recovery

Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.

Second Chance
I always craved the nightlife. However I was vastly over weight for a majority of my life, meaning I was never very good at being a part of it. As I now know, having bipolar is something that means I shouldn't allow for the nightlife much in my life anyhow; it was fall and the bipolar delusions were strong and I was struggling very hard internally with the paranoid thoughts that flooded my mind day in and day out. The thought of being talked about behind my back, and people not liking me, was never far from my mind. I never felt like I fit in, it didn't' matter if I was at one of the kid's football games or at work at the strip club I felt like no one liked me. I never stayed at a job for much longer than six months because I would get overwhelmed with the feelings that my coworkers were out to get me. The struggle had me in full force by 2008 when I had lost all the weight after my gastric bypass surgery.
By Tosha Maaks6 years ago in Psyche
Murder, Mirrors & Morgan Harper Nichols
A Note: This piece contains content relating to disordered eating and mental illness. 1. Murder I've never been much of a crier. Even as a kid, my eyes were, for the most part, dry. Tears and tantrums, they were my brother's department - youngest child syndrome and all that. I joked, I giggled, and on the occasions when something hit an inch too close to home, I would quietly wander away and sit, alone with it all bottled up inside of my head.
By Gracie Delaney6 years ago in Psyche
A Cycle of Anger
DISCLAIMER: Those suffering from Depression, Anxiety, PTSD or other such distressing conditions, please be advised that this piece deals with subject matter that may be triggering. Recounts of panic attacks and violent behaviour are mentioned. If you find this post upsetting, please let me know, and contact one of the following helplines and counselling services:
By Miss Riggie6 years ago in Psyche
Recovery in Progress
My admission date to New Hope Rehabilitation Center was October 10 2019. It was the culmination of a history of persistent drug abuse (alcohol, benzodiazepines, and heroin) the untimely death of my girlfriend from a drug overdose, and the entertainment of suicidal ideation that prompted me to seek and accept help. I was referred by New Hope’s Nivi to consider Philip House as my aftercare treatment plan for a suggested 6 months upon discharge from New Hope.
By Hypodermically Speaking6 years ago in Psyche
Cut the Crap
When I was twelve years old, I grabbed a pair of scissors from my parent’s desk and made a small cut. One became five.
By Jessica Hatton6 years ago in Psyche
My Secret Addiction
For as long as I can remember I have always felt the need to look after others. It doesn’t matter if it’s a family member, friend, or even someone that I barely know. I have an inherent need to help “fix” the lives of others whether they want me to or not. Now wanting to help others is not a bad thing, unless it begins to be at the cost of your own physical, mental, and emotional wellbeing. I am extremely sensitive to the feelings of others, and I find it very difficult to take a step back and remove myself from situations in which I over-empathize with someone else. This is especially true if it is someone I care about. I became almost obsessive in my need to help others, and I would often begin to sacrifice my own mental health and financial stability to support someone who I believed to need my help. When I look back now, I realize that I was providing support to people who hadn’t even asked for my help. I truly believed that they needed me, they just didn’t know it yet. My feelings of self-worth began to “depend” on my ability and need to make things better for those whose lives I believed needed to be fixed.
By Stacey Broad6 years ago in Psyche
Living with mental health
I have always wanted to share my story with people, as I think I could bring on some wisdom, advice, and comfort to others. This is just one part of my huge story, just a day in my life with mental illness.
By Ariana Rose6 years ago in Psyche
Ashley
Where do I begin? Ashley, for all intents and purposes is my life line. Ashley is my 'counsellor' both in the typical sense as she is a registered clinical counsellor by trade and for me, even in a sort of spiritual sense. Truthfully, I can think of no other way to describe her. She is an incredibly intelligent, intensely astute, and also a pleasingly beautiful woman that has become for me the one place I can turn when I have a problem that has me baffled or confused. She is a beautiful woman in the conventional sense of the word, yes, yet that is not what I am referring to here. Ashley's beauty, to me- comes from within. From an inner most place that if every living breathing person could share her values, her ideals, as I see her- as people, we would certainly be a much happier bunch on this earth.
By Joseph Willson6 years ago in Psyche
I Had To Start Over
Almost to the exact date of my momentous mindset shift just last year.. this story will tell a different path decision going into 2020.
By Spencer Schmidt6 years ago in Psyche
Don't give up.
When I was younger than 16, I had already started suffering from my first eating disorder. Anorexia. I still remember it now, bread and butter, salad cream. The air smelt stale, the two shreddies that I had eaten before school, that my art teacher deemed 'enough' to carry on.
