recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
My life the shit show
ell it all began July 12, 1990 the day I was born. I was brought into the lives of donna,George and Michael, world of pure shit. Before I even get into this I am not bad mouthing people to get sympathy I’m showing you the life that I lived and the outcome. I was a no good since I was really little I guess, my mother already could Already tell because I Till this day I glad I stopped after you she got her tubes tied right after having me so I guess from day one she could tell that I was just going to be a pain in her side.A child hearing all the time if they’re bad after a while the child just gonna start believing that they are bad and start being bad real bad. I was your typical child with hyperactivity disorder, I was treated like I was just this insane little child that had no care for anyone. I was always told by family members that I was a bad child and that is why Nobody ever wanted to take me out or have me around . I remember when we would go for a trip up to my Grammys cabin Up in New Hampshire the whole family go meet up For A week of fun and family time. Bu then there was the not one of those not so Pleasant timeless. My uncle decided he was gonna do some unnatural things to me and Tell me not to tell anybody what he did it went on for two years, my life took the ultimate downward spiral. Two years without single soul knowing till the cat was out of the bag I don’t understand how nobody knew my whole demeanor changed I had a lot of seelf hate , when when they found out I had this longIng for my parents to comeAnd protect me I was stervibg for it, sadly that was not the case, it was December 1997, I was put in my dads car and drove down to the uncles house To Confront him. I am thinking this is where he’s going to get it, all that happened he is gonna get hurt. But was heart broken when the was told was to never have contact with us and stay away from his daughter,I realized that my protectors were Not really my protectors. As the years went on parents allow me to drink with them every time my father will have kind of gathering I was able to try the drinks with him sit right on the couch and have a cup and drink with both my parents under the age of 10. I remember the first time I got drunk I was eight years old it was from Ginger ale and vodka I got so drunk and passed out on pool floaty, not one person gave it a second thought. After that it was the norm drink with my mom and her friend forgetting that she was not only drink with friend but her eight-year-old daughter who got up from the table is stumbled, then it was oh shoot she should’ve been drinking that! well no shit Sherlock. I was still a lunder the age of 10 but my dad‘s bartender, I was drinking screwdrivers at 10o’clock in the morning at the time.I know you might read this and be like oh this girl is just a sob storyShe just wants attention, The answer is NO!! I’m writing this for a girl my situation or a boy to know that they’re not alone. It’s my Life just got worse and worse entering into middle school I was actually allowed to bring Kahlúa and milk inside of a coffee thermos too school thinking about it now I’ll be damned if my kids ever want to think about bringing anything like that school or even drinking, But like I said it was the norm. I was never really invited much on my dad side the family but one weekend at 11 my grandmother brought me and my brother and my aunt vicky and her daughter went down to Cape Crod for a weekend. I remember just had to ask my grandma one time to go to liquor store and she brought us I remember the one I picked out, it was arbor mist Merlot till this day I still can’t drink merlot. The weekend was a train wreck me and my grandmother finished the bottle and I found my aunts vodka stash and finish that too. I got so trashed I still remember my grandmother telling my brother I couldn’t go swimming because ” your sister is too drunk“. I feel like my whole life was a set up to be one big failure, I was a straight alcoholic by the time I turn 16 heroin attic by the time I was 15 in and out of detox till I was 18. Start smoking crack at 19 getting pregnant with my first daughter start shooting drugs again lost my daughter met a drug dealer got pregnant again then had a nice lengthy stay at MCI Framingham. There’s a lot on my life I did not put yes but that’s another time in another story right now I’m just given the brief. But I will get into it if this blows up. I’ve never done this before some part of me feels kind of awkward because now people are going to know The twisted Ness of my life but also now it’s something I get off my chest. A lot of the stuff that I succeeded in my life wasn’t any help by my parents or my family it was hard work for myself everything I know I taught myself. I hope someone reads my story and it hits home in a good Way is you know you’re not alone. I’m a married woman now with four kids, my life isn’t where I want to be right now but with a bit of hard work and dedication I can have the world by the balls, But for now I’m just gonna take it a day at a time.
By Allyson cross 5 years ago in Psyche
The Art of Healing
As a Cultural Psychologist and Artist, I have spent the better part of my life using art to work in nonprofit with at-risk kids and the culturally diverse oppressed. So, when I reconnected, after almost 40 years, with a former classmate 8 years ago, I was impressed with his go getter attitude and integrity to always do better not to mention his beautiful blue eyes and amazing silver hair that was coal Black when younger. What DIDN'T impress me was his lack of empathy for the less fortunate and the inability to understand my need to give back and help other for free. I fell in love with him anyway (those blue eyes and his wicked sense of humor) and we went on to build an amazing life together.
