Recovery stories to give us hope.

Recovery is possible, and something to try to achieve in this New Year. I want to thank Gianna Kali for this wonderful article. She lists some amazing people in it that are doing well on their road to recovery, and are inspiring. Thanks Gianna, for putting together this list!

Recovery Stories:

New stories are now added at the top of  list so if you visit again they’ll be easy to find

• NEW Psychosis, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Story as a Vehicle of Healing
• Pray, cry, scream, kick, write, whatever it takes, do not be silent, let it out.Benzodiazepine withdrawal recovery story
• Remember my friend Amy who was close to death? She is now thriving
• Jazz in Pieces Medication Madness — Epilogue and update: BIPOLAR off meds success NEW — the epilogue, that is (Jazz is UNDIAGNOSED by the MD)
• The beginning of emergence for Susan, finding faith and hope…she was not permanently broken
• Withdrawal from antidepressant leads to spiral into polydrugging, until Molly realizes that drugs are the problem and emerges victorious
• The Power Behind my Bipolar Part 1 and Part 2
• A recovery from benzos–into severe benzo illness and out

• The following is by a blogger called BipolarLife. He is currently happy and med free.
• Hope, Time and Love; three guardian angels, Alternative Routes to Recovery
• Ted Chabasinski’s story of survival

• Caty’s Story–a recovery story through peer support and the Freedom Center
  
• Decolonizing our minds: Freeing our spirits  — Guest Blogger Leah Harris
  
• Kim’s Story of Recovery —A journey of nutritional healing
• Cindy’s Story of Recovery —A journey of healing through food and Chinese Medicine
• Recovery through mind training —a journey of meditation in Buddhism—By Sally Clay
• Jim Gottstein’s recovery story —The story of a successful human rights attorney
• Another Cindy’s Story of Recovery (Long term benzo addiction which led to other drugs) Journey of nutrition, holistic care and energy work
• Jim S Story of Recovery
• Will Hall’s Story of Recovery
• “undiagnosed’s” Story of Recovery—more stories by the same author here.
• Shelby’s story of recovery
• Mania as Spiritual Emergency
• Sean’s youtube odyssey of recovery from a spiritual emergency
• To hell and back–Thor Nystrom’s story of psych drugs treatment as a teenager
• A moving story of recovery by an anonymous blogger—Medicated while still a teen due to tragic circumstances and liberated as a young adult
• Jayme’s recovery story—This story was written several years ago. Jayme is now the director of a Wellness Center in Georgia and works well beyond full-time. She is thriving more than most people would possibly imagine given her history. The moral of the story is history and what the docs tell us do not determine our future.
• A method of recovery discovered by Jayme
• The Wind Never Lies—  Steve Morgan’s Recovery Story
• A Catalog of Recovery Stories
• MORE RECOVERY STORIES HERE-specific to extreme states such as psychosis

I'm back!

I finally got wifi, and am able to get into my mail, and start blogging again proper!

I'm still in a lot of pain, I've been rushed back to the hospital twice since my last post but fortunately didn't have to stay overnight. I am resting at my parents house walking with the help of a walker, since I cannot stand up or walk on my own, and I have a catheter since... well, we won't go there .

I know it's early, but I want to wish everyone a very happy holiday. Here's one of my favorite holiday songs, cutesy of the Trans Siberian Orchestra. Enjoy.

  

I'm on the Hopeworks Community Blog Tonight!

I want to thank Larry Drain, of the Hopeworks Community Blog for including a piece I wrote especially for him this weekend on recovery. Larry asked several recovery based writers on Facebook to write guest blog pieces for his blog which he has been putting up over the last few days, and I am honored to present mine to my readers. If you don't know this blog, it's a lovely mental health recovery based blog. Enjoy.

I like to tell friends I am in double recovery. Recovery from alcoholism, and from bipolar. I found the alcohol was easy. I got sick and tired of being sick and tired, spent four days in a hell hole getting that horrible stuff out of my system, joined AA, worked the steps and as I write this , have 13 and a half years under my belt. I am so afraid to pick up again, because I know where my last drink took me, I don’t drink. Ever. Period. That was easy. But the bipolar stuff? That is hard. I still struggle daily, and I still don’t know how to do it.

