#WWRRM: Worldwide Recovery Recognition Month Declared in August 2017

That’s right!!

I am officially declaring the month of August to be worldwide Recovery Recognition month or #WWRRM.

Apparently in the USA, SAMHSA organization has their National Recovery month be in September–but I’ve come to find recently that there is no worldwide recovery recognition month, so I figured making a whole blog series about it would work! 😀

So, I’m going to need help from you guys! I want the month of August to be filled with our voices of recovery–of the struggles we’ve had, even the ones we’re still sifting through–and how we cope on a day to day basis. I want our voices to shine loud and proud as our SURVIVORS RADIATING BADASSERY is taken to a global stand!!

Spread the word, people!! And if you’d like to contribute, be a part of this movement or do anything else to help it grow, comment down below or send me an email at recoverytowellness@hotmail.com

I envision our recovery recognition (hmm, is #WWRM or #WWRRM better?) month to be bursting with stories–featured blog posts on this blog about stories of hope shining in the darkness, of sharing coping strategies, of reasons to live, of gratitude, of ARTWORK, of positivity, of compassion, of peer support, of LOVE and LIFE. 😀

Our mascot is officially going to be a unicorn (because unicorns are awesome). And our ribbon? Haven’t totally decided on that yet! But I’m thinking one arm of it will be silver. I’m also thinking of doing a tree within it, or a world on the middle, or the hashtag, or a universe/galaxy mix of colors or doing a symbol or I don’t know.

What do you guys think??

Also, when you share your stories, feel free to be as open or private about it as you want to be. This blog of mine is public, so be aware of that. You can give yourself a pseudonym, that’s totally fine. 🙂

BONUS: Here is a website I found last night about the popular ribbon colors and PATTERNS and symbols that already exist. I know we’re extra special people so we’re gonna want something different, unique, yet also simple enough to reproduce.

 

AND this is recovery from mental health and substance use where applicable. 🙂

Come on my worldwide buddies, let’s make this a fanciful pursuit!! 😀

 

❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

 

Not Maybe, But Definitely

Daily Prompt = Maybe

The world has gone on long enough

Treating the mentally ill awful and rough.

From mocking our symptoms

To dismissing us as self-proclaimed victims.

We huddle in our corners

Isolated and grieving like mourners.

Cut off from the world

Our damaged souls frayed and furled.

We want to come out

And shout all about

“Look at me! Look at me!

I exist, don’t you see?”

Why do you choose

To turn your back on us like we are an unlit fuse?

“Can’t you see? Can’t you see?

All that you are doing to me?”

Your eyes are glued to the skies

The clouds not parting, muffling our cries.

“How can’t you hear me? How do you not care?”

“No!” You snap back. “I do care–I just cannot bear–“

“Bear what?” We reply. “This is our burden to carry.”

“Maybe,” you mutter, “but it is too often scary.”

“It is scary because you do not understand!

The light that scatters through us, falling like sand!”

“And how am I to know,

If you are strong enough or to fall like snow?”

“Because we are mighty and strong!

We sing our beautiful survivor song!”

“A song you sing? What is this you speak of?”

“Listen well, and you will see our love–

We sing of courage, of strength and light,

We sing long into the prowess of night!

We are human and we feel

That our experiences are very real.

We may cry, we may linger

We may stumble along like a make believe figure.

But we are tough–in body and in mind

And we will stand no longer for you to be unkind.

We demand our powerhouse to be seen.

Our voices linger and they are not keen

On being silenced and hidden for any longer

Maybe this is something you should ponder

We are ill in mind

And while you may be blind,

It does not make us broken,

Rather allows us to be spoken–

That we are not alone

And that we shall be known

As gladiators. As warriors. As fighters.

Some of us may even be writers.

We are strangers no more,

Doctors, artists, professionals galore!

We have degrees,

This we shall decree!

We are just like you,

Similar, but with a different view.”

“I–I see,” you stammer “there is more of you than just one.”

“Why, but of course, my friend. Why ever would there be none?”

“I…still do not completely understand what it is you see

How you can live this life and just be.”

“It is through time

And much patience that we develop our climb

Yet it is worthwhile for us to find our hope,

To believe in a better tomorrow and positively cope.

Our journeys may be chaotic,

But to some of us, we smile and say ‘exotic’.

And with resiliency we manage to live,

With meaning and purpose we choose to give

To those in our community who still struggle

And for those of you who have yet to juggle

What it is like to be sick,

With no choice allowed to pick

What it is that inflicts us,

So thus,

We ask to be shown patience in kind,

For us to learn and find

What it means to be happy to be alive,

For we may always strive

To live a life worth living,

For you to be forgiving,

And for us to be proud,

That we’ve been allowed,

To bring life to another day

Where eventually we are okay.

Skipped School Today

Just a quick zippity split update!

So, by the title, I did not go to school today. LEGASP! :O

You see, it was while I was sat on the toilet (it’s true, there’s no room for apologies HERE!) that I thought to myself: I really shouldn’t go to school today.

Or: That’s not a good idea (to go to school).

Or: I’m probably going to hurt myself if I go to school.

SO I intervened! I KNOW! And I told my parents and I stayed home and then I waited until I spoke with someone on the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline chat services (USA) and while I waited I read some fanfiction, which inspired me to WRITE some fanfiction and I pretty much skipped school and wrote FANFICTION today. LESSONS LEARNED.

 

It was some really good fanfic though. I updated one of my stories (which hasn’t been worked on since February/December and last updated in AUGUST last year) with a 9 pager. Fuck yeah.

