addiction recovery

How wild is it that I carried you under my skin, heartbeat synced to heartbeat, and now I can’t even string the right words together to reach you? I built you cell by cell, bone and breath, and here we are strangers in the same bloodline.

The cruelest ache isn’t anger. It’s loving someone so hard it rattles your ribs, while biting it back because you’re terrified you’ll get it wrong, terrify them, push them further. Loving from the sidelines like some ghost parent. Screaming silently: I love you. Please hear it. Please believe me.

And somehow that love louder than any storm, still feels locked in my chest.

I get it. You weren’t raised by me. You didn’t grow up experiencing my bipolar morning rituals and phases of “I need coffee first” and the “I’m not a coffee drinker”, you don’t know that I just have a natural “resting bitch face” or that sarcasm is how I cope, you’ve never got to see just how bubbly I really can be. How is it that not even one percent of you seems to carry any of my traits? None of my quirks, my stubborn grin, my quick-fire humor. Just an empty mirror when I look at you, hunting for myself.

I’ll never tell you this, but I am terrified of you. I walk on eggshells around my own child, trying not to say the thing that lights the fuse. Most days I pull back, skip the texts, dodge the moment, because I don’t want to step up and “parent” you and risk the explosion. Even asking you to pick up after yourself feels like lighting a match in a dry field.

It’s shameful to admit I avoid my own kid because of fear. The silence between us is heavy, like there’s a glass wall I can’t break without cutting both of us to ribbons. I don’t know if this is what redemption is supposed to feel like. Watching you drift farther while my chest caves in with love I can’t safely hand you.

I pray so hard that the anger and hurt you carry loosens its grip on you. Even for just a breath, a heartbeat. The anger you carry is louder, heavier, more expressive than anything I’ve ever known, and it scares me. I look at you and see a spark in your eyes that tells me, without hesitation, you could hurt me. That some part of you even wants to. I never dreamed the person I’d fear most in my life would be a human I once carried inside of me.

I keep wondering if you’ll ever see how much I’ve fought for sobriety, for stability, for a life I can hand you with open palms. I wonder if the years I wasn’t there carved out a canyon too deep to cross.

All I know is that I still love you messy, terrified, clumsy love that refuses to die, even when I’m too scared to reach for your hand.

Being a mom is already a full-time, no-days-off, ride-or-die commitment. But being a mom with bipolar disorder—who’s clawed her way out of addiction and still wrestles with manic episodes? That’s another level. That’s a battlefield most people never see. And if I’m being honest, most people don’t want to.

There are so many misconceptions floating around—about addiction, mental illness, and motherhood. People want to box me in: either I’m an “inspiration” or a “hot mess.” Nobody talks about what it really feels like to live in this body, raise kids with this brain, carry this past, and still get up every damn day and show the hell up.

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This Isn’t a Diagnosis. This Is My Life.

Let me be clear: bipolar disorder is not just mood swings or a bad day. It’s not “Oh, she’s just being dramatic.” Nah. It’s racing thoughts that won’t shut up. It’s impulsivity that makes your heart race. It’s full-blown mania that convinces you that you don’t need sleep, food, or anyone’s advice—including your own damn intuition.

And when you’re a mom in the middle of that storm? You don’t get to opt out. You still pack lunches. You still read bedtime stories with a voice that shakes. You still smile while your brain’s on fire.

Now layer that with addiction. Years of it. The kind that costs everything—relationships, dignity, custody, self-worth. I didn’t start using to be reckless. I used because I was trying to survive a life that already felt impossible. I was trying to quiet what I didn’t have the language to explain.

But I got clean. Not once. Not easily. But for real. And I’ve stayed clean. Through temptation. Through trauma. Through the kind of stress that makes relapse feel like a warm, familiar hug. Still, I don’t pick up. Not because I’m superhuman, but because I’ve got kids who look at me like I’m their whole damn world—and I refuse to disappear on them.

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What People Don’t See (But Should)

There are moments of joy in this chaos—real, steady joy. When my daughter climbs into my lap, safe. When my son belly laughs in the other room. When I realize I’m building a life I used to dream of, sober.

But those aren’t the only moments. There are also moments of complete exhaustion. Of overwhelm. Of shame. Of silence so loud it roars.

