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He Promised Me a Conversation First

“Some promises hurt more when they’re broken than if they were never made at all.”

I thought I had felt it all.
The butterflies.
The magnetic pull.
The way the world fell quiet when our eyes locked.
All the clichés I used to scoff at - I lived them.
And I thought that meant it was real.

But what I really felt… was hope.
Hope that this one was different.
That this one would stay.
That this one would love me through it, not just love me when I was easy to love.

I showed him the darkest parts -
the corners of my story I usually keep hidden,
the jagged truths I never speak out loud.
And he didn’t run.
He did just the opposite.
He leaned in.
He comforted.
He promised.

Not just to stay -
but that if that time ever came,
if distance ever threatened what we had,
there would be a conversation first.
A moment.
A warning.
A chance to not be blindsided.

But there was no conversation.
There was no warning.
Just silence.
Just the slow realization that he had left me emotionally before he ever physically did.

And the part that hurts the most?
I believed him.
I let go of my fears because I thought—for once—I was safe.
That someone had finally seen me and didn’t want to leave.

But now I know.
Some people say things not because they mean them,
but because they know you do.

#BrokenPromises #lossandlove #writingthroughgrief #emotionalabandonment #SurvivorVoice #mentalhealthmatters
#Stillhere #SurvivorStory
#healingjourney
#ThisIsWhy
#EndTheStigma
#LiveAnotherDay
#youarenotalone
#FromDarknessToLight
#strongerthanmystormm

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Basket of Markers: A Post Spravato Revelation

🧺 The Basket of Markers: A Post-Spravato Revelation

Tonight, I got high.
Not just “I’m giggly and everything feels soft” high — I mean clarity high. The kind that creeps up when you’re just living your weird little life, surrounded by your weird little things, and suddenly boom — therapy-level insight smacks you in the face with a Sharpie.

You see, I’m kind of a hoarder. Not the kind they make TV shows about (yet), but close.
Especially when it comes to stuff that makes me happy. Craft supplies. Journaling pens. Markers. Planners. If it comes in all the colors, I want all the colors. And not just want — I obsess. I organize. I keep things forever because I swear to myself, I’m gonna get back into that someday.

I don’t just have one planner.
I have five.
Each has a purpose, a location, and they’re all synced up like the Pentagon of personal organization. That’s how I work. That’s how my brain has always tried to create control out of chaos.

And then there’s my marker collection. We’re talking gel tips, fine points, Sharpies, off-brand craft store specials, and yes — I recently bought a 262-color mega pack because apparently, I like to own coloring even though I do it maybe three times a year.

But here’s the thing.

Tonight, I bought a new basket.
A Longaberger — because yeah, I collect those too.

And instead of separating every marker by brand, as I’ve always done, I put them all together.

Still color-coded (duh — I’m not a monster).
But for the first time, not by brand.

All mixed up.
All in one basket.

And in that quiet little moment, I realized:

This basket is me now.

Before, everything in my life was separated:
🖤 Before trauma / after trauma
🖤 Before the pain / after the breakdown
🖤 Before Owen died / after the world collapsed

I kept it all compartmentalized — like trauma Tupperware. Neatly labeled. Sealed shut. Keep the mess contained.

But since starting Spravato, something shifted.
My thoughts are no longer all-or-nothing.
My identity isn’t black-and-white.
And my healing doesn’t need labels.

Just like those markers, I can exist in the same basket.

The grief.
The growth.
The obsession.
The creativity.
The sadness.
The sparkle.

It all goes together now.

So maybe I’m still a little OCD, and maybe I’ll still color-code by rainbow arc because I like pretty things. But I’m not organizing by trauma anymore.

I’m organizing by joy.
By who I am now.
By what makes sense in this moment.

And that’s not crazy.
That’s recovery.

So yeah, maybe it’s just a stoned night with a bunch of markers and a woven basket…
Or maybe it’s Sigmund Freud meets radical self-love, with a gel pen in hand and a giggle in my throat.

Either way, I’m keeping the damn basket.
And I’m keeping all of me in it.