Others make it look so easy, in my support group and other bloggers. I am jealous of them. I’ve spent more than half my life going to psychiatrists, therapists, taking over fifty different med cocktails and ECT all in an attempt to get depression, suicidal ideation, mania and rapid cycling under control. You name it, blue pills, red pills, round pills, square pills. I’ve been through DBT therapy, CBT therapy, Jungian, Freudian, Reiki, Art therapy, Music therapy, Past life therapy, Hypnotherapy/Hypnosis, Trauma therapy, and two I made up, Pet therapy, and Chocolate therapy. All to make the depression go away. All to feel less suicidal and fit in with people.

Article continues here.

Attitude Of Gratitude

I wasn't watching the Academy Awards last night, I have spent several years covering them, when I worked for the media corporation I worked for, doing research on the movers and shakers, and I just wasn't interested. That, and I must confess, I still haven't see "Avatar" or any of the other movies up this year.

I was channel surfing and came across a gentleman on a news station, talking about positive attitude. I must confess I had never heard of this man before, his name is Wayne Dyer and he was talking about keeping and maintaining a positive attitude. But I was struck by two things. He was in his sixties or early seventies and looked about forty. And he made a comment that he was diagnosed as having leukemia, and he still manages to swim every day, walk every day and do everything he use to do. It wasn't going to let him slow him down.

What ever he is doing, he must be doing right, I thought, snuggling on the couch, sleepy cat by my side. I grabbed the remote to make the show louder, much to the feline's consternation. I have committed the horrible cat sin- I woke up a sleeping cat. I guess my mea culpa will be a tin of Fancy Feast when she wakes again.

But I realized, as I woke the cat and grabbed the remote, it wasn't going to let him slow down. Now I can rationalize and think- well, the dude's is older, he's lived 20 or 30 years longer than me. That's silly thinking. Then it occured to me- maybe Nietzche was right, "that that doesn't destroy me will make me stronger".

One of things I noticed when I first got sober was this. How good orange juice tasted without Vodka or Everclear in it. When I had my first glass of OJ, two days after experiencing a hellish withdrawal from said Everclear- I couldn't get enough. Like one of Dickens' orphans, I asked for more. Indeed, it was the best thing I have ever tasted.

When I first got sober, I took pleasure in everything. Every sunrise and sunset. Every star in the sky. Everything my first kitty did. I walked, got my body back in shape because it had been so damaged by the Vodka and Everclear, cooked healthy meals, lost 35 pounds, and a year later, got a job at the best company I have ever worked for. I faced my demons about traveling alone, and toured England, my life long dream, on my own. And did fine. I stayed busy by a part time job in a book store, reading books to inner city children, and doing my own writing, which started to take off. It wasn't perfect, but it was good. I was grateful for every day.

Eventually, after the years passed, sobriety was no longer hard work anymore, I got complacent. I realize that now. I got disgusted with office politics, something I could never figure out how to play. Disenchanted with the whole dating scene, kissing so many frogs and never a prince. Sad from the psychiatric meds, and the whole going to the p-doc and t-doc thing. I was really unhappy, something that leaked right down into my soul. I know that now.

It was perhaps this unhappiness that started to destroy me, to make me walk to the other side, the dark side. I didn't want to live anymore, I took no pleasure in anything. No pleasure in sunrises and sunsets, staring at the stars, or beautiful days to walk in. I just saw unending days that were all the same, and my life being stuck in a rut and unable to get out, much as I feel like again at present.

Cut back to last night. Watching this man on TV, talking about recovery, dealing with leukemia, and not letting the bastards get him down, I actually started to think- this man might know something. I am about a year away from full blown leukemia- according to the oncologist I have seen. It most likely is a side effect from over a score of taking lithium. While I realize it's no longer the death sentence it was 40 years ago, I still am upset. Maybe I shouldn't be.

