healingjourney

“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

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

I woke with a heaviness I know all too well. It's been prominent for years; however, the intensity has dimmed over time. The longer I'm free, the easier it gets to maintain the grief of it all.

I'm realizing that nothing I remember was real. All lies, to forget the pain of their lies, suffocating, until the explosion of my shadows.

They came raging out in defiance, strangling me to undo the mask, sewn into my skin. I rage, I scream, I cry.

My eyes bleed with sorrow. My nails dig into my skin, trying to tear it off. Still in-tach, my cheeks now bleed with my eyes, the horror, what is happening?

How much did I forget? Why wouldn't I learn to fight back? Oh, that's right, my father physically hurts people, not people, my mother. So it wouldn't surprise me if I were hit in my younger years. He almost hit me when I was 17. It frightened me to my core, something I was all too familiar with.

Nothing was making sense anymore. What's worse is that over time, we moved past it. Like it was normal.

The longer you are away from your abuser, the more you learn the truth. The truth about the pain, the suffering, the sleepless nights, the physical tension, the anxiety - all of it.

And now all I think is, why didn't I see it before? Blaming myself yet again.

I am the victim. I am the survivor. I am a warrior ready to fight the battle for others.

Everything coming into focus, I see where my path is leading.

#MentalHealth #healingjourney #CPTSD

I think about her often - the little girl I used to be. She was small, but her heart carried mountains. There are things I wish I could whisper in her ear - things she should've known all along.

She lived in a home where love felt like walking on eggshells. She learned to shrink herself, silence her needs, and obey just to survive. Holding everything in. No one ever protected her - so she became her own protector.

She was a body, not a person. The only time she was shown love was when it was societally acceptable. Holidays and her birthday were her favorite days, she was a person who received love and gifts. But it was all for show. All was a lie.

What I'd tell her now... You were never too much, it wasn't your job to fix broken adults, your silence was survival, the blatant neglect proved how incapable they were as parents. You were not meant to just survive, you're meant to thrive, to exhale, to sleep soundly and safely, to play, to experience, to feel, and so much more. It was taken from you, I hear you and see you little one. It will be okay, one day.

Now I understand that love isn't supposed to hurt. Im learning to parent myself in real time, process my emotions. Sometimes I feel like a child when I cry and scream and don't understand why things are difficult. My anger makes sense now. I am now the version of me that I needed as a child. I've become my own savior, my own guardian angel. I will stop at nothing to make sure people know what was done to you little one.

Your voice will become your most powerful asset.

I will keep showing up for her.

She's safe with me now

We're healing - together.

What would you tell your younger self, if they were listening?

#MentalHealth #Trauma #survival #innerchild #healingjourney

I'm angry.

Anger fueled by rage, I'm constantly screaming on the inside. Anger made me "dramatic". Anger made me "disrespectful". Anger made them uncomfortable.

So I buried it. I buried it so deep that I didn't even know it existed. I buried it so deep, I forgot what they did to me. Waking up every day believing that it didn't happen, yearning for love and affection.

But here's the truth I'm learning now: My anger is not the problem. My anger is the part of me that now remembers I deserved better.

I'm angry that my boundaries were ignored.

I'm angry that my voice was stolen.

I'm angry that I was made to believe everything was my fault.

This anger doesn't mean I'm bitter - it means I'm finally in a safe space to feel what I couldn't back then.

It rises in waves, not to destroy - but to release. To unfreeze my body. To burn away the silence. To make space for something new.

I'm angry that I had no guidance, no love, no regulation, no understanding. I got nothing from them.

It was all a lie.

Anger, rage, hatred are all normal emotions to feel when healing Trauma of any kind. What sets you apart from the abuser, is learning to let it go when it doesn't hurt anymore. Understanding that it was never personal.

I'm learning to let it burn through me, not consume me.

#anger #MentalHealth #healingjourney #Trauma

Just another day of surviving C-PSTD. Everything looks good on the outside. But on the inside, my stomach is twisted, my nervous system is barely functioning from overuse, and my soul is deeply exhausted.

The other day I was triggered by an employee at the DMV who did nothing but her job. I spiraled hard that day, I screamed and cried for hours. It wasn't just about the missing paperwork. It was the fact that I was never guided on how to do life or how to navigate adulthood. So every time I come face to face with a obstacle, and it doesn't pan out - Triggered.

First, I feel the weight hit my chest, then my stomach starts to churn. Tears are inevitable. But it's not just sadness. It's blinding hot rage and anger. I went home and collapsed into screams and sobs. At one point, I yelled at the photos of my departed mother, I find it harder to feel empathy for her with each passing day. It's hard to describe what I'm feeling on the inside or what it's like to heal from everything I experienced, so I'll try, it's word vomit, plus real vomit with a tidal wave of emotions with only one way out. Eventually, I passed out from exhaustion. My afternoon naps - those are the only times I really sleep. At night, the real demons come. In the dark. Where the other monsters reside.

Healing is a rollercoaster in my life. One minute I would be perfectly fine. The next - chaos.

I've learned this: healing is step by step. You define what that looks like.

I've noticed a pattern: first the emotions explode, then I sit. Then my mind starts sorting the facts. I need timelines,. Logic. The 5 W's: who, what, when, where, why.Eventually both sides of me - the emotional and the logical - meet. I can begin to co-exist with what happened. In the present and the past. Because once the emotional attachment releases, it's just a fact about me. And facts can't hurt me the way memories do.

I remind myself daily, I am not broken, I am merely carrying more weight than anyone should. About this post... these words... I've held them in my soul far too long.

To the reader that made it this far, I see you and I see your pain. I hope that you find what's been missing and reclaim it as your own.

#CPTSD #healingjourney #TraumaRecovery #MentalHealth #youarenotalone

Growing up as a missionary kid in the IFB church shaped much of who I was—for better and for worse. The strict rules, the fear-based teachings, and the pressure to always appear “perfect” left deep scars. Leaving that world behind has been both freeing and painful.

Religious trauma isn’t always visible, but it affects how we see ourselves and the world. Healing is a slow journey, but sharing our stories helps. If you’re also healing from religious trauma, know you’re not alone. There is hope beyond the fear.

Thank you to this community for being a place of understanding and support. 💙

#ReligiousTraumaSurvivor #MissionaryKid #IFB #healingjourney #youarenotalone