And I started a new story (nothing new there) so that’s cool. :3

I also DANCED to music today. Cut out more magazine clippings for SCRAPBOOKING. ATE FOOD. NEVER NAPPED (grrr) and looked PRETTY.

It was actually a really good self-care day.

Now, Wednesday, I don’t know about, but tomorrow is therapy day and I’ll be with Elicia again in the afternoon for some movie and homework time (blegh homework) BUT there’s only TWO WEEKS left of school! So that’s something fun!

Sigh. Also I spoke with the crisis chat line on Saturday night too, and then did a video therapy thing online with not my therapist but an online guy on Sunday and that helped a lot. And I SAW DOGS on Sunday which was EPIC. So yeah.

Things are better. Pretty much.

Now I’m off to bed soon. 🙂 The last time I went out (Th) I got 9 more books from the library. *sly grin* You betcha there will be an influx soon (in the next couple of weeks) of you guessed it–BOOK REVIEWS.

I also still want to do some photo work for the Earth challenge tomorrow. So, keep your eyes PEELED BACK LIKE ORANGES.

(Shit, now I want an orange)

Thanks for reading and supporting!! ❤ ❤ ❤

PS: Psych Resource 1

MoodGYM Resource 2

 

Roller Coaster Back to Hell *TW*

*Trigger Warning: Explicit mention of suicide/self-harm in this post. Be careful, here.*

I’m depressed. And by that, I mean I’m dealing with some depression.

I feel…exhausted. Like I don’t have the energy to do anything. Just thinking is burdensome. Writing feels plugged up, like I have cotton balls between my ears and eyes, blocking my view from what I want to write deep down. Plugging up the connection. I feel like I can’t even form sentences right. I hate how this is going, already.

I took a long nap today, probably about a three hour one. And still, I’m tired (or maybe more tired because of it).

I’m disappointed. I’m broken. I feel terrible and like utter shit.

And I wasn’t feeling like this for a while!

I was doing really well the last week, even a few days longer than that.

But now it’s back to hell. And it doesn’t feel like I’ll ever get out of it. My perception of reality is off. Go figure. It doesn’t feel like I’ll ever get out of this. I ponder whether extreme measures need to be taken.

There must be something better than this feeling.

 

I’ve been trying to find the right music to listen to for the last half hour to write ANYTHING up. The Postal Service is ebbing the flow a bit.

I feel no hope in getting my homework done, not this weekend and certainly not into the week.

Maybe I should explain…

…Although it would take a lot of energy.

I know what I should do…but it doesn’t feel worth it, it doesn’t feel like it requires that amount of intervention yet.

I’m such a sorry excuse for a human being. “It’s just a cruel existence. What is happening to me? I don’t want to live” (From Taylor Swift/Zayn “I don’t want to live forever”) Out of context, of course.

I feel this yearning within my throat, a presence, maybe words, ready to bust out. I feel my face will ever be frozen in a pout-like expression. I can manage only this micro smiles. That’s it. The smallest upturn of the corners of my lips. That’s all.

I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat anything. Hunger strike, yeah.

I need to use the bathroom but I don’t feel like getting up.

My only salvation will be reading a book for fun. Maybe book reviewing, but I’m not sure. I should likely get some amount of homework done today.

I was super anxious (which rarely happens) yesterday before my first class started but it turns out the class was canceled. Anxiety rolled into some depressive symptoms, but I played with my slime to get through it. I took a nap. I hung out with Elicia which then I horribly fucked up when recounting a story to her and she asked about a particular suicide method which was not of the method of choice in my story and I asked her point blank if that’s what she used.

Mortifying, I swear.

I mean, it was pretty obvious and I shouldn’t have asked further, but I needed clarification. I’d been wanting to ask what she went for, which again, is SO inappropriate even for MY standards.

But the intrusive thoughts just kept coming. And I asked over and over for reassurance that I hadn’t upset her by asking about it further.

Then I was getting PISSED off at myself for trying to ask at all and for the OCD working in haywire force. At that point, because I was feeling so miserable, I just wanted everyone else around me to feel miserable. I wanted to tell people to KILL themselves. That’s FUCKED UP. Projection, I suppose. My brain was telling ME to kill myself and I wanted to spread the message to EVERYONE else around me. Which were only two people, by the way. I wanted something horrible to happen because of ME. I wanted to egg people on.. *closes eyes* That’s a new low.

I didn’t say it. Of course not.

But I wanted to. I imagined all the different ways I could say it. I imagined just saying that I was thinking about it, but I couldn’t even say that either.

I’ve been feeling this way more increasingly, not telling people to off themselves but to just crack and say, I really don’t give a flying fuck about your issues. However, here are mine! *plops them over*

I practically am becoming the equivalent of telling people to get over their stuff, which is largely mental health stuff, how shitty is that??

I just want to tell people who are reaching out to me that I don’t CARE.

But no. Can’t be an asshole, right?

So I don’t say that. I just say what I’m expected, what I’m SUPPOSED to say. What people come to me for. The caring. The empathy. The support.

But I don’t WANT to do it anymore!!!

Whoa, that’s a bit of a breakthrough right there.

 

Truthfully, I don’t KNOW what I want anymore. Maybe I’m just looking for a reason to kill myself, and telling someone else hurtful things that I KNOW will hurt them for the worst, is my way of trying to achieve that outcome.

