I have always been the girl with a pen and a pad of paper on hand. I’m a writer. I used to write fiction, but as I grew older I realized that I could write about my emotions too. My diary became my closest companion. For a while I tried to write eloquently, but eventually I gave up on that and wrote word vomit. I wrote absolute garbage that was illegible at times, and would normally make me cringe, but that was alright with me. I wrote raw emotions, and by documenting those feelings I was able to expel them out of my brain, onto paper, where they couldn’t bother me anymore.

As I grew older my thoughts became darker, and my writing grew morbid. I discarded my suicidal thoughts onto paper, and confessed my truest feelings of self-loathing and destruction. It was a quick fix for me; a way to get rid of my thoughts instead of bottling. It was how I processed what was going on with me. That was, until someone found my notebook and became concerned with my writing. They turned it in as evidence, and used it against me. My thoughts were no longer private, and I no longer had a way to dispose of my darkness. I was too afraid of being exposed again. So, I stopped writing.

Years passed, and my mental health plummeted. Any chance I had at recovery turned into relapse. I was stuffing my emotions deep into my body, and ignoring any feelings. Suicidal thoughts turned into actions and attempts. Without my word vomit release, I was imploding. I became a ticking time bomb, and when I would go off, I would attempt to end my life. I lived without release for several years.

Those years were rough. I ended up in a mental hospital three times, once inpatient. I was too afraid to write, in case of exposure once again. Sometimes I would try to write, but would become hypercritical of every sentence I wrote, even though it was just my thoughts. I felt stupid for even trying. I told myself I wasn’t smart enough to even document my thoughts, so I didn’t. I stayed far away from writing.

I didn’t start writing again until I became a mom. I started a blog, in an attempt to teach my son about mental health, and to hopefully start to pave the way for breaking the stigma surrounding mental health, so if my son ever had any mental illness he wouldn’t be ashamed. I started with a lot of light topics, barely scratching the surface of what was going on in my head. One day, a few months after starting my blog, I recognized I was feeling extremely suicidal again. I didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t escape the thoughts of feeling like I wanted my life to end. It made me sad, because I wanted to be happy. I wanted the thoughts gone. I picked up my laptop, and decided to write a bunch of word vomit about suicidal ideation; and it went viral.

I finally had my escape back. Still, I was too scared to talk about what was going on. After a crucial doctor’s appointment and the loss of a close friend I grew extremely depressed. I admitted myself outpatient at a local hospital to get help for my thoughts. I took every mediation seriously, and tried to self soothe as recommended. I couldn’t work through what I was going on in my head though. It was Sarah Fader who got to the crux of my problem this time; I didn’t have a release. She suggested to start a word vomit journal. Not for my blog, not for my book, but for me, as a release of emotions.

My word vomit journal can be scary and dark, with few pages in-between of happiness and good thoughts. There are a lot of grammatical errors, and the sentences aren’t pretty and poetic like my blog. But even for a few days, my word vomit journal offers a release. And that is enough for me to feel safe and have hope.
Taylor Nicole is a young author and mother based out of New England. Taylor is a foster care advocate, as well as a mental health advocate. She is a frequent blogger, and her memoir “Free Tayco” is set to be released April 7, 2017!

Taylor can be found on her blog, Facebook,  and Twitter.