Substance-Related Disorders

I am grieving a life
and a childhood
I never had.

I am drowning,
and no one is coming to save me
but myself.

I cry for help—
help,
help,
help,
help—
until the word loses shape
and becomes a sound
my body makes
when it can’t hold anymore.

The help arrives
wearing the wrong face.
Treatment.
Medication.
Hospital beds.
Well wishes.
Sympathy food left on counters
with no one staying long enough
to watch me eat.

Sometimes we try to come up for air
thinking oxygen will save us,
when what we really need
is to finally fall apart.

Some of us have to brave the depths—
the long, dark corridors of our own souls—
to uncover what was buried,
what was repressed,
what still demands
to be felt
and released
and processed
at last.

But no one taught us how.

So we run.
We fight.
We flee.
We sleep.
We please.
We disappear our way through it.

We are told:
Shut it down.
Be strong.
Don’t cry.
Don’t try anything.
Drink.
Get drunk.
Bury it.

Go to the wake.
See the people.
Bury them.

And silently,
we all agree
on the same rule:

Never burden someone else with it.

It feels safer to do everything alone—
but it doesn’t work.

So I grieve
every time I asked for help
and no one showed up
but me.

I grieve the child
who had to hold it together
while the world fell apart.

I grieve realizing,
far too young,
that no one was coming to save me.

We didn’t choose to be strong.
We had to be.

Breaking wasn’t safe.
So we stayed intact.
Crying changed nothing.
Falling apart only led to
criminalization,
institutionalization,
violence,
guilt,
punishment,
disappointment,
pain.

We walk through life
as if everything exists
at the same impossible scale.

Overprepared.
Hypervigilant.
A backup plan
for the backup plan.

We check doors.
Messages.
Notifications.
Emotions.
People.
Everything.

We move through the world
carrying the weight of
“I’ve got this,”
while breaking quietly
under the pressure.

They call us independent.

No one sees the child inside
screaming to fall apart,
to collapse into arms
that actually catch us.

The arms of the broken
cannot catch us alone—
not until we step together.

But I can catch myself.
And maybe,
if I learn how,
I can help catch others too.

Not because I was saved—
but because I survived
long enough
to stay.

And maybe gentleness
is not the absence of grief,
but the decision
to stop demanding strength from a body
that has carried too much for too long.

Maybe rest
is learning to loosen the grip,
to let the armor come off slowly,
piece by piece,
without needing to explain the scars.

I am learning
to be the arms that catch—
not by rescuing,
not by fixing,
but by staying.

By sitting on the floor with the breaking,
by breathing when the sobs come,
by making room for the fall
without turning away.

I can hold myself now,
and in doing so,
I make space
for others to be held too.

Not because the pain is gone,
but because I have learned
how to rest inside it
without drowning.

#MightyPoets #Grief #Depression #Anxiety #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #MentalHealth #IfYouFeelHopeless #CheckInWithMe #Trauma

Feelings are exhausting.

To numb for twenty years
and then decide—
no more masks,
no substances,
no chemical exits,
no rotting in bed disguised as rest,
no endless scrolling pretending to be relief,
no catastrophizing dressed up as foresight,
no believing I am my trauma.

To feel.
To sit.
To stay.

To finally let thirty years arrive at once—
anger,
shame,
guilt,
abandonment,
resentment,
grief,
loss,
loss,
loss,
loss,
loss—
a heart-shattering weight
that presses the air out of your chest.

How do you resist the urge to distract?
To rush it?
To heal overnight like it’s a productivity goal?

How do you surrender control
when surrender once meant danger?
How do you trust a process
when trust has always been expensive?
When your circle is small
because survival taught you it had to be?

How do you grieve decades
inside six weeks?

How do you rest
when your world is imploding?

You stop.
You pause.
You rest.

You look for the helpers—
but you name what you need,
not what you want,
not what sounds polite.

Help can come with conditions,
but it cannot come from half-hearted people.

Cups cannot be filled,
hearts cannot be healed,
oxygen masks cannot be offered to others
when you are still underwater,
still gasping,
still fighting for air.

My heart was racing
while theirs was pounding.

And somewhere in the wreckage,
in the stillness I used to fear,
I understand the truth that keeps me here:

I want to be
who I needed
as a child.

#MentalHealth #ADHD #Depression #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #Addiction #Grief

It’s a unique kind of pain
to know exactly what help you need
and still not get it.

To be lied to.
To have care dressed up as comfort,
housing sold as healing,
promises softer than the truth.

There is no pool
to drown the sorrow
and reset the body.

No mansion
full of newfound brothers and sisters
waiting to save you.

No work–life balance—
because when your health is at risk,
there is no work,
and there is no life.