Maybe it's time to really get off the pity pot. The longer you live in life, the more experiences you will face. Good, bad and ugly. Bad things happen to good people. It's part of life. It's not a pleasant thing for me to know. But I cannot change this, just as much as I cannot change the fact I pay taxes, or will never be 5' 2".

One of the things I got when I first got sober was a little mirrored plaque with the Serenity Prayer. It eventually shattered, no doubt from a gust of wind from an opened window, or a cat playing with a catnip mouse. I need to start following the Serenity Prayer again. I cannot change the fact that my brain and my body isn't what it should be. They never will be again. But that shouldn't stop me from smelling the roses. Well, the daffodils are blooming soon, and they, along with white roses, are my favorite flowers.

And After Mt. Olympus, Then Came Hades

Dr. W stares at me and tells me to up my meds or hospital. I look at him, he is no longer laughing at me manic, I am back down to earth, past earth to Hades and back to suicidal despair. Indeed all I can think about is death. I tell him I don't feel safe. I clutch a small striped tabby stuffed plush my friend M and K bought for me when J left - a momma and baby cat . I put the baby in my purse ,and stroke it, trying to not be in the moment, but be four years old again.


I want someone to hold me like I was four. I have a friend on Facebook who's avatar is holding his small daughter, and I long to be held like that, comforted. I lie to the doctor, but I really don't want to be alone, I don't feel safe. I want someone to hold me at night, to grab my hand when I try to pick up a knife or a bottle of cleaning solution. But I don't have anyone. Just my cat, who stares at me with those green eyes and says "meow" and I realize that even though I am not safe, I cannot go- yet, no one will take care of her. But I wish, wish wish apon a star, i had someone who could do a one on one with me here in my apartment until this feeling passes, because it's really bad this time.

The other night was my sister's birthday and the whole family went out. I surprised everyone by grabbing a glass of pink champagne and ordering veal parm. I have not eaten veal since I was in 7th grade and learned about veal calves. Dr. W. said I'm so depressed nothing means anything to me anymore. It's common with depression. I don't know. Dr. W is good man. He was the doc who suggested the ECT back then, and apologized, said of all the people he had seen it happen I am one of probably 5 failurers. I am tired of people telling me I am a psychiatric statistical abnormality. First with the ECT, then with the Haldol= I want to scream I am tired of being maimed and hurt by you Viennese Head Thumpers! But I don't. Instead, my mother orders me some chicken parm, and a Diet Coke. The waiter asks if I want anything else. Before I even think , I say "White Russian". My mother says, "She will just have a Diet Coke". That's it. Man, I can taste that Kalhua in my brain. But would I actually drink it? I am afraid to know. Part of me would. Part of me would grab my coin in my purse, my AA coin, and drink the Diet Coke and the water on the table. My sobriety is important. Not eating veal means something to me. But not that night.

I just don't feel like myself anymore. I don't know if it's the med cocktail I am taking reluctantly, or it's from the therapy, my personality seems to me to metamorphosing into a poisonality. No one else sees it. Just me. I really hate myself. I hate therapy...I don't know if it's bring out issues I have hidden away so tight in my memory I don't want them to come up. Tear down the wall.... I don't know if it's the fact everyone I know in real life is telling me to take meds and won't support my wishes to get off all psych meds...I don't know what to think. My walls have kept me alive all these years. If they come down, will I die? I don't know but I have a gut feeling I am going to find out shortly.

I reluctantly tell the doctor I started self injuring again,, something I haven'd done in over twenty years. I am also hypersexual, again something that hasn't happened in twenty years. I just cannot stop thinking about sex. I don't understand. But I want to. I really want to, I'm just scared. I think the only life that is easy is the cereal Mikey likes.

Recovery success! - I took a bath!

I took a bath last night between innings of the World Series.

Doesn't seem like a big deal,, until I say it was the first bath I have been able to take since Easter.

This year I have been so sick, first with pneumonia, then the reaction to the pneumonia meds interacting with my psych meds. I lost control of every muscle in my body, and was unable to attend to any type of personal hygiene for a very long time with out assistance.

