My Story Isn’t Over

Hello! It’s been a little while since my last post, and I apologize for that. Some major things have come up in my life and I just wasn’t able to keep up with this blog.

(Trigger warning: suicide, self harm, psych ward.)

Here’s what happened:

I attempted suicide on October 23rd, 2016. I haven’t really been hiding the fact that I was struggling up to that point, but perhaps I was hiding just how much I was struggling. Between moving, isolation, having no support system nearby, financial troubles (like… a LOT of financial troubles), cars breaking down, my boyfriend, Adam’s, major depression, and my own mental illnesses, I felt totally and completely hopeless. Like nothing would get better. Life just wasn’t worth living anymore.

So I went into the bathroom, sat on the floor, took a razor, and slid it into my wrist. Again. Again. Again. And then, my puppy, Kenshō, came and sat on my lap. He looked at me with all the unconditional love in his heart and all I could think was, “If I continue, he would watch me die. He wouldn’t understand why I didn’t wake up. He wouldn’t know where I went, why I left him.” And I couldn’t finish. I texted Adam, who was next door, and told him I needed to go to the hospital.

He came running into the bathroom moments later to find Kenshō and I sitting on the floor. “Babe,” he whispered when he saw the wound, tears welling up in his eyes. Things were frantic as he tried to figure out where the hospital was. He picked me up and I leaned on him as he led me to the door. Sitting me on the bench he pointed and said, “Stay here,” as he ran to find his mom and step dad to tell them what was going on. Again, he helped me up and when he stepped away, things started to get blurry and black. “She’s fainting,” I heard from far away. A wash cloth magically appeared over my wrist and suddenly we were in the car, with lights flying by. The only thing I remember from the car ride is the lights that seemed to dance as we passed them.

Arriving at the hospital, I was helped out of the car and into the ER waiting room. The nurse asked what happened and when I told her I cut myself she had a doctor look at my wound, then handed me a clipboard to fill out paperwork. Slowly I wrote out all my information before I was called back to a room. Another nurse came in and asked if I was trying to kill myself. “No,” I told her.

“You can be honest with me,” she said, “The more honest you are, the better we’ll be able to help you.”

“Babe,” Adam pleaded, “The placement, the angle…”

“Yes, I was trying to kill myself,” I finally admitted.

The nurse washed my cut, and then we waited for the doctor. Adam told me he had texted me parents, so I texted them too, letting them know I was okay and that I loved them. Reception was terrible and my phone had to be in just the right spot on the bed to send or receive anything. Finally the doctor arrived and sealed my wound shut with butterfly band aids and a purple liquid that burned.

Then we waited for a behavioral health specialist to arrive. We waited and waited. I fell asleep, woke up, waited some more. Finally she came in and we discussed my options. She recommended an inpatient facility, but when she called, there were no beds available. At any of the hospitals within an hour and a half of us. After some convincing, she agreed to let me go home so I could sleep that night, with the promise that I would check in to the psych ward the next morning.

I didn’t check into inpatient the next morning. Instead, I woke up next to the love of my life. We cuddled on the couch with our pup and listened to quiet, soothing music. More than once he choked back tears saying, “I need you. Kenshō needs you. We’re a family. You can’t leave us.” It made me tear up thinking about how lost they would be without me. I hugged him close and assured him that I was here, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

Later that morning I saw Adam across the room, scribbling in his notebook. I walked over, sat on his lap, and he held the notebook out to me. I read it and wanted to cry all over again. It was a gift of words, the last of which were, “She’s sitting over on the couch, the morning sun dancing in her hair, her coffee on the armrest. The hospital bands still encircle her right wrist, while the bandages and blood her left. A small smile creeps across her face and up to her eyes as I look at her. She has never been so beautiful.” I held him close and told him the only thing on my mind: “I love you.”

A few days later my dad came down to visit and help watch over and support me. The self harm urges grew worse throughout the days and I struggled not to hurt myself again. Having dad here was a blessing. I got to show him around the ranch and get lots of hugs from him and Adam, but eventually he had to go back to work and we decided he’d drop me off at the psych ward on his way home.

At the psych ward, I was held prisoner for six days (and it would have been longer had I not been begging to leave.) I won’t go into details of those six days, or perhaps I’ll save them for another post. But I left feeling at least slightly more hopeful than when I walked in.

