Content Warning for brief mention of parent death and discussions of mental health.
I feel like I always hear people talking about how lovely their healing journeys are. When I experienced what I can only describe as the second most traumatizing event of my life last semester, topped only by my dad dying, I immediately set my mind to healing over the summer. Now… why did y’all lie to me? Healing is ass!
The whole point of healing is to recover from something. Whether it’s a break-up, a sh*tty school semester, or something traumatic you’ve gone through for any period of time, you want to come out better in the end. What people neglect to mention is that putting in the effort to feel better comes with you feeling worse to start. This past summer was the most miserable one I’ve ever had and literally nothing happened! I felt like garbage the entire time because of something that happened back in March. It genuinely had me questioning if I would have been better off pushing my feelings to the depths of my soul and dealing with it… in a few weeks. A few months? Never?
I knew my therapist wouldn’t have approved of this method, so I set my mind to focusing on why what happened in March sucked so bad, and it genuinely sent me into a depressive spiral. I was eating one meal a day, spending weeks not getting out of bed until 2 in the afternoon, and missing shifts at work. I was journaling about what happened sporadically and opening up to my closest friends to try and process everything. The issue was I couldn’t stop blaming myself for what happened—that I was a narcissist who didn’t deserve the love I was receiving, that my friends only stuck around out of pity and they would eventually leave me.
I never told anyone how bad it got because I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me, but I realize now that the friends I surrounded myself with would have supported me. I can’t beat my past self up for my actions/thoughts at the time though, especially because I was doing what felt safest: keeping to myself.
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that the healing process started taking a turn for the better—finally, the sh*t everyone has been talking about.
My coworker and friend Josh, someone new in my life whom I’m eternally grateful for (although you wouldn’t catch me telling him to his face because I’m p*ssy about telling people I care for them,) asked me one day if I wanted to work out. He caught me on a good mental health day and I said yes, and I finally found something that brought me simple joy, that got me out of the pit I had been in for over half a year.
I feel it necessary to mention I was and still am p*ssed that science was right in saying that working out is good for your mental health. Like, you’re telling me that sweating and grunting around strangers for an hour every couple of days will actually release endorphins? F*ck off.
Since Josh asked me that day, I’ve been going pretty regularly—at least 3 or 4 times a week. It’s helped me sort out a healthier sleeping/eating schedule and has been on my mind whenever I’m feeling an overwhelming emotion, positive or negative. I’ve found something for me that the people who hurt me last March have no claim over while giving me a healthy way to release my energy that happens to make me feel good.
I’ve also been journaling significantly more and being more honest with my friends. I’m more willing to ask for reassurance and have been reminding myself that the people who are in my life are here because they want to be, not because I’m forcing them to. I also engage with people more and am open to experiences that may be completely new to me. For example, I’m directing a show at my school this semester and have been working on a couple of creative projects in realms I’m completely unfamiliar with.
Gradually, I am rediscovering myself and taking care of my emotional well-being. As much as I would’ve preferred to not be emotionally f*cked last semester, I appreciate the person I’m becoming and the people who have come into my life since it happened. I know they’ll never read this, but I’ve grown to hope that the people who hurt me heal from whatever it was that caused them to treat me the way they did. They helped me realize that the way I treat others isn’t always okay and it’s been a learning experience. It sucked, but I know I’ll be okay. I’m stronger than I know, and as much as healing can hurt to start, I can assure you it’s worth it.