That was part I. Part II came when the anger dissipated once Elicia left the area. Afterwards I was still feeling “off.” I was thinking about leaving school early but I wasn’t so sure since I was feeling off. So I decided to stay and take the 5p train. Which meant I needed to leave campus at about 4:30p.

This is where things took a turn for the worst, later.

It was SO petty. SO insignificant. SO stupid.

But someone else came by Craig’s office and needed to talk to him so I shuffled my way out of there.

Except it felt like I’d been KICKED out. Which, I mean, I kinda was, but at the same time, he had to talk to the dude, so it made sense.

Like, it shouldn’t have been so (A)FFECTIVE but it was. It’s so stupid and it was the straw that snapped my back like a twig.

It felt like a true…excuse my language here…”borderline” moment. I guess I felt abandoned. And, what I haven’t been able to write up in an article lately just from lack of time and interest to write for the paper, is that my last hospitalization they suggested I may be living with some (under five) borderline personality traits. Mainly the suicidal gestures one, some potential abandonment/stinging jellyfish attachments, mood swings and the chronic self-image issues. I really related to the whole X thing stresses the person out and they go on to try and kill themselves. Makes sense and sounds like me! Or at least the error-me (the not me, essentially).

Like, really, why become suicidal after that? FROM that? WHY?!

But I did.

And more of it was the depressive hellhole opening up below me, and the OCD RAGING like a monster with all sorts of intrusive thoughts about death and harm.

I then realized I couldn’t move. Or, more precisely I could have moved but I felt unsafe if I did so. So I tried to keep myself safe by just sitting there, on the desk of Photo Club, crying to myself and being aggravated that I was thrust into this type of situation and unable to get myself out of it, waiting endlessly for it to pass and for that other person to leave.

I felt so pathetic.

I didn’t want to talk to anyone because I didn’t feel justified in being so upset by the moment. I thought about calling a hotline but ruled it out. I didn’t want help, yet I wanted help.

There were just so many thoughts and images and intrusive video plays of me hurting myself. I was frozen in time. Just trying to wait it out. Couldn’t move, couldn’t trust my movements if I DID move. Locked up. Insignificant.

Eventually, the person did move on. And I scooted over to see if Craig was inside, but he had briefly poofed.

So I went back uneasily to the desk of Photo Club and tried sticking a tack into the nearest electrical outlet. It was too short.

That’s all that saved me. Seriously. I picked the super short metal tack. I don’t even know why I picked the small one. I think it was nearest to me. And I did it impulsively. I just pulled it out, stuck it in the right socket, and was immediately disappointed.

I could have HURT myself, and I was disappointed? Oh the judgment of myself is HIGH in this post. That’s NOT even me, either. That’s all this BRAIN GOOK.

This is why I said I couldn’t move before. Because literally I would have been trying to hurt myself in any way.

 

I begrudgingly went and listened to Craig in his office after that. I didn’t really talk, not even able to have processed what just happened, the suicidal crisis I was just landed in, so I didn’t say too much about what happened. Just that I couldn’t move, but not WHY I couldn’t move. *closes eyes*

And the crisis came and went and came and went thereafter. I had to catch a different train. I met a new person at the station though, and she was nice, I spoke to her about my bad day. It helped, a little.

And then I read on the train home. That helped a lot.

But when I put the book down, I still felt down myself.

 

And that brings us to now.

My parents tried helping me but I wasn’t appreciative of that help. I just want to be left alone. I have to figure this out on my own. I don’t want yet want external help. That help isn’t always going to be there, so I have to work through it on my own. Apparently, now is the time for me to test that out… probably not a good idea.

*sigh*. That’s pretty much all I got.

I did go and pet a neighbor’s dog today and that helped a little. Maybe I’ll try another neighbor soon.

At the same time, it reminded me why I’m really not a good fit for getting a dog. That’s a whole other problem area though.

 

I should probably stop feeling sorry for myself.

We’ll see.

 

Thanks for reading. ❤

Jolted

Today’s Prompt ^_^ Jolt

That moment where I totally forget what I was going to be writing about…gah. Any who, my friend Elicia is coming over today so I shall be away for most of the day. I wanted to make a couple of updates though, before then. 🙂

  1. Never explicitly said but I quit my job as the MHT.
  2. I will soon be re-writing my About page.
  3. I lost my job at the newspaper :/
  4. I’m tossing a throwback to apparently, 2013, when I used to where LOADS of bracelets I made on my right arm like a freakin’ sleeve. 🙂 *Pictures below*
  5. I’m going to write a novel. (And probably tell you about it. It’s called (thus far) “The Cards We’re Dealt”)
  6. Elicia and I may make SLIME today. FUCK YEAH
  7. I am behind in like 5-7 book reviews. YEAH. Gonna get on that shit over the summer.
  8. I have a year left of school still. SIGH. Twice a senior, counts right?
  9. #RecoveryHome, Recovery Restoration and #WWRRM, Recovery Bear.
  10. I finished reading a book this weekend — Saturday to be specific.
  11. Will be planning on more photography this week.
  12. Stationery updates, creative writing and art folders, and Youtube stuff. Yep.
  13. Next month, mid-month (NOT mid-moth), will be a year on this blog. GASP.
  14. Gift art. More of this. *nods*

That’s all I got.

 

PICTURES

IMG_6013bracelets_arm_by_h_everybody_lies__md-d6g46ldcreatively_overboard_by_h_everybody_lies__md-d6g45ft

YOU ARE WELCOME. FOR BEING SHOWN SUCH SNAZZINESS.