Today marks 12 days self harm free. I’m still struggling. I’m still in the same situation and environment as when I went into inpatient. But I’m feeling more hopeful. There are options in my recovery that I haven’t tried yet. There are things I can do to move forward. And maybe, one day at a time, I can find more hope and healing. In the meantime, I will continue to spread love and light as much as I can wherever I go.

When Nothing Goes Right

Sometimes things not only don’t go as planned, sometimes they turn out absolutely awful. You know those stretches of time where you just can’t catch a break? That’s where I’m at right now. I haven’t had the best couple of years, but these past couple months have been seriously rough. With the chaos of moving, feeling isolated and having no friends nearby, not being able to find a job, and my mental illnesses kicking my butt, I’m starting to break down. I have nothing left to give and yet somehow I have to keep going. It doesn’t help that my boyfriend is pretty much in the same place.

Thankfully, he was finally able to find a job, but as anyone living in poverty knows, that doesn’t mean your problems go away. We still have to figure out some way to eat for the next two weeks, not to mention find a way to get gas so he can actually get to and from work. Just today we were going to go to the grocery store until we realized neither of us have money to actually buy groceries. That kind of stress on someone who’s already anxious all the time does not go over well, let me tell you.

I’ve been shutting down. Barely able to get out of bed because what’s the point? Not being able to work on my business proposal because I have zero spoons. And then feeling angry and guilty because I’m not being productive and I’m not helping my family get out of this financial hole we’re in and I know I can do better. But at the same time… I can’t. You know what I mean?

I’m not trying to gain sympathy here, I’m just trying to give you some honest context. This is my life. This is where I’m at. It’s not pretty and it’s not fun and I have to live with it anyway. There are a lot of people in this position, or similar ones. So how DO you keep going? What do you do when everything’s going so horribly wrong?

First of all you breathe. Allow yourself to witness your feelings. They’re valid. It’s okay to be anxious and upset and hopeless right now. Feel them, write them down if it helps. Then, let them go. Imagine or visualize all those negative feelings physically leaving your body. What color are they? Do they have a specific shape? A texture? What does it feel like when they leave?

Now it’s time to find your perspective. That doesn’t necessarily mean telling yourself that someone else has it worse. When I do that, I start feeling ashamed over the fact that I’m feeling upset over my own situation, and shame doesn’t do any good. For me, finding perspective looks something like this: Okay. I’m in a bad spot. However, I have a roof over my head. I have a supportive, encouraging family. I have a loving boyfriend and the sweetest pup baby to ever exist. We’ve been through rough situations before and we’ve always made it through. And besides that, as the tattoo on my wrist constantly reminds me, “This is temporary.” Everything is temporary. Feelings will ebb and flow, situations will change, life will go on if you let it.

Feeling slightly better? Just a smidge? Now it’s time to get to work. What have you been avoiding doing while you were broken down? The biggest two for me are that I’ve been participating in activities I can’t afford and I haven’t been working on my business proposal. So how do we fix that? The first one was embarrassing, but simple enough. I’m a model, but it’s mostly been for fun. I haven’t been making money from it. So I contacted the photographers I was supposed to shoot with in the coming weeks, apologized, and told them I simply don’t have the gas money to get to and from the shoot. Humiliating as it was, I felt a lot better afterwards having done the responsible thing.

Now the business proposal. This thing will allow me to apply for a grant to get my business going. If I get it, it will completely transform our lives. With something that important you’d think I’d be motivated to work on it! Unfortunately, depression doesn’t care whether something is important or not before it attacks and drains your energy and motivation. This one is a little trickier. My boyfriend and I had a talk about how I wasn’t working on my business proposal nearly enough (read: at all in the past couple weeks) and I felt so angry with myself and guilty that it actually motivated me to work on it. I don’t necessarily recommend that route if you can avoid it. It’s painful. But as much as guilt sucks, it can help you right wrongs in your life. (Note: Shame and guilt are different. While guilt says “I did something bad,” shame says, “I AM bad.” Shame is never a useful emotion and often stems from trauma or abuse. It’s skews your vision and holds you down. Guilt on the other hand can propell you forward, through the fray. Like I said, guilt isn’t fun, but it can be useful.)