I wish people understood that living with bipolar disorder while parenting through trauma and addiction recovery isn’t a story of failure or strength—it’s both. It’s not a clean-cut success story. It’s a jagged, bloodstained, still-writing-the-ending kind of truth.

You don’t get to call me “strong” unless you understand what that strength cost. Unless you’ve seen me cry behind a closed bathroom door just to make it through the day.

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What I’ve Learned the Hard Way

✦ Self-care isn’t a luxury. It’s how I stay alive.

Not the cute, influencer kind of self-care either. I’m talking real-deal survival: sleep, therapy, boundaries, saying no even when it pisses people off, canceling plans when I feel like I might unravel.

✦ Vulnerability is my superpower.

I used to pretend I was okay, even when I was falling apart. Now? I’m done with that. I speak my truth—even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts. Because pretending doesn’t help anyone. Honesty connects us. It reminds people they’re not the only ones drowning.

✦ Healing isn’t linear.

There are days I win. Days I just make it through. And days I barely survive. All of those are valid. All of those count. Progress is messy. So is motherhood. So is recovery.

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To Anyone Walking a Similar Road:

Be kind to yourself. Stop comparing your pain to someone else’s highlight reel. Stop pretending you’re fine when you’re not.

You don’t have to be “strong” every day. You just have to keep going.

There will be backslides. There will be dark days. But there will also be light—real, warm light that breaks through when you least expect it. And when that light shows up? You’ll realize you are the one who created it.

You are not alone. You are not broken. You are becoming.

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The Realest Truth I Know

Being a bipolar mom in recovery isn’t some motivational tagline. It’s a complicated, exhausting, beautiful, infuriating, joyful, terrifying journey. But it’s mine. And I’ve earned every scar.

So next time someone says, “Wow, I don’t know how you do it…”
I’ll smile, and think:
“Neither do I. But I do. And that’s enough.”

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Want to support someone like me?
Educate yourself. Ask real questions. Show up. Offer help without judgment. Don’t assume the worst—or the best. Just be there. And if you’ve lived this life too? I see you. You are not invisible. You are not alone.

We’re still here. Still fighting. Still mothering. And that? That’s power.

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🖤 Kavi

So tonight, I finally made the decision to walk away from someone I once considered a close friend. They basically started an argument over my so-called “anxious communication style”—which honestly isn’t even an issue for me anymore—while acting like I had no right to call out the toxic things they’ve done. This is someone who has literally stolen my medication, crossed countless boundaries, and made everything about what I could give them—whether it was money, time, or emotional support—without giving anything real back.

For years, I kept trying to have adult conversations, to make things work, but it was always one-sided. Meanwhile, they’re out here doing drugs while working in a mental health facility, and I just kept letting it slide. But I’ve realized that if I want to grow, to heal, and to build a better life, I need to surround myself with people who respect me and bring out the best in me. So I let the friendship go they started to use my mental health challenges against me, and I was like I’m not gonna tolerate that this time and it felt good. #MentalHealth #Addiction #ADHD #AddictionRecovery #Neurodiversity #Addiction #Autism #Depression #ADHDInGirls #MightyTogether

A long time ago, I reached a turning point in my mental health journey. It wasn’t easy, but it was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done: I stopped letting other people’s opinions, judgments, or unsolicited advice define who I am or how I heal. Living with mental health challenges, ADHD, or being neurodivergent already comes with enough struggles—I realized I didn’t need to carry the added weight of voices that didn’t understand my path.

I made a choice to take back my story and refuse to let the stigma around mental health shape my identity or dictate what healing “should” look like. I’ve learned to set boundaries with people who make me feel small, misunderstood, or pressured to “move on” before I’m ready. I’ve come to recognize the difference between advice that uplifts me—things like “I’m here for you,” “Take your time,” or “I’m listening”—and advice that leaves me feeling dismissed, rushed, or unheard.

Every day, I remind myself: this is my journey, my pace, my life. No one else gets to rewrite that for me

#MentalHealth #Addiction #ADHD #AddictionRecovery #Neurodiversity #MightyTogether #Addiction #Autism #Depression #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety
Why Getting Support is Half The Battle

I didn't choose to heal; it chose me.

