For those of you who don’t know this, I used to work in a church. I made meals, I cleaned mats for shelter, I took out garbage, I organized volunteers, and I even cleaned toilettes in my early days until I met the fascinating invention called The Student Nurse.

Before I had my mental break down, I was a valued, and productive member of society, and then I remembered that I was used as a child sex slave and beaten, and tortured, and raped, for the better part of twenty plus years. Myself as well as several others I might add.

Now I am someone who is trying to document my mental health issues so that other people can

  • Stop feeling alone
  • Stop feeling like they are broken
  • Stop believing all the shit they hear about themselves from the dark twisted bastard that is depression, and her stupid ass brothers Anxiety, and PTSD, fucking twats.
  • And so “Professionals” can look at Loud Mouth Brown Girl and stop thinking that having mental health issues means that your life has to completely stop.

Yesterday I spent about ten hours on this fucking couch, trying to deescalate the trauma that I was experiencing that was triggered by the alarms going off every ten minutes, the lawn mowers and the banging outside my window, and the general TORTURE that is mental health issues.

Don’t fucking tell me that working out is going to make me feel better when I am sitting at my computer frozen in fear. Don’t tell me that cleaning my house is going to help me breath again when I’ve lost my breath and can’t seem to catch it.

Don’t tell me that “calming down” is going to make me feel better when I know damned well that it’s not.

Do you know what it’s like to tell police that someone has broken into your house and stolen a box of brand new chairs you bought but never opened? I fucking do, and I remember them looking at me like I was nuts, even though I KNEW that my abusers had been REPEATEDLY breaking into my house and stealing shit and moving shit around to drive me fucking crazy.

To this day I can’t prove it, but I know it happened, and so every night when I close my eyes, its with the deep seeded fear that they are going to come back not to mess with me, but murder me.

This is a fear that I live with every day, or it used to be, it’s getting better, but now it’s been so long I am starting to get paranoid which is precisely what happens when you deal with domestic abuse and then you escape your abusers. You start thinking that they are following you, or breaking into your house at night, LARGELY BECAUSE SOMETIMES THEY FUCKING ARE.

If I could just “get up off my fat black ass and do something different,” I fucking would, but I can’t always, some days I just don’t have the energy to move. Other days I am too afraid to move. I shower once a week MAYBE, because it’s a huge trigger for me that reminds me of the night that I was gang raped by so many men that I can’t remember anymore who did or said what or how many there were.

People who have NEVER had to deal with real and chronic depression have a list of solutions that they THINK will help you and I quote “obliterate” your depression, and it’s usually something like this:

  1. Build a support network – Motherfucker half the people I know tried to kill me and the other half of the people I know think I made it up. Fuck people.
  3. Improve your sleep hygiene – Oh just go fuck yourself
  4. Improve your eating habits – Bitch I’m poor I eat what I eat because I can’t afford to feed myself.

For the average person dealing with depression, these are the real life issues that prevent us from doing the things that YOU think would make our lives easier.

I remember a girl once being mad because I wasn’t interested in packing up all my shit to move to the states for some guy whose name I can’t even fucking remember, you know why I didn’t go? because I WAS EIGHTEEN AND TOTALLY NOT STUPID.

People seem to think that if you just open up to doing things THEIR way, then suddenly everything is going to get better and your life will miraculously fall into place and everything will be perfect and instead of pooping out shit suddenly majickal butterflies made of solid gold are going to come out of your ass, which I imagine is a lot harder than just getting rid of the processed food you stuffed your face with.

I promise you that no matter what you do with your life you are NEVER going to start shitting gold butterflies who have majick powers, it’s never going to happen, SO here’s a thought for all of you dealing with depression.


This is actually a lot more difficult for me to do because often times I end up doing what I think I SHOULD do instead of what I WANT to do, and even when I know what I SHOULD do might kill me, I do it anyways because I know it’s usually important shit, but you know what? The war is done, and I am fucking retired.

For more than ten years while ignoring my own trauma I worked on the front lines never knowing if the person I spoke to yesterday was going to be alive today, and often times they weren’t. I tried NA, I tried Religion and then finally I threw up my hands and said fuck it and started doing the things that matter to me.

