Hi there.

Look, I have a birthmark on the top of my head.

Look, I have a birthmark on the top of my head.

Welcome to Nerve 10.

I’m Jordan, and I created this site because I couldn’t find mental health information on the Internet that I could relate to.

Nerve 10 is where you will find the most accessible, most meaningful mental health stories and poetry on the world wide web.

My goal is not to regurgitate technical terms and generic information—it’s to create a more realistic and helpful mental health narrative.

I've Fallen in Love With Words (And You)

I've Fallen in Love With Words (And You)

man wearing dress shirt with paint on his hands holding a paintbrush and a pencil

When I was a kid, I thought growing meant I would feel braver. I thought it meant I would feel stronger, more competent, and more impressive in the eyes of others.

I thought I would just intuitively feel what I should do with my life.

Now I know that my thoughts were misguided.

Eventually I realized that there is a big difference between feeling something and being something. You don’t necessarily need to feel something to besomething.

The truth is, you can become something whenever you want.

I remember reading something Jeff Goins wrote about how his world changed when he started calling himself “a writer.”

That’s pretty dumb, I thought at the time.

Then, I wrote long enough on Medium, posting consistently, rain or shine, good comments or bad. It didn’t matter

What mattered is that I kept coming back for more. I kept experimenting. I wrote because I had to.

And I don’t mean that anyone was making me do it.

I wrote — and continue to write — because I feel it burst out of me.

Then something shifted inside me.

It was time. I decided: “I’m a writer.”

There was no defining moment, no momentous chain of events. I simply had developed the creative habit, and I was obsessed.

I can honestly say I love it. I love the process.

That’s what they tell us in social-work school that we must grow to love.

And I’ve grown to love it — both with mental health and with writing.

When I combine the two, it makes my electrons tingle with excitement.

I don’t even know what that means, but I wrote it down just now because words are imperfect.

I can’t perfectly capture how I feel when I write about making mental health more accessible, but still I try.

Words are inexact, but they are symbolic strands of connection. They are beautifully imperfect.

When I write, I bottle up my feelings in words and push them out into the uncertain waters of the Internet.

I want someone — a reader — to, half-dazed and emerging from the chaos of life, simply alight upon them. I want this reader to see my words as if they are words the reader actually spoke at one point in the murky past.

I know what that feeling is like from my perspective, when I stumble upon someone’s unearthed treasure — and it’s mind-blowing to imagine that it can happen as a result of what I write.

And then, when someone steps through the void to comment on one of my posts, to point out that I just connected on a human-to-human level — that’s it.

That’s living.

That’s enough right there, and I could stop writing.

But I don’t. Because the more I write, the more it grows.

Some days it’s a glacial trickle of thoughts and ideas.

Other days, it’s a mountain of madness, with each trail taking me up to oxygen-deprived heights before tumbling back down on the side that never sees the sun.

I write to better know my thoughts, to better know myself.

And when my strange thoughts are acknowledged as not so strange after all, it’s a joining of the human experience.

It’s a vacillation from nothing to meaning. And then, transformed, to meaningful nothingness once the connection has been made and the online reader and writer turn adrift and go separate ways.

It’s a dance and a fall and a hope that I’m not the only one in this world who feels the way I do.

If the medium is the message, I’m learning to adapt to the medium.

If I didn’t write here, I’d go write somewhere else.

I’d send you my thoughts in the hope that you’d know what I mean.

In learning to live, I value this core skill the most

In learning to live, I value this core skill the most

Reclaiming Pieces of My Childhood (and Mental Health)

Reclaiming Pieces of My Childhood (and Mental Health)

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