😀

Today’s look:

IMG_00004058IMG_00004057

Word bracelets: “Gets Better” “I believe” “Stay Safe”

🙂

PS As of my last #tag, yes, I am doing and feeling better. I went to the counseling center at school on emergency last Monday (and today’s a holiday so no school, whoop whoop) and have been doing a LOT BETTER since.

PPS I totes made another account on a dating site. 🙂

The Lost Art of My Photography Part I

Weekly Photo Challenge #1: Surprise & Daily Prompt ~ Climbing


Because I can’t be bothered to make two separate posts for the daily/weekly prompts.

I’m feeling off. And what do I do when I feel off? I guess I blog. I try to self-soothe. I listen to music on my iPod. I try to do something different. Or maybe I wallow in my gloom and doom, (just not with suicidal thoughts) remarkable, I know.

I think I may have lost the art of my photography. This coming from the person who just picked up the camera again today after at least two months away from it. And months previous had gone by, too. Well, maybe just a couple. And then a couple before that and before that…. sigh.

I did a small shoot with some cherry blossoms (or what I think are cherry blossoms, more accurately said) but wasn’t that into it (Easter Sunday fucked up my doggy day plans.) I did a larger shoot in the afternoon but I’m not that happy with it either. Some technical difficulties as in, I wanted a photo of my full body but in detail (and focused!) but it didn’t work out that way. So it was a lot of annoyance that I couldn’t get the ideas in my head out onto the camera.

But I have pictures to share anyways, a few of the gems that I think made it out from the shoot. I wore this fancy white dress I have with silver sequins on it, tried out my fancy lantern, and one of my masquerade masks. And pictures of my face. All of them. 😄

I will also share some photos from long ago. And what the current theme of my blog belongs to as well. 🙂

Let’s get started!


IMG_1967 - Rocky 2

The current header of my new blog theme. 🙂 From Spring 2014

IMG_0636 --

What are the black&white curtains in the textual background. Thank you, thank you. From June 2014.

IMG_3513 --

The alleged ‘cherry blossoms’. A pretty generic and mundane photograph. If only I could actually wake up early in the AM to get the shots I want to get… April 2017

IMG_3515 --

This one is nice. April 2017

IMG_3519 --

Liked the lighting in this one. April 2017

IMG_3521 --

I really like the focus in this piece. April 2017

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The above slideshow is all photos I’ve taken today. Clearly, because I told you what I was wearing…geez, self, geez.

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The above slideshow from 2015.

I’d do more but it’s dragging on me at this point. I don’t know, maybe I’ll rediscover my photography art again, or maybe it was good while it lasted. I’m not sure how to move forward. Maybe for a while I will move backward, by uploading some of my favorite shoots and yes, I do take photos (that are artsy) of things other than myself. 😉 It’s hard to find models at times though, so I use myself in order to help out. However that also means some photos are emotion heavy due to emotionally tough times. That likely requires its very own section.

Any who, I’m going to try and read now.

Thanks for sticking around. ❤

The Walk (*TW*)

Trigger Warning: Suicidality, self-harm mentioned here.

The night sky was cloudy, hiding the moon so I was not guided by its light. I walked alone, on the empty road, only sometimes being illuminated by the bright white or blue headlights of the passing cars.

Jump in front of them, my mind whispered. But from behind, I did not wish to be hit. And from the front I did not wish my head to be injured.

So I continued walking.

Two and a half miles, for someone who doesn’t exercise at all, that’s a hefty distance.

But I had one destination in mind, just one: the ponds.

I was alone. So utterly and physically and completely alone. I cried. I cried when I walked down the road, in the middle of it, on the side of it. I cried when I couldn’t see my footfalls in front of me. I cried wearing all black at eight o’clock at night.

I cried when I saw the pale white glimmer of the water from the top of the road. By then, I was talking to myself aloud, for no one else was around.

I had no cell phone–it was taken.

I had my car keys, the lot that would help without a car.

I knew only one phone number from the outside world–the others being my own and emergency lines–and I didn’t have a list of numbers elsewhere to call, even if I could think of the friends faces to match the illusive numbers.

I approached a stranger’s home for my one phone call. They let me use their phone, but the call didn’t go through.

So again, I walked.

I remember even telling the stranger what I was about to go do, and just being met with the flattest, “Okay.”

Yeah, okay!

By the time I reached the pond, my suicidality had faded away. What had upset me, triggered me, seemed so insignificant. And still, I walked.

I cried when I thought I wouldn’t be able to reach out for help. That this was my final sight. My final words circling in my mind, never to be met to the keyboard or the paper to be finalized.

I thought of final articles, posts, letters.

I thought of how alone I was, no one knowing.

 

…The wind was cool. The water not as cold as I expected.

But I had to pee.

And I have high standards: I didn’t want to pee myself while I drown.

So I walked back up, turned around, walked back down, turned around and did that a few times before I decided I didn’t want to sit in the sand before the lapping shoreline. But then the wind was brisker and I was cold, the lack of a jacket settling into my bones as the wind slipped between my layers.

I sat on a rock for a while.

Watched with suspicion as cars slowly crawled by. Planned out my next moves: would I walk up to the nursing home to use their phone or would I walk to the other pond on the other side of town? Would I walk back home or wait a while longer as a punishment to my parents for triggering me?

I went for a walk, just as they suggested, just not where they had in mind.

At twenty-three I had run away from home. I considered my options.

 

As the moonlight poked through the clouds, I rejoiced aloud. Finally, more light to guide me back home. For now, I had decided not to drown. For the moment, I knew I’d need a double method in my next suicide plan.

