✍️ Fragments of Me — Entry 0: Naming the Battles

Most people don’t know the full story of me. They see pieces—forgetfulness, exhaustion, scattered thoughts, missed appointments—and they think that’s all there is. What they don’t see is the weight of the diagnoses I carry, the names that explain why my life feels like a war inside my own skin.

I’ve lived with parts of myself that don’t always agree, voices that pull me in different directions, memories that slip through cracks I can’t seal. It’s not laziness. It’s not carelessness. It’s the reality of a mind that doesn’t move in straight lines.

There are other battles too—depression that drags me under, anxiety that keeps me wired even when I’m exhausted, trauma that echoes louder than I want it to. These diagnoses aren’t excuses. They’re explanations. They’re the language for what I’ve been surviving all along.

I’m sharing this because silence has kept me misunderstood. People assume I don’t care, when the truth is I care so much it breaks me. People assume I’m unreliable, when the truth is I’m fighting wars they can’t see.

This isn’t about labels. It’s about honesty. It’s about saying: yes, I have mental health diagnoses. Yes, they shape my life. And yes, I’m still here, still trying, still writing.

If you’ve ever felt broken by your own mind, or judged for battles no one else can see, know this—you’re not alone. My fragments are mine, but the fight to be understood is something we share.