Webster’s Dictionary states time is a measurable period during which an action, or process or condition exists…And time was about to go real slow for me after my diagnosis.
I was about to be an active participant in my 2-week intensive group therapy per my hospital psychiatrist.
And I was excited.
I was nervous.
I was going to kick ass.
However, I didn’t know what I was in for – at all. I was so excited to be in this therapy group. This was my first experience with therapy in general. I met some really sweet and kind people at the group. I met their experiences and them mine.
It was the first time I didn’t feel alone if only for a minute.
It was comforting that I wasn’t the only one feeling this terrible.
We spoke and spoke about all the things that were happening presently and how we got to the point we were in too. I felt a little shame, but I knew it was for the best. I felt such a huge relief to have a name for my black monster. However, I just wanted it to be over and done.
Over the course of those 2- weeks, I realized that a lot of work was ahead of me. I may have bitten off more than I can chew it seemed. I was hesitant at this point. Until I met two people in my group that I seemed to connect with on an emotional level. I thought if I could build a support system here, I could make it through.
One was a very kind guy. He was thoughtful and kind, but so deeply sad. And the other was a girl with my same diagnosis and she was very sweet and fun. I ended up becoming friends with the girl and started to get to know the guy.
The more I came to group therapy my compassion grew. I just wanted to give everyone a hug and tell them it was going to be alright.
They weren’t alone even if they felt it inside.
I made a point to hang out with my friends and get to know them: however, sadly, I didn’t get much time with my guy friend because he took his life.
It was in the month of October. I remember him to this day. I went to his funeral.
Hardly anyone was there for him. I was so sad for him and his family. My time with him was cut too short.
During the funeral, I made the decision to live and make a real effort to fight this black beast. I would keep fighting even if I fall on my face over and over again. I was going to deal with the pain. I was going to learn all I could about mental health. I was going to be honest with my diagnosis and do the work.
I will be honest with you. Everyone’s journey to healing or/ navigating our diagnosis is very different. I don’t believe you can make shortcuts or manipulate the process in any way.
I tried and failed.
My journey to healing has been exhausting. I wanted to quit a lot. Trust me when I say this. You will want to quit. You will want to concede at every point that causes you to re-live pain again. It gets freaking messy. However, we are responsible for the mess even if it was someone else who left it. I know it doesn’t seem fair. I fought “cleaning up someone else’s mess” a ton of times.
However, it’s worth it because you just cultivated a life worth living.
It ripples from the centre of one’s life. It touches those who love you. It will help you meet people halfway. It moves people who have met you to understand your presence. It allows others to experience the best of you. Your heart becomes free of what holds it down. Your open and healed heart will allow you to face anything! It will move you to tears to see and fully feel your growth. It will help you endure the worse of life. You belong here, friend. Trust me. There is more to come.
Written by Debra (follow on instagram @heybuddha_babe)
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