 

The headlights soon pulled up, it was one of my parents. “Get in,” was all that was said. With a shiver, I did as I was told; I sat in the car on the easy ride back that would have taken me another hour to walk.

9:30p is when I returned…but it was only part of me.

The damage had been done. I had been shoved two car lengths backwards. I had had my fourth crisis of the week, as of being out of my eighth hospitalization that week’s very Monday. I was ready to act again. Plans of suicide bubbled up in my vision. I don’t even remember now what I did–other than get some hot clam chowder, mention the walk “somewhat” helped (even though the majority of it was not), and crawled into bed with my phone again in my clutches.

It wasn’t the way I expected my Friday night to go. All because it felt like my parents were taking everything away from me that I had left. My perspective collapsed as my dreams sounded so far away, distant. A year? Two? Four? That would be like oblivion.

I might as well end my life now, had been my thoughts. This life just wasn’t cut out for me. I can’t handle this, not after everything else. There’s only one way this can end.

So I had walked away, drifting out of the conversation to enter the mess of my room. And the door was threatened to be taken away, the phone was grabbed, the car inaccessible, so outside in the rural town I call home, I walked. And walked. And walked.

 

At 1:00a I awoke, disappointed that I had once again, because of extenuating circumstances, missed my article deadlines. I am no longer even a staff writer for the newspaper, another loss of job that I am harboring within myself, something that had angrily triggered me earlier that day (crisis #3). I can still write for the paper and my work can still be published, but what a loss I felt. It all seemed so meaningless again, and I had let myself and my readers down. For two papers no articles, maybe even three papers, no articles came out of mine.

I had let them down. Was my story even worth telling anymore?

I set my dying phone aside to charge, and used up the battery power of my iPod to bring me some comfort as I sobbed for an hour and a half.

I scratched myself to keep something at bay. I thought about calling a hotline, I nearly did, but then I scratched myself and there didn’t seem to be a point anymore. I planned suicide. Over and over and over. The tears came and the snot with them, and over and over I cried. Eventually I fell back to sleep.

 

Around 8:45a I awoke again. And curled into a cocoon I went. Followed by listening to more music on a charging iPod. I sent a message to three friends, and idled by the phone, holding on to it so no one would take it away, until I’d get a response. Two friends were busy, so it wasn’t the right time to speak. I couldn’t speak anyways, going in and out of crying spells.

Details of plans formulated in my mind. Efforts were made to get me out of my room, but still I refused. I was ‘angry’ at them, depressed more so for putting me back in this hellhole.

I was as suicidal as I had been when I overdosed those two weeks before.

I had a high amount of intent. I began planning and writing more goodbye posts, alternating between curled up in the fetal position, scratching myself through the tears and more.

When they went for a walk, I got a higher response from Craig.

Wailing, I sobbed hysterically. I was not a safe vessel, I was NOT a safe vessel. Through my tears I pulled out the only blade in our house and attempted to cut myself. I didn’t think I was all that effective (I was wrong as I’d find the angry red line later). I turned back to the phone and read the messages coming quickly at me.

Continuing to wail I stumbled up to my room, curling into a seated position.

“Life wasn’t cut out for me… It’s better this way.”

>> “It isn’t better that way! You have a voice to share with the world and if you’re gone, it won’t exist to help others. You have a gift to share. [ridiculous Craig voice] DONT TAKE THAT GIFT AWAY FROM THE WORLD RAQUEL!”

 

*snaps fingers* Like that, clarity (or calm, still not sure which) came to me. My crying ceased. The crisis ebbed away. Maybe it was the all caps. Either way, it was gone, I was out, I was free.

>> “…I wouldn’t be able to intervene. Please take some breaths, find a space where you think of anything but harming yourself. You’ll be more pissed if you act on it again. Remember what you wrote me.”

The first sign of help working, even as I struggled to remember what it was I had written out, I knew inherently about it. Even though it’d be different this next time, still, it wouldn’t be.

 

I told my parents what went down, later on. We patched things up. I still cried again another time, and I don’t know how I didn’t wind up with a headache, but I got a massage later that day, and that helped, too.

 

Now? I don’t know where I lie. The suicidality is still present, just softer. The plans not quite…abandoned. I don’t know where I go from here.

 

But maybe that’s all that healing ever is.

 

❤ ❤ ❤

Thank you for your support.

Do You Joke About Suicide? Because I have. Part 3

Inspiration for the making of this post brought to you by….

Check out parts 1 & 2 regarding this series: Mental Health and Suicide are not Jokes Part 2 with a link to part 1 within that post!


*Trigger Warning* Mentions of suicide, suicidal themes, self-harm and jokes in this post. You have been warned.

 

This is no easy post to make and because of that, I am swimming in anxiety about how to craft it appropriately. But, how do you craft something appropriately when inherently the subject matter is inappropriate?

I ask you, reader, in the title, if you joke about suicide.

Because I know for a fact that I do. And that may surprise you, or it may change your opinion about me. I cannot control those factors, what I can control is what comes out of my mouth and my fingertips.

And that is why I joke about suicide.

I wrote last time about how dark humor is a way for us to express the pain we go through in a manner that can be inappropriate yet uniting because it releases the burden of our pain into the air around us with people who also understand.

When I am feeling suicidal, I have a LOT of dark humor:

“See you tomorrow, Raquel!”

“*sly grin* Not if I kill myself before then!” comes my reply.

“This library is so tall.”