By TBIRRA6 years ago in Psyche
The F’D Up Road To My Perfect Place
There are few things more terrifying than quitting something that you once felt connected to in any way. This might mean a relationship, a friendship, or even physical toxins that you expose your body to. If you are used to having something as a part of your life, it can be really hard to let it go even if you know that it is bad for you and is harming your body and soul.
By Taryn Thomas6 years ago in Psyche
We Fall to Rise
*Trigger warning* I’ve always had big feelings. The only time I saw a problem with this was when I was sharing my feelings with other people. Some of those people accepted the feelings I shared with them with an open heart and mind. Others would shame me, calling me a “drama queen” or tell me to get over it. I tried to keep sharing anyways, believing that the space I created for other people to feel would be given back to me. I carried the emotions of some of the adults in my life on my back but was afraid of telling them mine for fear of being belittled. When I was in elementary school I was abused by a relative. I remember pulling up my shirt in the mirror when I was in the 6th grade and looking at the raised, red flesh on my back, vision blurry as I traced the outline of large “x” marks all up and down my spine. I whispered to myself in the mirror, “They doesn’t know what they’re doing. They’re parent did it to them.” I was petrified and in pain but afraid of being punished for showing my fear so I held it in, eyes brimming with liquid that wasn’t allowed to escape, never sighing so much as a peep out. I tried to ask for help once but when you don’t feel heard as a child, and you’re threatened for sharing, believing you deserve the cards you have been dealt, you eventually stop. I’d lay in bed, eyes closed, dreaming of the day I was far away and alone. Do you know what happens when you suppress your feelings? You get sick. Physically and mentally. I spent years in the presence of people who couldn’t handle my big feelings or my big past. Instead of validating myself I retreated further and further into myself. I hated myself for what I felt. I hated myself for the sting I’d feel, for the plummeting feeling as my heart sunk further and further into the pits of my stomach. And eventually i started punishing myself for it. I thought my big feelings being rejected by others made me deserving of more pain than I already felt. I couldn’t figure out how to navigate the intense feelings I had about all of this. As desperately as I searched for balance the scales were always off kilter, never in my favor. So, I hurt myself. I cut myself for the first time when I was in 7th grade. When I was a junior in high school my sleeve slipped up in class and one of my teachers noticed my scars. Nurses from the local mental health services were sent to the school and threatened to have me put on suicide watch. When I was 19 I was starting to feel a little better. I was ready to try to move on. I never believed I would live to graduate high school. I was certain the pain I harbored would become too much to bare and I would eventually decline to continue on with this life. So, I took advantage of this new feeling. I found myself waking up in the morning full of energy, feeling like the sun was shining on me at all times. I tried to maintain that feeling through cosmetology school but regrettably found myself unequipt and unable to, which led to the cutting starting again and an eating disorder came along with it. I lost 20 lbs that December over a 3 week period. My mom was convinced I was on drugs due to my protruding spine and dark, lifeless eyes. It took a year but I overcame my ED. Then there was 27. I woke up in a room I had never seen before after going on a second date. I couldn’t remember anything, all I could think about was my face. Why does it hurt so bad? And once I sat up, my ribs. Why can’t I breathe? I walked across inexplicably shattered glass to a mirror to behold my battered face and body. I had been drugged, knocked out, and stomped on. I was too sick to manage to escape that day. So, I had to be the bravest I’ve ever been and wait and leave my body again; to find another place in my mind. While I gave my body to someone else in fear of what further harm I’d succumb to if I did not. I had already been through so much. Not this, too. I came home that weekend with no fight left. I remember standing on the slippery wet railing of my back patio in the rain one night, leaning out over the edge, one hand on the pillar wondering when I’d find the courage to fall. I managed to keep going. Barely. Over the years that followed I continued to repress my emotions, life having proved over and over that my feelings were too big for this world to carry. There was no place for me. So I got angry. When I turned 28 my anger and need to control manifested as an ED again and I went on one of the biggest rampages I’ve ever been on. I drank everyday. I’d literally drink while I was driving. I constantly blacked out. I binged in secret and I never held down a meal. I felt crazy because I was starving and my stomach was in intense agony. I couldn’t feel anything anymore emotionally so I let people abuse me. My body was no longer mine and I punished myself even more for that. I would do things I swore I never would, I hurt people to see if it would conjure up any emotion but it never did. I was entirely numb. Do you know what’s worse than having big feelings? Having no feelings at all.
By Jade Baca 6 years ago in Psyche