Still, with my depression in full swing, working on anything is hard. So I decided to break down my Giant Business Proposal into smaller, doable tasks. First, I read through what I have so far. Then I edited my citations to Chicago style. Next, I’ll read through my mom’s suggested edits and make those changes. After that, I’ll focus on one of the more work-intensive edits my brother suggested. You get the idea. Looking at a huge task when you’re barely functioning is basically pointless. You’ll just want to fall back into bed and never get up. You know how much I love to do lists. Make one: Wash the laundry. Dry the laundry. Fold the laundry. Put away the laundry. Wash the dishes. Put away the dishes. Make dinner. Do that school assignment you’ve been putting off. Break the tasks down as much as you need to. It seriously helps, I promise.

But the most important thing to do when everything is going wrong, is to have hope. Without it, there’s no reason to make a change. There’s no reason to pull yourself out of this funk. There’s no reason to keep going. And everyone’s reasons are different. Sometimes the only reason I get up in the morning is to take care of my puppy. My love for my boyfriend, and my dreams for a future that’s starkly different than this one motivates me to work on my business proposal. If you’re like me and have trouble finding hope in the middle of a truly trying day (or week…. or month….) talk to one of your loved ones. They’ll listen to your problems and then you can ask, “Why should I keep going?” I bet they’ll have some ideas for you. And as always, if you don’t have anyone to talk to about this stuff, email me at prettypracticalbyemory@gmail.com or message me on Facebook or Instagram!

What about you? What gives you hope?

Residential Treatment: A Personal Story

Trigger warning: self harm, blood, suicidal ideation, drugs, alcohol, pills, disordered eating

I’d been seeing a therapist and psychiatrist for six years. I’d tried so many medications I couldn’t name them all. I was cutting myself so frequently that my partner wouldn’t sleep because he was afraid I’d hurt myself. The cuts got deeper. Each time I hoped I would bleed out and be free from this world. What else could I do? How could I find hope again? How could I stop ripping myself apart?


After some deliberation, I decided to go to a residential treatment facility. Time to focus on myself and my recovery was exactly what I needed. My sweet boyfriend came with me to Chicago so that he could visit me on weekends and support me throughout my stay. 30 days. I could do it.
Upon arrival I was given the run down and said goodbye to Adam as the staff searched my luggage. The luggage wasn’t the only thing to be searched, I had a body check next. So much for comfort and privacy, I’d chucked that at the door. And what would medical treatment be without a long, unnecessary wait in a boring room by yourself? Finally a woman came in, introducing herself as Asia. She walked me to my lodge- Maple- and found me a lodge buddy to show me around.
Samara was my assigned lodge buddy, a beautiful young woman with long brown hair wearing sweats and a large plaid flannel shirt. After receiving an overwhelming amount of information, I went to my room and unpacked. And probably cried a little.
After the first few days of being on lodge restriction, I was finally able to go to the cafeteria with the rest of the women. It had been decided by the nutritionist that I’m not great at feeding myself, so I was on a meal plan and at a special table for those of us with eating disorders. Two staff members always sat with us and if conversation dwindled, they would start a table game so that we would hopefully be distracted enough to eat our food. At the end of each meal we “FAF-ed,” (food and feelings.) Each person had to say how their food was, how they were feeling, and one thing they were grateful for. Weird as it was, it quickly became routine for me. 
One fun surprise at the treatment center was getting to have my blood drawn nearly every morning. Bruises marked my forearms for days. Another fun part of treatment was med line. The dreaded med line. We were all, of course, on at least one medication and the nurses seemed to make it a point to take as long as possible popping out the pills for each person. They’d ask us about our poop. Every time we got meds we had to tell the nurses when we last took a shit, and being in the room closest to the med line my roommates and I got the privilege of hearing about everyone’s bowel movements or lack thereof. Med line wasn’t all bad, though. It was a time to chat with everyone, or read, or color, or sing, or whatever. 
There were lots of “classes” and meetings we had to attend, which were assigned based on what we were there for. AA for alcoholics, NA for drug addicts, DBT (dialectal behavioral therapy) for everyone. There were anxiety, mood, and eating disorder classes, as well as art therapy. Occasionally we would get pulled out to meet with our therapist, psychiatrist, or nutritionist. In DBT we practiced various techniques for distress tolerance like distraction and self soothing. In our ED group we talked about our strengths and struggles. We decorated scales, and eventually smashed them with sledge hammers. It was pretty gratifying, taking out all the anger and loathing on that stupid scale. 