“It’d be great to jump off of!”

(to another person asking about meds for a headache) “I’ve got x, y, and z. Which do you want?”

(Me, not that person) “You better lock that shit up…. I was thinking about buying sleeping pills in the bookstore today.”

 

And of course, the classic question about how I’ve managed to stay alive despite my own suicidality:

“Well, I really suck at killing myself. AND another way to look at it is that I’m really good at staying alive.”

 

And maybe that’s just the crux of it all: To think of dialectic thinking from DBT (dialectical behavior therapy), it can be BOTH. Both, I want to die AND I want to live. It doesn’t have to be either/or.

 

Suicide isn’t pretty. That’s an understatement. And in the society of today, around the WORLD, it’s shunned to talk about it.

I don’t like that, no surprise there. I talk openly about my experiences living with OCD and secondary depression, I talk openly about my self-harm and my chronic suicidality. I live with OCD ON self-harm and suicide obsessions, it’s kinda just run of the mill by now.

I’ve been with the OCD, diagnosed, for two years now. I’m still VERY MUCH a novice in my recovery journey.

And I am a PROUD advocate for mental health and suicide prevention.

 

So, why then, would I joke about it?

I mean, I guess the first question is, am I making light of it or making fun of it? Am I making a joke (however inappropriate) or do I have intentions hidden behind my words?

 

In the two years that I’ve been dealing with this form of OCD and then with the depression (which came four months after the OCD) I’ve skittered by with referring to suicide.

“How are you doing?” Someone might have asked me.

“I’m fine…

I’d rather jump off a building…

This class makes me want to kill myself…”

Any of these could have been my response.

 

And the reaction to that?

A nervous chuckle.

 

Only twice, maybe, did I get someone who questioned me further, who gave me a look of concern and asked again if I was okay, who supported me in my time of need.

Sometimes the warning signs of suicide are right in front of our faces.

It felt like I was raising ginormous red flags and waving them in the air for everyone to see, but not many saw the light show.

 

What’s changed is not my thoughts on the subject matter. The thoughts of suicide I have today are the same ones I had two years ago. The only difference now is that I am VERY VERY vocal about them.

If you ask me how I am and I’m feeling bad, I’m going to tell you I feel like shit. It doesn’t quite matter who you are. If you’re a friend, that’s definitely a bonus, but acquaintance? Gets the same response. Haven’t seen you in a while? Same response. Blogging? BIG ASS RESPONSE.

This is why I’ve come to realize I dislike family gatherings now. Because not much of my extended family on either side knows about my mental health conditions and therefore they don’t know about my advocacy and that’s becoming a huge part of me and who I want to be in the future and what I want to achieve in life. I wish I could be open about it but I feel there might be an expectation of my parents to just keep it to myself and not talk about it…mmm, helllllooooo stigma.

That’s a conversation for another time though.

(At this point, the beginning of this post was written back in December 2016. From here on out, a changing perspective is written from April 6th 2017)


It’s been a long time.

It’s been a long time since I began writing this piece and I was reminded of it just the other day. I was with a friend, whom we’ll call Elicia, and we were discussing the topic of mental health and chronic suicidality, when I asked her if she ever jokes about suicide.

Which, as you know, is the entire subject matter of this piece.

When I first began writing this piece, I was very anxious. This is a subject matter that could easily make some people offended or triggered. Yet I find, in my mind at least, that to joke about suicide in such a manner that comes from lived experience and pulling back the curtain on more… “hidden” intentions is reasonable, if not encouraged.

A common misconception about suicide is that people don’t talk about it. And, that’s not necessarily true.

Even someone saying that they’re depressed, “fine” or “okay”, can be posed as a small window of letting someone in. A whisper in the darkness for help. A hope that you’ll ask more, you’ll show interest, that you’ll care…

 

But people can’t read minds. And people cannot help you if you don’t tell them what’s wrong.

 

Suicide is unforgiving to all those it impacts–and it always impacts a LOT of people. I don’t have to know who you are to mourn who you were. I don’t have to know your name to be aware of your deep, inner struggle.

And it’s a terrible, horrible struggle.

To choose to live in each and every moment when the thoughts of suicide rear their heads can be excruciating.

And yet, there are times that exist where the choice isn’t so difficult. For me, in this moment, just typing these words, it’s one. I don’t want to die right now because I have a message left to spread. And I can only spread that message if I’m alive to share it.

Once I’m gone, I’m gone. Same with you–same with everyone. We really don’t need to speed up the clock before our time runs out–death will still be there if we wait another moment, another day, another week, another year.

I don’t want to be remembered as the girl who died by suicide. I don’t want to be forgotten because no one will dare to utter the word: “S-U-I-C-I-D-E”. I don’t want my legacy to be overshadowed by one mere moment out of the billions that I have and could continue to have, because for one second I believed that my brain bullshit was right, and that I was a waste of space, that I was pathetic, that I was a failure, and that I was meant to die by suicide…. Only for that moment to PASS and for me to immediately regret everything I had yet to LIVE for.

Because the feelings pass.

And they return. And pass. And return. And pass.

And it’s those moments of their passing that we can rebuild our greatest strength: The strength to DEFY our minds, to DEFY what they tell us (because brains aren’t always rational anyways) and to LIVE another DAY because one day we’re going to make it BIG. We’re going to CHANGE the world. One story told, one voice from the darkness, one hope held in the lantern of shadows AT A TIME.

Because I choose to inspire others in recovery. I choose to live to make my legacy matter in this world. I choose to live so that I can be a part of a larger change.

