Memoirs

I'm so often disappointed in memoirs about mental illness. I feel like if you have read one you have read them all. The ones I have read have all been written by extremely intelligent people (their words) who had their breakdown while going to some big shot college. There's always lots of self harm, risky sex, an eating disorder or two, and some great psychiatrist that saved their life. I am sorry these writers went through what they did and I'm sure many people can relate to them, but I just can't. It's not the story I have lived. Well, parts of it are my story, but with a lot less shock value. I guess my story wouldn't sell, but I still want to write it. I just feel like my tale would be too boring and not risky enough to be published. I'm no one special. No one knows me so why would they want to read about my life?  So, that's probably why I haven't written it yet. Too much doubt. Not enough focus. It's hard enough to write a blog post these days. Meds have taken a lot of my creative abilities and smashed them to little nonexistent bits. Sometimes I wish I could find the girl that's underneath all those pills. For all the problems that are under control now, she had something that just isn't there anymore. But stability is worth the loss, right? Sometimes I just don't know.