I had started taking showers by myself in July, and could only stand in them for about 1 minute at a time. Eventually it went to about 3 minutes without feeling like I was going to fall, and now it's about 5 minutes.

But a bath had alluded me. I just didn't have the upper body strength to lift myself out of the tub. I tried once a week for months, going into the dry tub,, and it would take me a long time to get out. it sounds silly. But I love baths, they relax me and comfort me. And sitting in a dry bathtub, in my sweats, trying to twist and turn around, and try to lift myself out of it, with the phone next to me in case i really couldn't get back out- was humiliating. But I kept on trying, kept on, kept on.

And last night I sat down in the tub and tried to lift myself out. And for the first time, since March, I lifted myself out in a matter of seconds. So I tried it for real. Put some water in the tub, donned my clothes, tied my hair up in a scrunchie, stepped in the tub. Lowered myself down, and squirmed down against the back of the tub, feet resting by the faucet. It was heaven, sheer bliss, to feel the water all over my body and soak. Just close my eyes and soak.

Eventually the water got cold, and I could hear the TV in the other room announcing the scores. It was time to get out.

I was hesitant. I hit the stopper with my big toe, and the water began to go down the drain. I lay in the tub a few more moments, hedonistically enjoying the last bits of water against my skin. When the water had mostly gone down the drain I put both my arms out on either side of the tub, raising my palms down and counted to three. Then tried to lift myself out of the tub.

And did it. I was able to stand up in a matter of seconds and reached for the fluffy green towel hanging from the shower curtain. I wrapped it around me and stepped out of the tub, on to the bath mat, and proceeded to dry off and change back into my clothes.

And I felt like I just climbed Mt. Everest, only without a
Sherpa.

A bath. A simple thing. But the biggest accomplishment I have made in a very long time, since I had to re learn to walk again.

My Charlie Gordon moment

Driving to my local support meeting last night. Not a cloud in the sky, perfect weather, it is actually getting cooler.

I took the back roads to the hospital, where we meet, because if I take the main road through my town I have to drive through the main street of the town, and this town is famous for jay walkers. I am always sick to my stomach thinking I am going to hit one. I've never hit anything in my car, but I once had a bird fly into my windshield and flop on my hood, dead. It had me in tears the rest of the day.

Everything was lovely, I was getting in mode to lead the meeting, something I hadn't done in months. I was going down Hamilton Ave and I hit the light by the fire dept. Ok no big deal. There is a pedestrian crossing there, and a very tall, scarecrow thin man in filthy tattered clothes walked across the street. I hardly noticed him. He walked past the silver SUV in front of me, to the middle of the road, (three lane highway with large shoulders), towards the other sidewalk, then he turned back around, heading back to the SUV and fell as the light turned green. At first I thought the SUV hit the man, but no, he was several feet away from it's passenger side tire.

He just lay in the road, like a broken doll. After a moment, realizing he couldn't get up, I put on the blinkers, went to the shoulder. The SUV in front of me moved to the shoulder. I pulled my cell out of my handbag and called 911. Then I went out of my car and saw several people had already gone over to him. I had my cell in my hand and the man in the red car on the opposite lane, the first car at the light yelled to me he too had called 911. We then had the people behind us move to the shoulder so the ambulances and police cars could have the road to themselves.

I walked over to the gentleman because I am Red Cross trained in CPR. I wasn't needed, since this was 3 blocks from the hospital, there was a nurse in one of the cars who was with him. I could smell the alcohol on the man from 5 feet away, mixing in with the smell of dirty clothes and BO.

And while I waited for the ambulance and police cars to arrive, I called a dear friend who I consider to be the older sister I never had, even though she is only 2 weeks older than I.

I told her about the accident and started to laugh. I didn't realize I was making fun out of this poor guy. Yes he was drunk, and fell down, but this was my evil side. Yes I was having what I refer to as a Charlie Gordon moment.
Charlie Gordon, the protagonist in the book "Flowers for Algernon". In one scene in the book, when he is a genius, he goes out to eat, and sees a bus boy drop a tray full of dishes. Everyone laughs at the poor guy, including Charlie.
Then Charlie realizes the poor kid thinks they are laughing with him, not at him, as the kid turns to the diners and smiles. He realizes it wasn't that long ago he was in the same place.