By Jenn
🌈 Color-coder of chaos. Hoarder of hope. Marker-wielding warrior.
#postspravatolife #healingoutloud #ocdbutmakeitart

#postspravatolife
#Stillhere
#healingjourney
#EndTheStigma #youarenotalone #FromDarknessToLight
#WhenNothingElseWorked
#GriefIsLoveWithNowhereTo #GriefIsLoveWithNowhereToGo #mentalhealthmatters #SpravatoSavedMe #writingtoheal #strongerthanmystorm #SpravatoHope #healingjourney #EndTheStigma #keepgoing

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The Reason I’m Still Here

The Reason I’m Still Here
By Jenn Dacey

For most of my life, I didn’t believe I had a future. I didn’t think I deserved one.
Since I was fifteen, I’ve struggled with severe mental illnessdepression, bipolar disorder, and later, borderline personality disorder. The pain was overwhelming, and the darkness relentless. I survived nearly 50 suicide attempts, each one a desperate plea to end the suffering I carried deep inside. For decades, I couldn’t find a reason to stay.
But somehow, I’m still here. And I’ve finally stopped asking why. Now, I’m searching for what for.
Growing up, I never felt seen. I was bullied, silenced, and repeatedly invalidated. I experienced childhood trauma, including abuse by someone who was supposed to be a spiritual protector. No one acknowledged it. No one offered help. That betrayal shattered my sense of safety, trust, and self-worth. I was left to navigate a life I never felt equipped to live — constantly wondering what was wrong with me.
As an adult, I carried that pain into every area of my life. I struggled with addiction, broken relationships, estrangement from my children, and a total loss of identity. I couldn’t hold a job. I couldn’t maintain hope. I lived in survival mode, day after day, with no vision beyond simply enduring the next moment. I was lost.
On May 3 of this year, I made what I believed would be my final attempt to escape the weight of it all. But something happened. I woke up — still intubated — in an ICU bed. It was my 29th documented attempt. But this time was different. I didn’t feel numb or angry. I felt terrified. And then, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: clarity.
That moment became my turning point. I realized I had to make a choice — not just to stay alive, but to finally take control of my healing. To stop waiting for someone else to fix what was broken and to start becoming the person I needed all along.
Seven weeks after that moment, I enrolled in community college. I chose Human Services as my major, with a focus on Drug and Alcohol Counseling. For the first time, I set goals — real ones. I met with my advisor. I planned my schedule. And I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could build a life rooted in purpose, not pain.
I also completed a Partial Hospitalization Program and finally started offering myself the grace I’ve always extended to others. For so long, I thought healing meant hiding my past. Now I know that true recovery means integrating it — using it as fuel, not a weight.
I’ve spent years in therapy, and while some tools helped, many didn’t go deep enough. I’m now exploring new, research-backed treatments like Spravato — an FDA-approved esketamine nasal spray for treatment-resistant depression. I’m no longer ashamed of needing help. In fact, it’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.
Today, I’m not just surviving. I’m rebuilding — piece by piece — a version of myself I never thought I’d get to meet. I’m learning to trust my instincts, speak my truth, and take up space in a world I used to believe didn’t want me in it.
This journey hasn’t been linear, and it’s far from over. I still grieve. I still long for reconciliation with my children. I still face hard days. But the difference now is that I don’t face them alone — and I don’t face them without hope.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt invisible, voiceless, or too broken to begin again—please hear me when I say: it’s not too late.
You are not too far gone.
You are not beyond help or healing.
I’m living proof.
I used to believe I was born with a curse—to suffer.
Now I know: I was spared the curse, so I could serve.
To share.
To save—if only one person sees themselves in these words and chooses to stay one more day.
I don’t have all the answers.
But I have a reason now.
And every morning I wake up, I choose to live like I’ve been given one more chance to find out what that reason is—and to live it out loud.

