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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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