recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
Trauma in the World of Mental Health and How Peer Specialists Can Help You Speak Up for Yourself
Do you have a mental illness or know someone who does? My guess is that your answer is yes to one or both of those questions. Is it a hard topic to read about at times? Yes. Does it make certain people uncomfortable from lack of true understanding? Sometimes; however, my reasons for these questions is that I feel and believe in my heart and mind that it is a topic that needs to be discussed. People should not be made to feel ashamed of their story. Sharing your story will help others to realize they are not alone, and it will make YOU feel less alone!
By Krista Kovatch6 years ago in Psyche
Not Today
I learned a magic trick that day. It was a card trick that the homeless man who I had become friends learned years ago, while on the streets in Tennessee. I was captivated by this particular trick, and it made me laugh because I was completely dumbfounded at how he did it. He said it was just a little card trick, but it brought so much light, and laughter to such a dark and sad place. We sat there doing the same magic trick over and over. I decided after the twentieth time that I should call my husband and update him. I had to give him the news that I wouldn’t be home until Monday at the earliest.
By Rachel Bonneval6 years ago in Psyche
Hidden Abuse
Abuse is hidden in different ways. Covering up bruises, hiding the yelling, putting on a smile, pretending as if nothing is happening. No one deserve abuse. No one deserves to get hurt, to be helpless, to be destroyed. I didn't deserve it; my family didn't deserve it.
By Monica Stegall6 years ago in Psyche
Recovery Sucks
The road to recovery is paved with good intentions. Wait, that isn't right. It's the road to hell. Meh, same thing. In case you missed the title let me say it again, recovery sucks. Yup, that's right I said it. I mean any kind of recovery is a good thing but recovery from addiction actually sucks. Now granted, it's better then the alternative of still using your substance of choice, but that doesn't mean it sucks any less. Just hear me out here. This has nothing to do with going to groups or doing counseling. Those are great. And I'm not saying it sucks cause you can't or won't be using anymore. Trust me, being enthralled in that addiction is much much worse. But recovery isn't much fun either.
By Jeffrey Joseph6 years ago in Psyche
Interviews with a Big Black Broad: Sessions #7
Interviewer: When did you began to seek professional help to treat your BDD? BBB: I'm sure it's not surprising that I was reluctant. I was complacent in dealing with my issues on my own up 'til the age of 28. I hid from mirrors. I would dwell in front of mirrors. I took down mirrors. I put them back up. I spent all my money on food, alcohol, makeup, hair products and expensive girdles of all kinds. I hid from the world for days and weeks on end. I drank to endure those moments when I gave in to the mounting pressures I felt to rejoin the world even when I felt the worst about myself. The annoyance of having to deal with a disorder that caused me to focus so much on myself had also taken its toll on me. I wasn't a purposefully vain person. I wasn't someone who would choose to be so self-consumed. I wanted to travel the world. I loved people and wanted to meet more of them from all walks of life. I didn't want to assume that everyone who stared at me only did so because they saw someone ugly. I needed the courage to live the life I ultimately wanted. How could I live any longer without being able to face myself in the mirror? Without being able to leave my house without being inebriated in some way? So, I faced the fact that I would remain stuck in the same positions in my life (literally) if I didn't at least try professional help.
By Anarda Nashai6 years ago in Psyche
The Breakfast Table
The breakfast table has always been the place where you connect the most with friends and family. It was a safe space to converse with people, while sharing stories and experiences without feeling judgement. At this particular table, there were four of us, myself included. A middle-aged man who was homeless and there for help with his alcohol addiction, an elderly woman who had tried to take her own life, a teenager who had severe depression, and myself with my bipolar mania. Suddenly, sitting around this heavy metal table with this group of people felt like a comfortable place to be.
By Rachel Bonneval6 years ago in Psyche
Doors
Chairs. Nothing but rows, upon rows of brown hospital recliners, filled with men in a zombie like state. Some were covered with the traditional white, and very uncomfortable hospital blankets, while others just sat there staring at the small flat screen television. The T.V. was inside of a brown wooden box, with a glass front, that I would later find out was to keep them from breaking the television, and using it as a weapon. This room was dark, even though it was barely past noon, and it felt cold, unusually cold, even for a hospital.
