The Day I Chose Recovery
The word recovery is used widely among the mental health community. The word and its meaning have become my life, in a good way. Recovery is now my life’s mission. It was likely the hardest decision I ever made, but without a doubt, the best decision I could have ever made for myself. Before I made the decision to enter into recovery, I pictured it as this beautiful concept, mindset, and recreation of your life. I wish someone would have told me that it was basically the complete opposite. I had this unrealistic expectation of what it was supposed to be. When I decided it’s what I wanted for my life, I was let down. I thought it was going to be this easy process where I was going to be more serious about taking my meds and taking my counseling sessions seriously. Call me crazy, but I thought that after a few months, I would wake up with the sunlight streaming in, it would be the most beautiful day outside that I had ever seen, and my mindset would have done a complete 180. From then on out, there’d be no turning back; recovery’s done; now my life can finally begin. It has now been nearly 5 years since the day I chose recovery, and here I am still fighting with all my strength to make it through it alive.
The day I chose recovery was the day I sat in the emergency room as a result of an attempt at my own life.
I remember most of the day very vividly. It was June 4, 2012 and day number one of finals. I was a junior in high school, sitting in my third period class of the day. The school counselor would pull me out of class three days a week for our sessions. That day was the session she decided that I was a threat to my own life. My dad came to pick me up to haul me in to be evaluated. Someone eventually contacted my mother, step-mother, and my step-sister. The cuts on my arm had been bandaged and unbandaged three times during that day because different people were coming in to evaluate them. I remember being confused as to why they couldn’t just leave them uncovered until everyone was finished, because all it was doing was hurting me more and more each time. I knew someone from the laboratory was coming into take my blood, 7 vials to be exact. The man who entered looked to be less than 10 years older than me, and he had the kindest eyes. My cuts were not bandaged at the time, and I will never forget the look on his face as he looked down at them. I didn’t say a word to him during the duration of him being in my room. All I remember are his words, “You are so young, and you have so much life ahead of you that I promise you are going to enjoy. But you have to keep fighting in order to see it. Please don’t do this to yourself, because you are much more precious to the people in your life than you think you are. This world wouldn’t be the same without you.” With that, I looked up at him with tears in my eyes, he gave a sympathetic smile, and he was gone.
Up next was the doctor. All he was there for was to explain that there was going to be a social worker from the department of behavioral health coming in to evaluate me. I would answer her questions, and if she felt it fit and necessary, I would be put under 51/50 (code word around the mental health community/mental health care facilities for an involuntary psychiatric hold) and sent to a psychiatric hospital. When she arrived, she asked her questions, wrote a few things down, looked up at me, and said, “I do not believe you are a threat to your own life, and quite frankly, I’m not sure how truthful your answers really are. I do not see any reason why we should take any further precautions for you. I will speak with the doctor and you should be discharged within the hour.” I don’t remember much after that, other than me screaming and crying, my step-sister coming in and upset that I was upset, and questioning why the woman did not want to help me. All I wanted was for someone to help me.
At some point, I walked out into the waiting room. My family was standing in a half circle, some with tears in their eyes; others with pale faces and devastation written all over them.
This was what I had done. I had hurt them. They were hurting for me. I couldn’t even imagine what they were going through or what they were thinking. Even worse, what was I thinking? I just wound myself up in the emergency room because of all of my stupid decisions based off my illnesses that I was allowing to rule my life. I stood there staring at them, and in that moment, I chose recovery. I chose recovery for myself, first and foremost. I am the reason I chose recovery. But my family will always be a contributing factor. I couldn’t continue to put any of us through this.
As we walked out of the double doors, I stood there listening. I don’t remember who was talking. I just remember one of them talking about how I should not be left alone for the next few days, and any sharp objects should not be in my procession, nor should I have access to them. I remember something needed to be done about my finals. I was told I would not be going back to school for the last few days. I don’t remember if I ever ended up taking my finals or not. But I do remember sitting down with administration and my parents so they could come up with a plan. I don’t remember what it consisted of. I don’t remember much of that day once I was discharged. I was in too much pain emotionally, and my cuts hurt from so many different people handling and evaluating them. I did not attend the graduation ceremony in the following days because at that point, word had gotten around school and everyone knew why I was in the emergency room. I had a select few friends/acquaintances that would be walking down the aisle as they finished off their high school career, but I couldn’t make myself go. I was ashamed, and did not want to face anyone. I didn’t have very many close friends at that time, so I didn’t receive any phone calls or messages. I still to this day cannot figure out if I’m thankful for that or not. It would have been extremely overwhelming to receive so many messages from so many people, but it also would have been nice to have someone there to talk to that cared.
The rest of the summer is a blur. I try to think back on what it was like, and nothing comes to mind. I do know that I made it out alive. I was still cutting; as an addict, I found a way, regardless of what was taken from me in order to prevent it from happening. But I was being smarter about it, and I was trying so hard to stop. I wanted more than anything to get well, to be well, and to be okay again. I was keeping track of my days without cutting. People have always voiced that they thought it was strange. I felt that it was no different than an alcoholic or a drug addict keeping track of their days of sobriety. Sometimes I wouldn’t make it one day without relapse, other times I would make it a few weeks. I knew I was fighting harder than I ever had, because I didn’t want to end up back in that same position again.