I remember the moment I cut the cord from my parents, and it was scary and liberating. Not knowing how they would initially react, I was pleasantly surprised and heartbroken at their lack of outreach and misunderstanding. It's like they were waiting for this moment to happen. The longer I went without speaking to them, I began to realize the cold, hard truth that they didn't care at all.

Free from their grip, I began to spiral down a dark hole inside my mind of forgotten memories. I've lost count of how many times I've wanted to give up on that darkness. How many times I've told myself it's too hard, too painful, too much. But somehow I'm still here. Still trying to fulfill my purpose in this life.

I come from a lineage of people who survived by numbing, by silencing, by pretending nothing happened. So I came to this world to break all cycles, the ultimate generational curse breaker. It's literally in my birth chart. I felt a strong purpose since I was seven years old. I'm a firm believer that we choose our parents and the hardships we endure. I will clarify that we didn't sign up for exactly what happened; free will is truly a scary concept. I'm here to break the cycles of abuse, neglect, trauma, addiction, honestly, all of it.

All of the abuse I've been through, the neglect, the sexual abuse, emotional and verbal abuse has affected me in various ways. I'm emotionally intelligent, but my emotions explode because I was never taught how to regulate. I'm learning now. I stopped giving my body to random men well over ten years ago. Always searching for something that wasn't there or trying to fill the void of pain and loneliness. Teaching myself to be kind, not just to myself, but to others as well. Creating strong, healthy boundaries, learning to say no. The most challenging of them all: addiction.

I didn't start smoking cigarettes until the day after my 18th birthday, being peer pressured into it. I continued to smoke cigarettes until I was 31 years old and quit cold turkey. I started drinking the summer after high school, under peer pressure, to fit in with my friends, and I found an outlet. A way to cope with things that I didn't remember. I felt lost but found. There was smoking of cannabis during this time. I preferred smoking over drinking, but this was before it was legal in my state to purchase cannabis. I drank heavily for the next 8 years, always searching for someone to connect with on a physical level, but nothing beyond that. When I said the healing journey chose me, this is what I mean; in September 2015, I was at a wedding with some friends, and I had been drinking. Later in the evening, I got a migraine. My first ever, and that was the turning point in my life.

It was a glamorous journey. I struggled to be sober. I struggled with staying home on the weekends, not being able to be at the bar with friends. Who were not friends, just people that happened to be drinking at the same watering hole. It honestly wasn't until after the New Year that I started to make real changes. I saw a doctor, I went on depression meds, and started practicing Yoga once per week. I spent the next few years physcially detoxing from all the crap I put in my body. I changed my diet, tried to sleep more, exercise, etc. I felt like I was walking up an icy mountain, not really making any progress but still trying. Mainly because I was still living with my parents at this time. Still under their abusive manipulation. I had no idea what I had just started.

I did quit drinking. My mom was an alcoholic, so that's an easy no for me. She killed herself three years ago. That's another story, for another time. I did, however, utilize the fact that at the beginning of 2020, marijuana became legal in my state. It was a godsend. Marijuana helped me cope and process over the next 5 years, and now here I am present moment, writing this out and struggling to let go of my edibles. My body is rejecting them, just like my body was rejecting alcohol. I crave the numbness, the release, but my heart says no. It's an internal battle that I keep to myself, wishing to be sober, but the bridge to get there is burning, itchy cravings that are the hardest part to get through.

I'm at the end of my numbing journey. I now know that I don't need it anymore. It's the in-between the old and the new, learning to cope with new techniques. I now choose healing not because it's easy, but because I'm tired of pain being the only legacy I carry forward. I refuse to be like either of my parents. I won't let my story end the same way. I also know deep in my soul that I am meant to help bring great change. It may feel like to end is all around, but I have hope that this is the downfall that we all need. Whether that's on your own personal journey or in the current state of our world. The old must be exposed before the new can be accepted.

Even if you're the first in your family to choose healing, even if no one claps for you, your choice matters. You matter. And you're not alone.

#MentalHealth #change #CPTSD #healingjourney #soberiety #choices #TraumaRecovery #AddictionRecovery

Anyone know any free hotlines or text lines for mental health or addiction support? I’m not in a crisis but just looking for some advice / guidance. #MentalHealth #AddictionRecovery #Hotline