It might have been years since I was a fallling down drunk, and I forgot.
Even though I never drank in public once I left college, that still could have been me. Unkempt, poor hygiene, falling down drunk in my apartment.

I should never have laughed. I hope the ambulance sends him to the hospital, where they can pump him full of fluids and hydrate him, give him a good meal and help.

But I know one other thing I left out. The guy was clearly illegal so he won't get into the rehab hospital, unless it is at state expense and I seriously doubt they will put him in there.

I gave my statement to the police officer who basically told me they would do all they could to help him, but he seemed tired and uncomfortable in the heat wearing his uniform. It was a long hot day.

I hope the man got help.

And I thank him, who ever he is, for grounding me again.By forgetting my past, I cannot have a future.

more baby steps and feline philosophy

Things are going better. It's a matter of baby steps. I take a couple of steps forward and plop! As I land on my fat bottom.

Right now I have started with a new pdoc, the 6th one I have seen since November. I am counting the docs I saw in the hospital, inpatient and out in this tally. I really like the new pdoc, she is probably a few years older than me, but I haven't had that kind of rapport with any doc since my first pdoc, who was the best pdoc I ever saw.

I start with a new therapist on Monday at 10. She sounds nice. We have spoken a bit on the phone and she seems really caring, and she said she wanted me as a client. 

Holly is doing much better, but she doesn't want to drink her water as much as she use to. She is still drinking a lot, but she moves the water dish away from the food bowl, which is unusual behavior for her. I just got a postcard in the mail from her vet that all her shots are due in February. Poor girl. I hate taking her to the vet for these shots. Not because getting her in the carrier can be an ordeal, not because she throws up in the car. But because I feel guilty and sad when I see the needles go in her fuzzy bottom and she meows in pain. 

I am trying to get out of my head. The new doc lowered the dose of Seroquel and Geodon (Yeah)and I feel, well, sadder than I was earlier this week. The Seroquel was also making me eat too much and I put back on 5 pounds from the 35 I just lost. 

This time the recovery is so hard. It was like a cakewalk when I stopped drinking. 

I decided if I had to take myself out of my head and this dark place I was going to, I needed to do some volunteer work. Yesterday I was at the animal shelter, the one where I got my baby girl. They had an open adoption day and it was fun to be with the animals. 

One of the puppies, a Golden Lab baby had to go. I got to put a leash on him and walk him. I love dogs, but I really like Golden Labs. When the toilet paper commercial comes on that features the Golden Lab puppy,I drop everything I am doing to look at that beautiful creature. 

There was a litter of kittens. One got adopted, the rest went back for next week, along with the dogs and two beautiful adult cats. I wanted to take the kittens and cats home with me. I never had a kitten. Cleo was about 8 months old when I adopted her. Holly was 3 years old. 

When I was married about a year, hubby wanted a kitten. The vet I use had a whole cat family up for adoption, six kittens with the same mom. We found one in that litter, a black and white spotted one with long hair and beautiful green eyes. His name was Colby, his brother and sisters were all named after cheese. We took Colby into a private room at the vet's, and opened up the carrier containing Holly.  Colby was enjoying stretching his little legs, sniffing around, and trying to climb up hubby's long legs. He saw Holly and went over to say "Hello" to her. She swiped him and threw the biggest temper tantrum. Then she tried to attack him.

 Colby was handed back to the vet and placed back in the window with his brothers and sisters. The vet told me he found a very good home a few weeks later.

I felt bummed out. Holly doesn't like other cats. They told me that when I adopted her. She has to be an only cat.

It would have been nice to share my love with 2 fur babies.

Today, Sunday I am volunteering in the battered women's shelter.

I am familiar with them. I stayed there a few times when I was homeless. It should be a good experience for me, and humble me. It should ground me again, like it did before.  And help me take another baby step forward. 

And isn't that all what it's about? Baby steps til you can walk by yourself?