My emergency room visit changed my life. I knew that I did not want to end up in a psychiatric hospital for a lot of reasons. You begin seeing a different doctor, and they typically have authorization to make changes to your medications. I had been on the same medications for a few years at that point, and I had never liked the idea of having to try a new one. I’ve read articles and stories from other patients who have had extended stays, and some felt like they were in a prison. Some patients in psychiatric hospitals suffer from severe psychosis and may believe they’re in some kind of external or alternate universe. Others are like me, who may be a little bit more in touch with reality, but our life is still in just as much danger. I didn’t realize the latter until a year or two after my close encounter of being put under a 51/50, so I didn’t really feel like I would have belonged in one. I knew my parent’s insurance probably didn’t cover it, and I didn’t want to put the stress on them of trying to pay for my treatment. Psychiatric hospitals are not a bad place, some have saved many lives. I however, do not ever want to get to the point of the possibility of being admitted ever again.
Recovery has been absolutely painful, messy, and dreadful. Self-destructive behaviors are intimate. Mental illness is all-consuming. I became so close and devoted to my illnesses and addictions that the thought of leaving them behind me, was enough to keep me from entering recovery itself. If I entered recovery, I would be completely eliminating the part of me that trained myself to endure it all in the first place. Mental illness is comfortable. The darkness is comfortable. Why would I want to leave something behind that has always comforted me? It was all so familiar to me. I don’t mind the unfamiliar when it comes to exploring the world or a culture. That’s unfamiliar, but it doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. That’s about the only time I’m okay with the unfamiliar. Leaving behind what I have always known and stepping into the unfamiliar is what makes me feel uncomfortable. Just the thought of it all was absolutely terrifying.
Mental illness is basically all I’ve ever known. I was young when it found its place in my life. Who I have become as a person, is because of my mental illness. I am slowly trying to learn that it is not a part of my identity, but that seems so impossible because it’s such a huge part of me. Some of my most dominant personality traits have evolved from the fact that I have my illnesses. Making the choice to enter recovery was almost like I would be leaving my entire self behind; I would be leaving my personality behind and completely starting over. But that’s just it; recovery isn’t about starting over completely. It’s about evolving and coming back to reality. The reality is that I can continue to evolve. Who I was before my illnesses doesn’t exist much anymore. Who I was when my illnesses first found their place in my life, doesn’t exist much anymore. Who I was when I sat on that hospital bed doesn’t exist much anymore. It's all due to the fact that I'm constantly evolving and improving. Recovery has been about becoming something more, not something new.
The butterfly has been a widely used symbol for mental health recovery. It’s a beautiful concept. Caterpillars have an instinct that eventually tells them that if they don’t change, they will eventually die. So they stop what they’re doing, and create their cocoon to begin their transformation. They sit in that cocoon for as long as it takes for them to complete metamorphosis and emerge as a butterfly. Most people would argue that recovery is about becoming something new, because a caterpillar’s DNA changes completely, therefore becoming something new. But I don’t want to become something new. I like me just the way that I am, on my good days. I wouldn’t want to change that. I would, however, like to improve. There is always room for improvement. A butterfly is an improvement of a caterpillar, DNA changed or not.
The choice of recovery is, by far, the bravest decision anyone with mental illness or addiction can, and will, ever make. It is the hardest thing I have ever endured. My recovery itself is ugly and awful. It’s lying in bed and having a panic attack for no reason at 2am. It’s crying so hard you’re convulsing and screaming at the top of your lungs because everything inside of you hurts more than you can put into words. It’s calling into work because depression and PTSD have just been too much since the moment you woke up that day. It’s having to admit to your best friends that you’re not okay, but that you don’t even know why. It’s medication changes, visits to your psychiatrist, therapy sessions that rip your heart out. It’s facing old traumas that you never wanted to revisit or think about ever again. It’s dragging yourself out of bed even on the days that you don’t want to only because you know that you can’t let your illnesses win. It’s relapsing into your eating disorder one day, but waking up ready to fight the urges the next. It’s wanting to pick up your object to relapse because your scars are fading and you don’t want them to, but instead collapsing in the shower and crying silently because you just can't bring yourself to throw nearly four years clean down the drain. It’s fighting with every single ounce of your being. It’s using strength that you had no idea you had in you. It’s choosing your well-being first. It’s ridding your life of toxic friendships and relationships. It’s hurting people because they believe your decisions are selfish. But the concept of recovery is absolutely beautiful. I am slowly becoming something more, and that’s a beautiful thing. I wake up every morning ready to fight. I wake up every morning ready to take on the fight and fall asleep knowing I defeated another day. This is war. This is a war I will continue to fight for as long as it takes. I like to think that someday, I’ll conquer recovery, and my life will finally be a little bit brighter. If that day never comes, then I will continue to fight until the day that I die. Mental illness and my addictions will not win. There have been many times they have come close, but by the grace of God, I am stronger than they are. In the wise words of Ben Rector, “Her heart is broken, but she can’t go back.” Life has broken my heart, but I cannot go back. I cannot go back to my old ways.
I will not go back.
Game’s over, mental illness. You lose; I win.
If you or someone you know needs support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, or text START to 741-741
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