883 Days
I was in therapy for fifteen weeks, called the crisis line six times, and made one attempt to stop the pain. But these numbers are not the ones that define my experience.
Topic: trauma
I was in therapy for fifteen weeks, called the crisis line six times, and made one attempt to stop the pain. But these numbers are not the ones that define my experience.
Your brain has learned to equate yelling with violence, and your body has been trained to put up all defenses at the slightest sign of a raised voice, especially if that raised voice is paired with physical movement or close proximity.
Trauma is a fabric interwoven into your skin, something that stays long after you believe it to be gone.
I refuse to allow the same toxic cycle of verbal and emotional abuse to continue with the potential to last for generations.
This trauma will be long-lasting. Our mental health will forever be colored by the impact of this pandemic.
When I learned about Saint Dymphna, the patron saint of those who suffer from nervous, emotional, and mental disorders, the anxious and the depressed, I embraced her as a sort of personal guardian.
Hope won’t be easy, and it doesn’t have to be. It only has to be worth it.
We can’t control how or when grief comes, but we can control how we choose to respond.
It’s discouraging, being almost better but not quite there.
I’m trying to create a new reality—one where happiness exists, one where I can erase the false narratives and write stories that are true.
I learned how to call the hotline on my own. I learned how to Google the names fallen and the sites to go to for help and the cues to look for by myself.
Losing my leg led to a slow and painful downward spiral toward rock bottom, and it has taken years to climb my way out.
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