recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
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
I went to a meeting.
I went to a meeting. As you sit in a group and must explain the reason why you are there. “Hi… I’m Danyale… I’m a recovering addict. I’m here today because if I am not, I am tempted. Being here helps me stay sober and contain peace within.
By Danyale Lawrece5 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
Standing as a Warrior
Recently, I was part of a book club through my tribe where we shared the story of Native authors. I read for a living so reading for pleasure is a treat. When one snuggles into a good book, most of the time, the reader is looking for escape. To loft off to another world is what I like to do. Reality is often escaped and off to a mental journey I like to go. As I snuggled into my reading spot with a hot cup of coffee, I was ready to escape my reality.
By Sheila L. Chingwa5 years ago in Psyche