And it all starts here.

With this blog. With the thoughts I drift towards, with the creations I choose to make to shape my reality.

So the question is–Do I give in and give up to my thoughts? Thoughts that threaten to consume me and take away my very breath?

Or do I choose a larger purpose? One of Recovery to Wellness, of spreading positivity and kindness, compassion and love, empathy and understanding?

 

The decision is up to me. Will it be easy? Fuck no. Yet it is within our deepest struggles that we show our largest strengths.

 


Will I ever go back to joking about suicide? Likely so.

For now though? It’s too soon to joke about it. It’s too real now. Yet I’ve had a moment before these most recent two weeks where I joined in on joking about suicide with someone who was suicidal. And I joked with them that if they wanted to write a poetry book, to publish one, to make a series of them…that they’d have to be alive in order to do that.

My therapist told me this week, in a very serious session (of which my inappropriate affect didn’t always respond well towards), that it wasn’t funny to joke about suicide anymore. That things had turned too serious and I had to be told the gravity, the REALITY, of the situation:

“You could have all the doctors in the world try to save you, and it still could be too late for you.”

“Death comes for all of us at one point or another. Dying is easy, but choosing to live and to make the most out of our lives, that takes courage. Allowing your thoughts to consume you and snuff out your light? That’s a true tragedy. You’ve got so many people who care about you, how do you think your dying will affect them?”

“All of that action towards suicide and yet you still regretted it.”

“You don’t have to prove to anyone that you can kill yourself. Prove to yourself that you can live.”

“What if it had been too late?…It would have really sucked for him to have had to watch you die.”

These are paraphrases, of course. But their message still rings true. I have to deeply consider what it is that I have yet to live for, why it may be that my brain works so heavily against me and what it is that I’m going to do today, every day, to keep myself in recovery and in helping myself.

Because otherwise, I’ll wind up as another suicide statistic. Or, someone who is deeply injured and damaged because of one moment that I thought I couldn’t live through, even if I’m lived through them before.

 

It’s been about an hour and a half since I began adding to this piece, and it’s time now for me to move on and publish it. I don’t imagine this is the end. If there are problems with my words or the interpretation of them, I shall address them in a part 4. I can see this piece having even a part 5.

Thank you for existing. For reading, for being here. ❤ ❤ ❤

 

I have an idea on how you can help me in my recovery (and your own) that I will be announcing soon 🙂

 

Sending you all strength, hope and love.

 

Update

Brief update with Raquel, here.

I got out of the hospital again on Monday and am heading back to school again tomorrow, as my first day back in essentially two weeks (since I’ll actually go to classes this time).

You may have seen some aesthetic changes to my blog–that’s because I needed something different for a while as we move forward back towards the direction of what this blog was made for. 🙂

I still have to pack up my stuff for classes tomorrow so I’ll be getting involved in that soon. Ooof, I’m super tired.

Any who, that’s about it for right now. I figured I could update even just a smidge so you guys aren’t totally in the dark. 🙂

 

Look forward to writing up new articles and sharing artwork with you guys, as well as going back to do gift art for peeps! So if you’re interested in the latter, send me an email at my NEW email:

 

recoverytowellness@hotmail.com

 

😀

Thanks everyone! ❤ ❤ ❤ xxxx

Say the Word Suicide: The Mistake | Article

As someone with OCD on self-harm and suicide obsessions, I never thought I would ever try to kill myself. I never thought I’d be someone with a self-harm history. I never thought I’d be the person who made a suicide plan, who showed warning signs and who would act on the thoughts. I wish I so much that I could be someone who had the thoughts and left them there. But now in my life, it’s hard to picture my future without, at some point, acting on the suicidal and self-harm thoughts again.

 

I keep holding onto this false belief that I will someday die by suicide. That such an ending would be fitting for me–that it is my “fate” and “destiny”. I keep holding on to the concept of self-harm and suicide as a means of coping with this moment’s stress. As if it is all better once I’m dead and can no longer experience anything in life again.

 

Because that’s what suicide ends; it ends the possibility of life ever changing, improving and getting better.

 

And it DOES get better.

 

I hold onto the concept of suicide like it’s a life raft–but in reality it’s an anchor. And it’s going to keep dragging me down and drowning me if I let it.

 

Yet I don’t know how to let go of it, or if I’m ready to let go–or if I can at all.

 

I’m scared. I’m scared because I’m playing with fire and one of these days I’m going to get burned. And at worst the damage will be so bad that I don’t live another day. And at worst worst I get burned and have to live with the disfigurement for the rest of my life.

 

People die by suicide. Every day a family, a friend, an acquaintance, a stranger is impacted because of someone’s burden becoming too heavy to bear alone.

 

Well, I’m still here to remind you that you are NOT alone. I’m still here to remind you that there is hope and help out there for you to reach out to. To remind you that suicide is everyone’s business and we carry more power than we realize to make a change in each other’s lives.

 

I’m still alive to say that my actions and inactions were a mistake. I regret the moment I held my tongue. I regret the moment I wrote my second suicide note. I regret the decision I made to be alone. I regret accessing my method, holding onto it and then using it.

 

Because nausea, hallucinations, slurred speech and not being able to walk straight isn’t as “fun” as my brain said it would be. Because scaring people, worrying them and disappointing them isn’t what my brain told me would happen–and it IS what happens. Because I broke people’s trust in me and now we’re all picking up the pieces to make me whole again.

