mentalhealthmatters

I never liked having my picture taken growing up. I was bullied a lot—my overbite, the braces, my awkwardness. It all made me want to disappear when someone pulled out a camera. I didn’t feel beautiful, not even close. My mom didn’t help either. She wasn’t the type to hype me up, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to pay for senior pictures. So I just… faded. Into the background. Into the shadows. Into invisibility.

But the strangest thing happened on a hospital bed in Wilmington, Delaware, on May 8th, 1993, sometime between 2 and 4 in the afternoon.

It was the first time I ever felt beautiful.

Not because I looked a certain way. Hell, I had just undergone an emergency C-section. I’d been put under because I could feel them prepping my stomach—pressure and all—and I started to panic. I was scared out of my mind. I was nineteen years old, about to be twenty, and here I was, having surgery for the first time in my life, alone, high on fear and anesthesia, and preparing to say goodbye to a baby I had carried through chaos.

There had been no baby shower. No nursery. No baby book with little milestones. None of the cute, expected moments of joy that mark a first pregnancy.

Only guilt. Only shame. Only secrets. Because I had messed up—I had done drugs while pregnant. And I carried that weight every minute of every day leading up to his birth. I didn’t know if he’d be okay.

When I came to, my mom was sitting beside me. I could barely open my eyes, and the anesthesia had me foggy, but I managed to croak out, “Is he okay?” I needed to know. I needed to hear it. I needed some form of redemption.

Her eyes watered when she said it.
“He’s perfect.”

She told me his APGAR scores were 7.5 or something like that—I didn’t know what it meant. Nobody had explained it to me. Nobody had prepared me for any of this. But her eyes… they told me everything. He was here. And he was safe.

And then they brought him to me.

God. I will never forget what I saw.
This perfect, red-faced, wide-eyed baby.
A round little head with soft brown hair.
And eyes—those deep, searching blue eyes—that locked onto mine like he already knew me. Like he had been waiting just to see my face.

I had never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.

And in that moment, I remember thinking:
There has to be something beautiful inside of me… because I made that.

He was proof. Living, breathing, perfect proof that I couldn’t be as worthless as I had been led to believe. I couldn’t be all the bad things I had internalized. I had to have something sacred within me to have created something so miraculous. He was the first reflection of beauty I ever truly believed in.

That baby saved me in a way I wouldn’t even understand for decades.

I gave him up for adoption. That was the hardest, most agonizing decision of my life. But before that chapter began—before the grief, the loss, the empty arms—I had this single, eternal moment of clarity:

I was capable of beauty.
I was capable of creation.
I was capable of love so deep it cracked my ribs open and reshaped me.

And for the first time, I saw it.
I saw me.

#amotherslove #whatsyouradoptionstory #anotherbetrayal #SurvivorStory #FromDarknessToLight #mentalhealthmatters #writingtoheal #strongerthanmystorm #ThisPainHasPurpose

“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

How much I want to end it all. I once believed that you had something in store for me, possibly something better, possibly something healing—that's why you wouldn't let my suicide attempts succeed. But I feel like you fail me every time I give my life's reins to you. Beloved, prove me wrong, please. You are the only one I can rely on. Help me. Give me salvation through death; give me the will to bring about my death. Give me hope that you are truly there for me. I am desperate. I want you, I need you. I desire death, and death I shall get. I've tried twice, but you stopped me. But now, I ask that you aid me.

I am scared to face the truth. It is scary to see how desperate I can get. Perhaps it was meant to be like this—good prevails over evil, and truth forces the liar to end themselves. I am not against it at all. After all, I did try to commit suicide. I am a coward, scared of the world seeing me for who I really am. But as they say, good forces always prevail. Now I feel like truth has plot armor. No matter how much I try to snuff it out at its core, it always remains. And now, even before it strikes, I can already feel just how much of me will remain after it.

Help me, my beloved. Hold me in your arms and strangle me to death so that you can take my soul to your eternal gardens, my love eternal. Free me from my bondage. You've stopped me twice already; now make my death yours. I am scared of this world, of its people, but I do love beauty. I have loved mankind, and I hold it all dearly, for it represents you. But I have to die. Good shall prevail, and evil shall be vanquished.

I can't say that I don't regret letting go of all I love, but history should repeat, and I should die. Kill me, beloved. Save me...#HealingJourney, #HopeInDarkness, #YouAreNotAlone, #FaithInStruggle, #mentalhealthmatters

#mentalhealthmatters #breakthestigma #HopeInDarkness #youarenotalone #innerhealing #Speakyourtruth #FindYourLight #emotionalwellness #ItGetsBetter #healingjourney #depressionawareness #strengthinvulnerability #CourageToContinue #selflovejourney #SurvivorStories It’s scary knowing the moment of truth is just around the corner. I’m terrified—there’s too much to face. I’ve thought about death a lot and wondered if it would somehow set me free. But honestly, I don’t know if death is easy. I’ve tried to end my own life twice, and clearly, I failed both times.

The first time, I came home with what I thought was cold determination. I took a large overdose of antidepressants and tried to sleep. At first, nothing happened—I just lay there for hours. But then I started shivering uncontrollably. It wasn’t chills; maybe it was serotonin syndrome? I’d heard that could cause cardiac arrest. But instead of panicking, I forced myself to go back to sleep, hoping to never wake up. Of course, I did. And I was totally fine.

I’ve always been frail. My body’s been weak since birth. In anything physical, like sports, I always came in last. Even with such a fragile body, I somehow survived what should’ve been a deadly overdose. That shocked me.

Two days later, I decided to try a different way—slitting my wrists. I’d heard it would be painful, but I didn’t care. The need to escape was stronger than anything. So the next day, I picked up a knife and got ready to do it. But guess what? My body surprised me again. I was so weak, I couldn’t even press the knife hard enough to break my skin.

That’s when it hit me—maybe it just isn’t my time. Maybe God, or whatever higher power is out there, didn’t want me to die yet. Maybe my purpose in this world isn’t over.

To anyone else who’s been in this place, feeling like life is too much and wanting to escape: I know how hard it is. I know how much pain you’ve endured, probably more than most people could understand. But maybe—just maybe—we’re still here for a reason. Surviving doesn’t make us cowards. It takes strength to keep going, even when we’re exhausted by life.

If no one and nothing but some higher force is stopping you, maybe there’s something left for you to discover. Something waiting for you. I don’t know what it is yet—but perhaps that’s what we need to find out.