By Rhoni Bluehen5 years ago in Psyche
The Power of Stepping Away
Sometimes, your romantic relationships are a reflection of how you feel about yourself. Sometimes, you can just feel awful about yourself for years upon years. I am not an expert on domestic violence by any means. But I choose to wear my battle scars with pride.
By Chloe Rose Violet 🌹5 years ago in Psyche
The skill that saved me.
Reject My career as a teacher came to an end in 2013 when I failed to get the job I was doing really well, having not impressed the panel at interview as much as another candidate. This was the second time in nine years that this had happened to me. It didn't seem to count that I had helped some of the students improve their A Level resits from a grade D to a grade A, for example, or that I was popular with my classes, and that I was an excellent teacher. I was devastated; but somewhere in the back of my mind, I was also relieved.
By Deborah Robinson5 years ago in Psyche
It Was A Long Time Coming: Mental Breakdown, Hospitalization and Road to Recovery, Part 3
Three days later, I was transferred to a Mental Health Unit on the eighth floor of the same hospital. Compared to the horror stories I’d heard about the state of wards in such places, this one was...surprisingly nice. The unit was locked, of course, accessible only by a magnetic key card carried by staff. Cameras were everywhere, of course. The staff were friendly. Nice, even.
By Lee Johnston 5 years ago in Psyche
The White Horse
When I was a child, I knew I was different. It was apparent from the things I liked to the things I detested. --For example, I did not appreciate the sounds of banjo or the Country Music Singer's caterwauling strumming on a guitar. It hurt my ears. I despised chicken and dumplings and would leave the table if someone said "Squirrel." My friends considered me disloyal because of my sensibilities.
By Jeff Johnson5 years ago in Psyche
Transformation from being revengeful to being peaceful
Nowadays, most of the people believe in revenge and have a tit-for-tat mindset. I also learned the same from society to take revenge if someone hurts us. I learned that if someone hurt us, then we have to act in the same way to take revenge. It is no doubt true that after taking revenge it feels good but not every battle is worth fighting for. I still remember that I had revenge feeling inside my heart, and it had consumed a lot of time and energy. I will share the story about how I become aware that I have a tit-for-tat mindset and how my mother helped me in changing my mindset.
By jagjot singh Wadali5 years ago in Psyche
Scar
Scars. Such a touchy subject. It’s strange how some view those with scars as heroes until they discover they were self inflicted. As I look at the red marks covering my thighs, and those that rest upon my wrist, I am reminded of how strong I am. People say self harm scars make one weak. I feel the opposite. There was once a time when my mind and body would go numb and the only way to feel was to hurt myself. I had to bleed to know I was still alive. When I began to hurt inside, moving the hurt to the outside helped. The saying “stick and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” is the biggest lie. Ever. I spent about 12 years of my life listening to my own blood talk me down. I began to believe the words that spewed from their mouths. My mind would spin and my entire atmosphere would darken. I was not worthy. I was the biggest mistake my parents ever made. I would never be successful. As the world grew lighter again, more scars appeared. My step mother once told me I was doing it wrong and if i wanted something to happen I should go deeper. My mind began to believe her words. I should have tried harder. I havent self harmed in 4 months and 2 days. That is 122 days clean. I’ve been dealing with this “addiction” since the age of 10. That's 5 whole years of scars collected among my body. Scars should not be a touchy subject. It needs to be talked about. I know how it feels to be alone. 5 years ago, summers were spent in hoodies and leggings. Nights were spent running my hand along to sections of my body that were inflamed. Days were spent resisting the urge to itch the fresh cuts due to fear of breaking them open. Green concealer and foundation dripped off my legs in the shower as I hoped to cover the bruises scattered along my legs. No one could know. I thought this was a secret that would go to the grave with me. I was waiting for the day where words could no longer affect me. When my conscience shut off. People began to notice. It was too hard to hide. When band aids were exposed and I could no longer pull it off as a small scrape. Scars were my only way to cry out for help. Most of middle school I was labelled as “the girl who cuts herself”. I was 5 months clean when that one was sprung upon. Right back to the beginning I went. The memory of my mothers eyes when I told her I was cutting is forever etched in my mind. My heart breaks when I think about that night. It was 2 in the morning. Friends played downstairs as she slept on the couch. She jolted awake as I sat next to her and cried and shaked. Her eyes began to sink. I hadn't seen her this way in years. For the first time in years, I was finally heard. Since this night, my mom and I have been talking about everything. Anytime I feel an emotion, no matter how strong, I tell mom. I’m doing the best I possibly can. Therapy sessions, medications, coping skills, all of it. I like to believe that I am proof. Proof that it gets better. Proof that there is light at the end of a dark dark tunnel. Proof that life is worth living. It gets better. At the end of the day, I don't think I’d ever want to remove my scars. They have become part of me. Part of my story.
By Claudia Azinger5 years ago in Psyche
