By: Kaleigh Peery
What does recovery mean? Well
the dictionary says it’s a return to a normal state of health, mind, or
strength and/or the action or process of regaining possession or control of
something stolen or lost.
When it comes to mental illness, “recovery“
to me means to be able to not run from the chaos of your own mind but to
embrace and accept it. There are some who of us who are not just addicts to
drugs and alcohol but addicted to the worse thing of all: their own minds.
Nothing compares to a battle with your own mind. For as long as I can remember,
I did everything I could to hide the inner battle stirring around inside me.
Yet, through all years of madness I could never justify labeling myself as an
addict even though I did spend years self-medicating and trying to numb the
chaos in my mind.
December of 2015, I finally broke
down and realized I needed some serious help. Every part of me was
shattering into a million pieces like broken glass and I was feeling as if any
one who could help me pick up the pieces would be afraid to get cut on shards
of glass that were chaotically placed around me. I sunk deeper into my
addiction to my mind. The anxiety I had was unbearable. I was fearful of any
emotional connections. I honestly was at the point where all I wanted to
do was completely just give up. The burden of illness felt too much to
bear. I thought I was never going to be able to function appropriately in
society. My self-loathing got worse and worse and of course then follows the
guilt and isolation. No one could understand how I could be this way. To good
family, good friends, from the outside looking in, I should be happy as can be,
right? Everyone loves me, just be happy.
Well, I wasn’t. I was overly
exhausted from faking it my whole life. I had coped with my invisible
illness alone for so long I created a world of puking out the pain or
grinding my teeth until my jaw would lock up. I was sick and tired of trying to
find pills, just so I could go outside and spend time with family and friends
and not dread every moment of it or fear that I would have a panic attack, sick
and tired of looking for ADD meds so I could just function to clean and maybe
not lose everything I touch (which was ongoing problem that messed with my life
way more than it should). The hustle of it all only contributed to even more to
triggering my PTSD or my generalized anxiety disorder. For me the saddest part
is no one even knew what was going on with me because I took pride in my
resilience and always just kept keeping on, convincing myself that this
darkness will fade if just can focus on the light. It is what I had always
done after all. I had always made it out of the chaos in my head alone so
this time shouldn’t be any different. Hiding my illness for so long, I became
the master at faking a smile and crying in the shower.
This time though, I was spiraling
down deep into the abyss of the darkness part of my illness and with a
little help from a narcissistic man who enjoyed playing with my already fragile
mind, I lost it. I let him manipulate me into thinking that I would feel better
if I just let him put a needle full of drugs into my body, knowing I am
terrified of needles. He insisted and the darkness in me submitted regretfully.
After that night of drug use, I realized I had hit rock bottom. It was time to
put my ego aside and tell me my family I was not doing well.
After the shock of telling my
family, I checked myself into a crisis unit. For the first time in my life, I did
what was needed to be done for my own mental health and left everyone’s opinions
at the door. I needed help. I needed control over the increasing amount of
panic attacks a day, along with the self-medication because if I didn’t I would
most likely end up dead. I was losing the ability to even care about life
because I wasn’t living a life worth living.
After spending 18 days with
some amazing staff and doctors, I could feel happiness and hope again.
I wrote this about four months after
I left crisis unit. At that point I was just happy to be able to go the
grocery store, socialize and enjoy the little things again. I was not only
functioning though. I thought I was excelling. I felt and—still feel—extremely
blessed. For the first time in forever I began to write, paint and had even got
myself a role and once again could be under the bright lights of the theatre
stage. While the rest of my time than was spent volunteering with NAMI and
trying to openly talk about my illness in the hopes of helping someone else.
Now, eight months later, talk about
full circle. I teach “living successfully with a mental illness” on the crisis
unit where I once was resident along with the honor of becoming an In Our Own
Voice presenter for NAMI. Also, I am interning to get my crisis recovery specialist
certification at the unit. While there, I was blessed with the job opportunity
to become a residential specialist before my internship was up.
I can help spread the word and
breathe hope back into others who are in the same shoes I was once. It a
magical feeling to say the least.
It was little less than a year ago
when I thought my life was over and pointless. Now I’m nothing but excited
about the future and what it has in store for me. The possibilities are endless
when you finally have hope and confidence in yourself
I learned to own the chaos inside me
and because of that, I am now tapping into the great potential and edge my
mental health condition has gifted upon me
My goal in
life is to remove the stigma and to use my voice so that no one ever feels as
alone as I once did.