 

I regret requiring and acquiring help in the manner of which I did. Because being picked up by ambulance from the Counseling Center again shouldn’t have had to happen. Because entering my seventh psychiatric hospitalization didn’t have to happen. Because receiving two bags of intravenous fluids on a hospital bed is my newest low point.

 

Because I foresaw where I was headed and I could have stopped myself before circumstances fell into place the way that they did.

 

But I chose not to.

 

Because I wanted to avoid life’s stress–which in retrospect is such a stupid reason to die. Because I couldn’t see a way out through the mounting deadlines that I opted for the ultimate ending. Because I had something to prove to myself–and one day that BS is going to kill me unless I move on from it.

 

The moment I came into the psychiatric hospital–I wanted to get back out to face my problems. My work on getting better starts on the outside.

 

So this is my new beginning again. I looked forward to returning to the outside world: where bathrooms aren’t opened by staff, codes aren’t called incessantly, I can watercolor and listen to music.

 

Despite my regrets, the intrusive thoughts have returned to the realm of my mind. I hope I’ve built up enough strength to let them go this time.

 

Otherwise, I don’t know where I’ll end up. And if it’s not writing articles and fulfilling my dreams–than it was a final mistake I won’t ever come back from.

 

 

If you’re struggling with suicidal ideation, reach out and talk to someone. Call a hotline; 1800 273 TALK. Or stop by the Counseling Center on emergency. If the crisis is immediate and life-threatening, dial 911.

 

Stay safe.


*Article written 3.22 and 3.23.2017

*Life update

*No bullshit in this piece, just real hard realizations and setting them out on the table. Haven’t been this vulnerable in a piece in a long time.

Thanks for reading. ❤ ❤ ❤

The Perspective Crisis Part I | Article

“Can suicide really be a choice if it’s the only choice available? How expanded or contracted our perception becomes, impacts the choices that we make.”

 

The quote above is from Mark Henick’s TEDx Toronto talk titled “Why we choose suicide.” He explains that perception is a constricting and expanding view by which we see the world through our biological, psychological and societal factors.

 

He poses his startling question towards the end of his talk, but it was so poignant and my writer’s block so thick, that I decided to start with it. He continues to pose a scenario for the viewer: “Imagine you stayed there, stuck in that narrow, dark place. My perception had become constricted, darkened and collapsed. I felt like an asthmatic that had lost his glasses in a hurricane.”

 

Mark goes on to explain his brushes with suicidal actions and his struggle with depression in his own life, and how important it is that we all start having the conversation about mental health conditions and suicide. He believes, as well as I, that these conversations are too important to not be spoken about, whether or not we are “ready” or “comfortable” talking about them–they need to be brought into the light and out of the shadows.

 

So, with that, I would like to discuss perspective–because it matters and it is important.

 

Google defines perspective as a “point of view or a particular way of regarding something.” To me, in my life, perspective is the ability to see beyond a current moment. Before my mental health conditions made my perspective constricted, I would be able to see ahead in my life, years ahead and have goals and dreams that I wanted to accomplish.

 

When the depression hit me that skill of perspective dissipated. At its worst, I recall not being able to answer what I wanted to do or planned to do that given day, a week, a month, a year later. I didn’t have perspective: the future was a blank slate and the past didn’t exist either. It was like being shrouded in a blanket of nothingness.

 

Even now, two years later from when that slip of perspective occurred, I do not operate with a larger sense of perspective. Nowadays I am able to have my natural explanation of what I want to do over the summer, into next semester, after college, onto graduate school. The depth of those intricacies is for another article, however. But I have the ability to perceive a year’s worth of time. I have vague ideas of other dreams like writing books or making projects come to life that I want to get done during my life, yet they aren’t clearly defined or detailed yet.

 

Now, if you asked me what I’d be doing five years from now? Ten years?

 

I still cannot comprehend that amount of time. For instance, I’m trying to convince my family for us to get another dog. My previous dog, which we had for twelve years, passed away in the summer of 2015 and while I’ve had two hamsters in the last year (one that’s still alive now); they’re not quite the same as a dog. Granted, I’m glad to have any kind of living creature in the household, but I have a special love and admiration for a dog.

 

So when my family argues that a dog is a lifelong commitment–I don’t see it. I am distinctly aware of working with the present moment, the next day, a week, a month and a solid year. Beyond that, I cannot yet think of it as a lifelong commitment. They just do not exist for me. There is nothing there for me to look towards.

 

Part of this, I believe, is because there is a deluded part of myself that believes in the message of the mental health conditions I live with that I am destined one day to die by suicide. There are many faults and flaws with that logic, but I digress.

 

And again, this works both ways–for the past and the future. If you asked me on a day in which I had a constricted perspective about my childhood, I wouldn’t be able to put myself in that reflective mind state to answer your question.

 

I’ll admit this self-reflection makes me feel as though I ought to be more alarmed than I am. Regardless, I believe there is more to be said about perspective than can be articulated in just one article. So I hope that you will pick up the next issue when I discuss more about this idea of perspective and branch into what future plans I do have for myself as well as coping strategies.


*From now until August 2017 I will no longer be including my full name in the publishing of these articles on my blog, as my new job may threaten my safety if the people I work with/for can find me, my things or personal details about myself. So, be expecting my about me section to change soon too, as I want to re-write it.

**This piece is old. Written February 22nd and 24th 2017.

***I have a new article ready and up for you guys soon.

 

Also, sorry for my absence. My new article will explain the last week, at least.

 

Stay safe, peeps. ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