At night we held our own 12 Step meeting for everyone who wasn’t allowed or didn’t want to go off-site. We took turns hosting it, and the topics varied from eating disorders to addiction to whatever recovery-focused topic we wished to discuss. Sometimes people got up and shared their story. Those nights were my favorite. I was surrounded by so many incredible, beautiful, strong souls. 
The real therapy happened on the smoke deck, where there were no staff, no professionals, just us. We talked and laughed and cried out there. Even the non-smokers sometimes came out to be with us. The smoke deck was where the party was at. 
We all struggled with different things and living in a house with 35 women in different stages of recovery and crisis was no easy task, but we gathered around one another, encouraging and lifting each other up, giving each other hugs (only after asking, of course.) I’ve never felt so loved and connected to a group of women. We were there for each other. We still are. I know if I need to, I can call any of the, and they’d love and support me from wherever they’re at. I made some truly amazing friends. 
I ended up staying longer than expected- about a month and a half. But I had something to look forward to when I got home. Not only did I finally get to reunite with my beloved, but I was also getting a puppy! And man, he has been such a point of joy and light in our lives. I’m so incredibly grateful for them both, my sweet, loving family. 

Transferring back to my treatment team at home, I felt solid, like I had my feet back under me and skills to fall back on when I was struggling. It was hard to adjust to the isolation. Being by myself most of the time was strange. No one to smoke with, no one to talk to, no one to encourage me while I was eating. I transitioned to a partial hospitalization program for a couple weeks and then I was back to once a week therapy and the occasional visit to my psychiatrist. 
For a while I was doing really well, but having just recently moved from Omaha, Nebraska to rural central Texas, I’ve been sliding back toward chaos and darkness. It’s a rough adjustment and, I’m not going to lie, I’m struggling. But so far I’m still self harm free (for eight months now. I’ve been losing weight, which is concerning my doctors. They may take me off one of my meds if my weight continues to drop. Either way I need a med adjustment to get out of this hole I’m in. I’ll be straight with you, I’ve been feeling pretty hopeless. But I’m trying my hardest to hold on to hope, work toward my goals, and spread love wherever I go. That’s all I can do, right? 
How about you? How are you doing? As always, feel free to message me if you need to talk, want advice, or whatever else.

What to Do When You Can’t Do Anything

I’m not going to lie, I haven’t been doing too well lately. My mental illnesses have been kicking my butt, and life hasn’t made things anything easier. I’ve been anxious to the point of puking most days and depressed to the point that it’s hard to even get out of bed, let alone be productive. I haven’t been able to focus or motivate myself like I usually can and I’ve barely gotten anything done the past few days, and you know what? That’s okay. My mind and body needed a break. So here’s a small list of things to do when you feel like you can’t do anything.

1) Take a break. If at all possible, take a day and let yourself do nothing. Don’t worry about being productive or keeping up appearances. You deserve a break. Make sure to take care of yourself. (Are you hungry? Eat something nutritious. Have you slept? Take a nap. When was the last time you hung out with friends or family? Call or text someone and set up a movie or coffee date. Have you taken your medication today? Do it now. What about water? Make sure you stay hydrated!)

2) Self care. Have you taken a break and feel like you still can’t do anything? Take some time for self care, however that looks for you. Take a nap, take a bath, put on make up and get dressed up, paint your nails, hang out with a friend, binge watch something on Netflix, curl up with a cozy blanket and read your favorite comfort book. What makes you happy? What makes you feel safe? What makes you feel good about yourself? Do those things. Even just one thing will help you feel a little better.

3) Work on one task. I had so many things I needed to do, but I couldn’t get anything done. So instead of worrying about all of it at once and stressing out about not getting everything done, I chose my most important task and decided I would work on it for as long as I could. And I finally made a little progress! I didn’t finish the task, but I made a dent in it. And it encouraged me to know that I can get back in the swing of things eventually.