#mentalhealthmatters #stillmatters #SurvivorStory #ThisPainHasPurpose
#healingjourney #Grief #ThisIsWhy #EndTheStigma #LiveAnotherDay #FromDarknessToLight #keepgoing #WhenNothingElseWorked #Spravato #strongerthanmystorm #SpravatoHope #writingtoheal

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What BDSM has taught me about people part 1

Kinksters communicate. We spread news, local and abroad. We do what's called vetting venues and new potential playmates. And we do it well.
We keep each other safe. There are many predators in the community at large. So how do we maintain safety?
Let's say I'm talking to someone online. We've been chatting, it seems to be good so far. this person wants to meet up. You have some friends in common so you shoot a message to one of them asking if they can vouch for him. Now if you don't have friends in common, it's totally acceptable to say you're not comfortable meeting yet. You have control over who has access to your time and body.
Oh wait a second, what did I just say? Yes, the crux of kink and BDSM is consent. We choose our playmates. We're not obligated to pay you attention.
"But the way you're dressed..." NO!
"But he got some attention, now it's my turn" NO!
"But we played in the past" NO!
The vanilla community (non kinky) thinks we're indiscriminately loosey goosey. We have way more protection for our members in place than most of you know.
And here's something awesome: majority of the BDSM community has a strong focus on fighting the stigma of mental health conditions. We embrace our variety of members. We kinda rock.
#EndTheStigma

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How Do You Say "Lost" in Every Language?

How Do You Say "Lost" in Every Language?

I speak four languages fluently. Spanish, Guarani, Portuguese, and English. In college, I took a semester of French and wandered through Paris, piecing together phrases from my lessons, testing the limits of my tongue. But fluency is a fickle thing—it’s not just about words, but about being understood. And if that’s the case, have I ever truly been fluent in anything?

I was born in Paraguay, a country where Guarani became an official language in 1992. By then, I was already 8 years old, but my journey with Guarani had started long before. Long before it was accepted. Long before it was allowed.

My mother forbade me from speaking it. She wanted my Spanish to be perfect, untarnished. Guarani, to her, was a limitation. To me, it was a door. One that led to friendship, to belonging, to a world just beyond my reach.

So, I learned it in secret. A tiny act of rebellion, a desperate grasp at connection. I don’t even remember how I found a Guarani dictionary, but I did. And I poured over it, memorizing the words like they were spells, hoping they would conjure a place for me among my peers.

But language does not guarantee belonging.

I learned Guarani because I wanted friends.

And I still had none.

I was the weird one—too much, too intense, too hyperactive, too… wrong. I wouldn’t understand why until decades later, when at 29, I was diagnosed with ADHD. And now, at 41, I am certain that I sit somewhere on the autism spectrum too. But back then, I had no labels. Just rejection.

So, I turned inward. If no one would speak to me, I would listen.

That’s how I learned Portuguese—not in conversation, not in friendship, but in isolation. My bedroom became my sanctuary, my television my companion. I grew up on the border of Brazil, where six different Brazilian channels played for free, their voices filling the silence where friendships should have been.

I absorbed Portuguese like a sponge, the way I had with Guarani. But this time, not out of rebellion, not out of hope, but out of loneliness.

Guarani was the language I learned because I longed for friendship.

Portuguese was the language I learned because I had none.

At 16, I left Paraguay. The United States swallowed me whole, and suddenly, English wasn’t a choice—it was a lifeline. I learned it the way one learns to swim after being thrown into the ocean: desperately, without grace, without a moment to think.

And yet, no matter how many languages I carried in my mouth, I still found myself misunderstood.

Fluency is not the same as connection.

I could translate words, conjugate verbs, construct perfect sentences. But the rhythm of human interaction, the invisible rules of friendship, the art of simply belonging—those things never came easily to me.

Instead, I became hyper-focused on romantic relationships, believing that love could fill the spaces friendship never did. But even there, I faltered. I was present, but never fully invested. I loved, but never stayed. No relationship lasted beyond two years. The pattern repeated itself in jobs, homes, entire cities. I was always moving. Searching.

And then, there’s the greatest irony of all—I speak multiple languages, yet I struggle to communicate.

Not because I lack the words. I have too many words. But I never learned the ones that matter most—the ones that make people stay, the ones that make them understand me, the ones that turn conversation into connection.

How do you say “lost” in every language?

Because that’s the word I know best.