By Rachel Bonneval6 years ago in Psyche
Tales of a Lost Girl
I don’t belong here. I’m not like them. I thought to myself as I disconnected my eyes from my bed buddy who continued talking. I couldn’t completely make out what she was doing in her bed across from mine with how dimly lit our vacant room was. Mid-conversation, I realized she kept bringing her hand up, would lick her fingers, and then dropped her hand back down underneath an old jading blanket with the words FREMONT HOSPITAL MENTAL INSTITUTE imprinted on it. I figured it would be best if I pretended to doze off, then to try and make friends. My bed buddy’s name was Rose. She was twelve-years-young and talked about how her parents had left her at the mental institute while they went on a cruise. She modeled for a living. Some days she spoke with a British accent, as she talked about her extravagant lifestyle. When a staff member would address her, though, the hood in her came out. We were bed buddies at Fremont Hospital.
By Sandra Yvette6 years ago in Psyche
Interviews with a Big Black Broad: Session #4
Interviewer: How did your collegiate aspirations relate to your experience with BDD? BBB: Before I begin, I should to warn you that this may be the most bizarre coming of age story you've ever heard. I chose a difficult major in college for two reasons: It was revered as prestigious and lucrative, and I was told that once I graduated from all those years of rigorous study, I would have little to no time for a social life while I practiced my trade. I wanted a career that would keep me so busy that I had no time to dwell on my awful appearance. I also wanted a preoccupation that would provide an understandable reason for why I had no time for romantic relationships—why I would never have children. My plan was to strictly focus on my studies, after which, I'd rely on my friends to satisfy whatever social needs I had. I loved to laugh and discuss politics, philosophy and art. So, I targeted those who majored in these subjects to help me indulge my interests when I wasn't studying my more conservative curriculum. Perhaps every now and then, I would enjoy a casual tryst or two if I was feeling up to it. I'd be a workaholic socialite from now on, I thought. Without time to focus on myself—to obsess over my ugliness, I could avoid what I referred to as "The cloud," which were my severely depressed episodes. My new distractions worked to steady my moods and lessen my obsessions. My grades were almost perfect. I'd even managed to acquire a small but well-coveted grant from the university strictly based on my academic merit. There are ugly people all over the world who are very prosperous, I thought. I studied the careers of very successful, powerful men who were also practicing the trade within the field I was studying. Most of them were single, with few or no children, and no one seemed to criticize their life choices. They weren't stigmatized for not living a conventional life. They were celebrated as playboys in fact. This was one of several observations that solidified my decision to become a playgirl. I could be satisfied with just a great career and friends. No husband. No children. I couldn't really conceive of living what all the other girls had coveted since holding their first doll baby: A "normal" life.
By Anarda Nashai6 years ago in Psyche
All the World Is Made Up of Faith and Trust and Pixie Dust
As many people know, this past summer was not the time for me. Actually thinking, about the past 20 years haven't been the time for me. And I couldn't figure out why I was stuck in this dark place. It really felt like I was walking up an escalator that was going down. It was a really confusing process because I would have days on top of the world and be fine and then have days where I just didn't wanna be around. I started off just sad but then that sadness grew and grew into something that was so much bigger than me. And I let it grow until I completely began to fall apart. Now, this was hard because I hated talking about my emotions and I just wanted to keep them locked away. I liked putting everyone before making sure they were happy no matter what I was feeling. I guess you could say I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. And all that weight finally hit me. And I just exploded like a volcano, a very, very big volcano. I was ready to leave this earth. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of trying, and I was tired of having to be okay when I wasn't. People always say it's okay not to be okay but in reality, that's not how the world works. The world does expect you to be okay and if you aren't okay then hide it. Sadness is a very unwelcoming feeling from the world and that's the truth.
By Sunny Franklin6 years ago in Psyche