4) Take one day at a time. Try not to worry about tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Just focus on today. Continue to take care of yourself. Eat, stay hydrated, take your meds, don’t isolate yourself, etc. Don’t beat yourself up for not accomplishing everything you wanted to. Instead, focus on what you did get done. Be kind and gentle with yourself.

I hope this gives you some ideas on what to do when you can’t do anything, and I hope it gives you hope that healing is possible. Together, we’ll get through this rough time. As always, feel free to reach out to me by comment, email, or Facebook if you need to talk. I’m here to love and support you.

As a freebie bonus, here’s a graphic I made for my most important daily affirmations. Feel free to print and use!

Are you thinking the wrong way?

One of the most important things I’ve learned in my recovery journey is to manage my negative self-talk. My negative self-talk was constant. “I’m a bad person” “I’m a failure” “I can’t do anything right” “I’m ugly and fat and stupid” “No one likes me” “I’m unlovable” and on and on. Anything that went wrong in my life was somehow directly my fault and had to do with my unworthiness, incapability, etc. And anything that hadn’t gone wrong yet was sure to go wrong in the near future because I believed that I didn’t deserve anything good or happy in my life and the universe knew it. It was a miserable way to live, but I didn’t know how to change it.

The first time I heard about retraining my brain to be more positive was at my first stay in the psych ward and I took it as a personal attack against me. To me, it sounded like, “Well if you just think happy thoughts, you’ll be happy! Your illness is all your fault and you have total control over it!” Obviously that’s not what they were saying, but that’s what I heard. But as I got to a different place in life, it started to make more sense. 

My brain is a muscle. Because of depression and anxiety and PTSD and my eating disorder, my thoughts were consistently negative. The only way my brain knew how to speak was in a negative language. What I had to do to take an active role in my recovery was teach my brain a new language- the language of truth and positivity.

First, I had to come to a point where I accepted that my brain and my disorders and my abusers were lying to me. And that was a really difficult step. It felt disingenuous to challenge my own thinking. But you have to remember that challenging your thoughts isn’t lying, it’s teaching your brain to tell you the truth.

 I’m NOT worthless. I’m NOT a piece of shit. Everything that goes wrong is NOT automatically my fault. I’m NOT unlovable. One activity that helped me confront these negative core beliefs was to write down the core belief, then write down a new, more positive thought. (It can even be neutral, for example instead of “I’m a piece of shit” you can change it to “I’m struggling and that’s okay.”) Then write down evidence for the new, more positive thought, or anything that doesn’t support or line up with the old negative belief. This activity is really challenging, but if you give it an honest try it can be really helpful. And don’t forget to ask for help from loved ones if you get stuck!

Next I had to realize that there’s a difference between my automatic thoughts and my “controlled” thoughts. I don’t have control over my automatic thoughts because, well, they’re automatic. What I do have control over is what comes after my automatic thoughts and THAT’S what I had to work on changing in order to ultimately change my automatic thoughts. 

For example, I smoke and I’m trying to cut back. I give myself a certain amount of time that I have to wait before I can have my next cigarette. But sometimes, I don’t wait the allotted period of time. My automatic thoughts when I don’t wait as long as I say I’m going to are, “You’re a piece of shit. You can’t even wait three hours between cigarettes? You’re pathetic. No one will ever love you and your boyfriend is going to leave you.” When those automatic thoughts start, I have to stop, take a breath and reframe my thinking. My controlled thoughts are, “You’re trying to do something really difficult. You’ve recently had all your old coping skills taken away and now you have to learn an entirely new set of skills. It makes sense that you’re having trouble letting go of this negative coping skill.”

It was also important for me to realize that my “positive thoughts” don’t have to be rainbows and butterflies. I touched on this earlier, but you can’t go from “I hate myself” to “I love myself” overnight. You can’t even go from “I hate myself” to “I’m not a piece of shit” overnight. This process takes months of recognizing your negative self-talk, and then challenging that negative self-talk, and it’s a slow and exhausting process to constantly be fighting with yourself. But going from negative to neutral is still a positive change!

I hope this helps at least one person understand how to challenge and change their thought process because I honestly believe it’s THE most important part of recovery. It IS possible and you ARE worth it. You deserve to know the truth. And the truth is that you are a beautiful, lovable soul, deserving of kindness and respect from everyone, including yourself.