healingjourney

#MentalHealth #MensMentalHealth #healingjourney #olderandwiser #MentalHealthAwareness #menandmentalhealth #growth #PeaceOfMind #resilience #keeppushing #healingtakestime #emotionalstrength

I woke up today feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time #peace . Not the kind that comes from everything going right but the kind that comes when you finally stop fighting what’s out of your control.

As an older man, life has taught me lessons I didn’t ask for. I’ve walked through anger, loneliness, disappointment and silence that could swallow a person whole. I used to carry everything inside, thinking it was strength until it started breaking me quietly.

There was a time I couldn’t recognize myself. My temper was short, my patience even shorter. I pushed people away without meaning to. I told myself I was fine when, deep down, I was falling apart. But age has a way of softening a man. It humbles you. It teaches you that healing isn’t about forgetting the pain; it’s about learning to live beyond it.

These days, I take things slower. I listen more. I spend more time outside, breathing in moments instead of rushing through them. My mind still gets loud sometimes but now I know how to quiet it with prayer, reflection and gratitude for simply being alive.

I’m not fully healed yet but I can say this: I’m no longer who I was. And maybe that’s enough for today.

If you’ve ever been through a similar journey; if you’ve had to rebuild yourself quietly... I’d love to hear how you found your peace too.

I want 5 women who want to break free from family narratives and reconnect with their inner child in the next 30 days!!

#innerchildhealing #familynarratives #BreakingCycles #messyhealing #healingjourney #selftrust #reparenting #softhealing

Have you ever, in a sudden, fleeting moment—without warning—been overwhelmed by a wave of sadness, anxiety, and disorientation? You start comparing yourself to everyone around you, questioning your worth, your future, your very existence. You feel the urge to disappear, to abandon it all—cut ties, erase the past, and start over from scratch.

I’ve felt that way more times than I can count. And truth be told, I have started over—again and again. But the more I tried to run, the more lost I became. Because I wasn’t running from problems, responsibilities, or even people. I was running from myself.

That realization hits you like a slap across the face, a punch to the gut, a bitter taste that lingers long after the moment has passed. Because the truth is, nothing changes until you confront the only person standing in your way: you.

From the very beginning, I carried a victim mindset—blaming life, circumstances, and people around me for everything that felt wrong. I waited. Waited for a savior. For a sign. For a miraculous shift that would transform my reality into the dream life I imagined.

But all I did was imagine. I lived in the fantasy, never daring to make it real. Because deep down, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by the fear that I was my own enemy. That the real battle was inside me. And that one day, inevitably, I would have to look in the mirror and face the version of myself I kept avoiding.

It took years. Years of false starts, failed attempts, heartbreaks, and broken cycles.

But eventually, the truth hit me—like craving chocolate all day only to bite in and discover a sour fermented filling.

It was the day I felt abandoned by everyone I had loved, supported, prioritized—hoping that one of them might finally show up for me. But no one did. And in that moment of emptiness, I heard the voice in my head whisper:

"Girl, no one is coming to save you."

And oddly, that was the moment I felt free.

I decided to become selfish—not in a narcissistic, self-absorbed way, but in the most loving, necessary way possible.

I chose me.

To love myself first.

To save myself.

To spoil myself.

To take care of myself—before anyone else.

I told myself:

“Enough of the victim mindset. The life you want exists beyond every excuse you've built to stay small. So rise. Become your own Wonder Woman. Your own Captain Marvel. The planet you need to save… is YOU.”

You still have battles to fight. Dreams to build. A galaxy of possibility waiting to be explored.

So stop shrinking.

Stop waiting.

Start becoming.

#Anxiety #MentalHealth #MentalHealth #Adulthood #healingjourney #innerchildhealing #reclaimyourself #Trauma

She was an energetic, dreamy girl who loved crafts, art, colors, and imagination. She used to be unique in every way — especially in her own style. She loved experimenting with different hairstyles and wore whatever made her feel radiant and comfortable. And yes, she wore a lot of pink.