If eighteen thousand dollars
can’t buy safety,
where do you go?
Who do you ask?
What do you say

when all that comes out is—

Help.
Help.
Help.
Help.
Help.

Please.
Just—help.

Help me fall apart.
Help me put myself back together with gold,
like the pottery that breaks
and becomes more beautiful
because it was broken,
not in spite of it.

Talk.
Share.
Feel.
Survive.
Thrive.

Remember—
you are not alone.

Remember—
it’s okay to not be okay.

Remember—
it’s okay to ask for help
even when it doesn’t show up
the way you were promised.

It’s okay to advocate for yourself.
To practice radical acceptance.
To put the weight of the world
down.

It’s okay to not be okay—
but it’s not okay
to stay there.

So you look for the helpers.
You look for serenity,
for courage,
for wisdom—

but how do you find them
when grief fills your body
and hijacks your mind?

How do you grieve
when no one taught you how?
How do you sit with
what no one will sit with?
Feel what no one wants to feel?
Heal what no one healed before you?

I don’t know.
But I’m trying to learn.

I’m trying to let go—
and let go—
and let go—

of trauma.
Of pain.
Of loss.

Trying to cry.
Trying to feel.
Trying to fall apart
without disappearing.

Trying to be the line in the sand
that says—
this ends with me.

I will not pass this on.

One of our greatest freedoms
is how we respond—
finding a quiet place to breathe,
to break,
and to let someone help
put the pieces back together.

One by one.

Some of those pieces
were never mine.
My father’s.
My grandparents’.
Teachers’.
Inherited grief.

Not every piece fits.
And that’s okay.

Everyone’s just trying to get home.

But how do you get home
when home is made of fragments—
memories lost to heart attacks,
to overdose,
to anger,
to fear,
to violence,
to war?

Trauma shatters families.
War shatters everything.

Tears fall for a reason.
They are not weakness.
They are evidence.

The hardest thing I ever did
was ask for help
and try to receive it
without my world collapsing again.

Distress is not danger—
but it is a signal.

Something is not safe.
Something needs care.

And I am still here,
learning how to ask.

#MentalHealth #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #Addiction #ADHD #Depression

New Year’s intentions aren’t only about starting something new. Sometimes they’re about letting go—and that matters just as much.

Quitting what no longer supports your mental health isn’t failure; it’s self-awareness. Some things were helpful once and aren’t anymore. Giving yourself permission to step away—or to not do something at all—can be just as powerful as deciding to begin.

Often, what matters most isn’t the big changes but the small, everyday choices. The way you approach things, the intention you bring with you, and the kindness you offer yourself in those moments tend to shape real, lasting change.

This year and every year remember, progress can look like trusting yourself enough to choose what to keep, what to release, and what you no longer owe your energy to.

#ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Anxiety #MentalHealth #Depression #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #Neurodiversity

I’ve learned a hard but important lesson: I no longer give my family my energy when it comes to how they talk about my mental health or the challenges they’ve caused in my life. I’ve set boundaries and told them—I don’t want to have this conversation.

The lesson I’ve learned is this: the people and resources we give our energy to, especially during certain times of the year, really matter. Why? Because our energy is finite. Every ounce spent on negativity, judgment, or drama is an ounce we can’t use for our healing, growth, or joy.

Choosing where to focus your attention isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. It’s saying, “I matter. My mental health matters. My peace matters.” And especially around the holidays, when emotions run high, protecting your energy isn’t just smart—it’s survival.

So this year, I’m holding space for my own well-being first, and letting go of conversations, people, and situations that deplete me. It feels like freedom. And honestly? That’s a gift I give myself.

#ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Neurodiversity #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #EatingDisorder #MentalHealth #Depression #ChronicFatigueSyndrome #AddictionRecovery #Anxiety

It looks like getting out of bed when everything in you wanted to stay there.
It looks like pausing instead of reacting.

It looks like setting a boundary and feeling uncomfortable about it.

It looks like surviving a hard day without falling apart—even if it didn’t feel “successful.”

Little wins matter. They build momentum, confidence, and self-trust. And just as important—some of our biggest wins don’t always feel like wins in the moment. Growth can feel messy, exhausting, or even disappointing before it feels empowering.

If today felt heavy, that doesn’t mean you failed.
If today felt quiet, that doesn’t mean nothing happened.
If today felt hard and you’re still here, that counts.

Take a moment to ask yourself:
What did I do today that supported my safety, my healing, or my well-being—even in a small way?

You don’t have to minimize it. You don’t have to earn it.
It counts. You count. And here is a blog I wrote a while back on this topic.

The Milestones We Forget to Celebrate in Our ADHD Mental Hea...

#ADHD #ADHDInGirls #MentalHealth #Anxiety #Neurodiversity #SubstanceRelatedDisorders #Depression