#MyStoryMatters #sharingmytruth #breakingthesilence #unspokenwords #writingtoheal #neurodivergentvoices #adhdawareness #AutismAcceptance #invisiblestruggles #mentalhealthmatters #EndTheStigma #lostintranslation #languageandloneliness #youarenotalone #healingthroughwords #Findingmyvoice #fromsilencetostrength #writingthroughpain #multilingualmisfit #fluentbutmisunderstood #thepowerofwords

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Daily Videos to smash the stigma – Follow My 31-Day Challenge

Hey!

I used to suffer from social anxiety. I don't anymore, as I've been actively working on healing from it the past couple of years through seeking professional help as well as my developing my own healing practice.

Unfortunately there is still a stigma against mental health, which often prevents people from seeking help which could massively benefit them - as was the case with me.

That's why I've decided to start a 31 day mental health challenge, where every year for the month December (2024), I'm posting daily videos about my mental health journey, in order to 1) raise awareness for mental health, and 2) do my part in debunking the stigma against mental health.

In my challenge I will share with you everything about what it is that I've experienced - from struggling with anxiety and feeling depressed, hitting rock bottom, seeking help, and ultimately starting my healing journey.

I joined The Mighty to share my challenge for you, in the hope that someone might benefit from following along!

Look for me on Instagram: @itsedwardarthur

#EndTheStigma #Anxiety #Depression #Healing

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#GeneralizedAnxietyDisorder at it Again

When does it slow down?
Does it ever get tired?
Why me?
What’s wrong with me?

Ever since I was let go from my job in an email no less, the only place someone could find me is at home. I don’t go anywhere unless I absolutely have to, and even with that, Hunter my #esa dog HAS to be with me with one of my sons to keep me calm while I drive. My sons help me a lot which I’m always grateful, but I also feel guilt of having to ask them to help me with things I should be able to do myself.

If home delivery is possible and at a reasonable price, I would do that instead of saving even more money by going myself. I haven’t seen my PCP since I think October, and I haven’t been in a dentist chair close to a year. Besides my grandma and my two sons who live with me, I’m only fully comfortable being face to face with my best friend who I’ve known since we were basically in diapers, and she’s the only one I’d let come over to my house uninvited.

I get #Anxiety thinking of other uninvited guests. I get anxiety when my phone rings, or when I receive mail. I get anxiety when my mom or aunt asks me through text what’s going on with me.

I get #PTSD when random thoughts of disasters enter my mind… fire, tsunami, the mountains I live between erupting, or thoughts of what if whenever my sons want to go out (I still let them, but it annoys me that I have to tell them to text me to and from places so I know they’re okay). When I think of people I knew that passed from illnesses that were caught too late, which turns to me thinking what if it happens to me. Then to me not wanting anything to happen because I don’t ever want to leave my sons.

Having my sons changed a lot of how I think, and my #mentalwellbeing doesn’t take me to that dark place like it used to way before I became a mom. I want to stay here and see my boys excel in life and grow up to be amazing men. I want to see them have their own family… I seen too many loved ones dying to not want that happen to myself.

I’m trailing off again, so I’m going to put on soothing music and lay down with my dog Hunter… did I mention that late at night by myself, I sometimes feel alone?

Anyway… I’m always wishing for anyone dealing with similar things, wishing them #Positivity and #strength to tackle each day one at a time. #weareloved #wematter #wearenotdefinedbyourillness #EndTheStigma #mentalhealthmatters #MentalHealthAwareness

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Caring for a mentally challenged 23 year old son is quite the struggle when I suffer from mental health issues. #EndTheStigma

Any ideas on how to obtain emergency legal guardianship

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Mental Health Spectrum

Mental Health is on a spectrum. There are so many variables that affect our mental health that there can be no such thing as perfect mental health or a perfect mind. Therefore no one is perfect and everyone is IMperfect. So if your mental health has made you feel defective, broken, or alone, stop. Just like you, we all have imperfections. And just like everyone else, you have redeeming qualities, talents, insights, and positive effects on the lives of others. No one is truly alone, no matter their mental status. Stop judging yourself, so you can find your version of happy. #MentalHealth #EndTheStigma  #MentalIllness #Neurodiversity #nojudgement #Happiness

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