But one day, after many long, dark, wintery nights (and by that, I mean heartbreak, bullying, and silent suffering), she lost her voice — in a world dominated by control, silence, and male power. She lost her spark at a very young age. One morning, she woke up and threw everything away. All the colors in her closet faded into different shades of black.

She wanted to become invisible. And from that moment on, she hated pink.

Pink became the symbol of everything she felt was wrong in the world she lived in:

“Be more feminine.”

“Be more girly.”

“Obey.”

“Don’t speak loudly.”

“Don’t sit like that.”

“Don’t wear that.”

“Don’t dream too big.”

“Learn how to cook if you want a husband.”

“Learn how to clean, or you’ll end up alone.”

“Be this.”

“Do that.”

She internalized it all — and shaped it in her mind as the color pink.

And over the years, that hate settled. Her closet became all black.

But one day, at the age of 30, she woke up and craved something pink.

And that meant she was healing.

She realized she never truly hated pink. She hated what pink had come to represent. The color was innocent. The meaning attached to it wasn’t.

She was healing. And she bought her first pink shirt at 30.

What I’ve learned is this:

People can change. Our ideals can shift — if we’re brave enough to dig deep and explore the roots of our pain, our rage, and the symbols we’ve attached to them.

That girl has healed. That girl is healing.

That girl… is me.

And healing is a beautiful journey — no matter how hard it is to get there.

Because in the end, hating pink was never about the color.

It was a metaphor — a placeholder for the pain, the conditioning, the trauma I carried for years. A defense I built so strongly that I believed it was part of my identity. But it wasn’t me — it was a trauma response, not my truth.

If I can wear pink again,

you can heal too.#healingjourney #innerchildhealing #reclaimyourself #fromtraumatotruth #Breakthecycle #MentalHealth

“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

🧺 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

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 illness — depression, 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

We've all heard about Narcissistic Abuse and the lasting scars it leaves on a person's mind, heart, and body. But what's often less talked about is what it's like to heal when you can't remember - when the abuse has left you with fragmented memories, or none at all.

I want to share what it feels like to heal in the darkness. To move through recovery guided not by clear memories, but by feelings, intuition, and how the body responds when truth arises to the surface.

You might wonder: how does someone heal without memories? How do you know if something truly happened? For me, the answer has always been in the body. The emotional reactions. The way my nervous system trembles or shuts down. The tightness in my chest, the tears that come without words. My body has never forgotten - even when my mind has.

As a survivor, being in my body used to feel unbearable. I trained myself to go numb or disconnect because that was the only way to survive. I couldn't trust my memories because the people who hurt me worked so hard to erase them. Narcissists deny your reality so often that eventually, you start to doubt yourself, too. You learn not to trust what you see, hear, feel, or know deep down.

Without memories to light the way, I've had to walk through the pain blind. I've had to rely on feelings, sensations, and my intuition - little flashes of truth that don't always come with clear explanations.

I don't know if I'll ever get my memories back - and that's something I've learned to live with. Studies show that between 30% to 60% of childhood abuse survivors experience memory repression, and while some eventually regain pieces of those memories, not all do. If the memories return, I'll be ready. But for now, I'm learning to trust the truth my body already holds.

It wasn't easy. For a long time, I questioned everything. But after the first two years of healing, something began to shift. I realized I wasn't crazy. I wasn't making it up. My feelings were real. The grief, the betrayal, the heartache - they were all valid, even if I couldn't connect them to clear memories.

I had to create space for those feelings to exist, without needing a "why". I had to learn to sit with them, honor them, and trust that my body was telling me the truth, even when my mind stayed silent.

This is what it's like to heal in the dark. And if you're there too - if you're healing without a map - you're not alone. Your feelings are real. Your body knows. And sometimes, that's all the truth you need to take the next step.

#MentalHealth #traumasurvivor #NarcissisticAbuse #healingjourney