I paint, I draw, I write, occasionally I dance, but more often than not I talk to the walls and the Gods, Goddess, Angels, and even humans that I am spiritually connected, usually I’m telling them to fuck off, because they cause a lot more harm than I think they are worth, but they also remind me that my purpose here on this earth, is to be someone who shows other people how to get through the dark shit.

So here’s the number one rule about living with depression. Ready?


Then carry on as if it never fucking happened, and let the changes that your outburst caused in your life become a part of your world, because the ONLY way to deal with a depressive episode, is to let it pass. Sometimes you gotta watch tv, sometimes you gotta write, sometimes you gotta masturbate, but sometimes you just gotta lay there and be quiet until the voices shut the fuck up and make room for your voice.

Then you tell them what’s up, and you keep fucking telling them, over and over and over again, until they know the words better than you do, because it’s the ONLY way you’re going to prove that what you want is what you want, regardless of what other people want for you.

Depression is momentary, there are MOMENTS when the shit sucks, and MOMENTS when the gold is amazing, and you have to embrace it all, because it’s all a part of you.

Forget what it means, forget what it’s telling you and just let yourself experience it. Learn from it, study it, ask yourself:

  • What are your triggers?
  • How do they affect you?
  • Can you prevent these triggers from affecting you?
  • What do they look like?
  • How can you create anti-triggers?
  • What does your depression feel like?

The more information you have about YOUR depression, the more YOU can find ways to fight it, but no one else on this entire planet can do that for you.

And the next time someone tells you to get off your ass and work out to combat your depression when all you want to do is curl up and cry, projectile vomit on them, that’ll shut em up RIGHT quick.

Okay no it won’t, but they will probably stop offering you solutions and that’s just as good almost.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

2 thoughts on “Instead of Obliterating My Depression, Why Don’t I Obliterate Your Dumbass Attachment To Creating Stigma Where Stigma Doesn’t Need To Exist

  1. Oh Devon we have so much in common. If I lived just a pinch 😉 closer to you I would totally see if we could meet in person so I could hug your neck & we could chat.

    Yes, what we see & how we’re taught socially & culturally greatly influences us!
    I can identify with you so much & we aren’t the only two. That’s why I post on Twitter about depression, C-PTSD, CSA, as well as support & have joined this whole different worldwide community. Is it a community I wanted to be a part of? No, but I am & I did the whole denial thing for as long as I could and then my life came to a screeching halt too.
    Two of the ones you mentioned are big triggers for me too. Showering & Church! What I was taught had a massive impact on me too. I have come to believe it was a cult or at least “culty” but fuck that it was a cult. Not only was my dad an actual fucking pastor at one time or another he also abused my mom, me, & my 5 siblings. In one way or another we were all in that hellish environment and it has had a lifelong impact on every single one of us. Of course my mom is responsible too because she was made aware BY ME time & time again & still stayed with that son of a bitch. That so complex though. No, she doesn’t get a pass. Period. However, he set the stage with her & she too suffered his abuse so by the time she had 6 children she had been moved cross country & completely cut off & isolated from her family & friends. It was within that first year while my dad was attending a small Bible college to be a missionary to Africa that I sat her down with my 2 older sisters on each side of me & I told her that he was sexually abusing them. I was in 6th grade and I will NEVER forget that day! I could go on but that’s enough for now.

    You see I’ve considered either writing my story in a book or blog I’m still on the fence so I’m currently sharing via Twitter & various blogs. By the way, would you share that Facebook link with me again? I want to check it out.

    Side Note: There’s a podcast called “A Little Bit Culty” that I really enjoy & you might also so I thought I’d share it with you. It’s by a couple who survived the cult NXIVM. There’s a very interesting whole Netflix Documentary on it & it had a profound impact on me! They have excellent guests & they are sharing the process of putting their lives back together. It’s really really good!

    Sending a big virtual hug,

    I’ll buy something to support you soon. 🤗


    1. I love that you feel safe with me enough to share all of that with the readers of this blog. I would just like to throw it out there that not only are you a survivor, but you have also just written enough content for a single blog post. Just some food for thought. ❤


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