2.50 as you drive past on your way to somewhere else. Somewhere important.

I sincerely hope you have not ever considered this. But you probably have. At some point, in our journey to recovery, we have probably felt like we need to apologize for our behavior.