Went to Hades, took a dissociative nap, came back with new meds and receipts.
The last two years have chewed me up, spit me out, stomped on me for good measure, and then somehow asked me why I wasn’t smiling more.
At the end of February 2024, I checked myself into a psychiatric facility. I came home on February 29th thinking, “Aiight. New meds, new me – let’s do this shit.” Instead, it felt like I walked straight into a crime scene — one I caused. Every corner of my house whispered or screamed reminders of how I’d been failing myself for over a year before I finally admitted I needed help.
So, I retreated. I gave myself permission to take it slow, to stay where it felt safe — which was basically my bedroom and nowhere else. Big mistake. I went to therapy three times a week and waited for things to feel less like danger. But the longer I stayed in my room, the more the rest of the house felt cursed.
I stopped going down the hallway to my kids’ rooms. I avoided the kitchen like I owed it money. The living room? Absolutely not. Just sitting in there made my body feel like it was on fire. Muscles locked. Jaw clenched. Smile painfully glued on. I looked like a person, but I didn’t feel like one.
By the time Christmas rolled around, I had unknowingly spent the better part of a year (March 1st to December ~26th) as a glorified poltergeist. Then I overheard the most beautiful thing, Jamison and the kids laughing and playing in the living room — and it hit me. I had removed myself from my entire life. My home. My family. Myself.
I didn’t exist anywhere anymore.
So I decided to come back. Slowly. Awkwardly. Uncomfortably. But intentionally.
First, I started sitting in the living room for little chunks of time. Then I got switched to the night shift, which meant I had to be in the living room all night — and weirdly, that was fine. Turns out I’m more comfortable in dark, quiet, people-free spaces than well-lit, emotionally complicated ones. Who could’ve guessed?
Little by little, it got easier. And then February came again (because of course it did), and I tried to set down one heavy burden real gently for just a little bit — and instead got absolutely punted emotionally by people who say they love me unconditionally but absolutely skipped the “How Not to Re-Traumatize Someone Already Living in Survival Mode” section of the Basic Human Compassion and Empathy manual. I lost roughly 40 lbs. in six weeks, stopped eating, and had night terrors so intense I was sleeping maybe 1–2 hours a night. Absolute vibes.
It all exploded with a screaming match, some classic gaslighting, and me being called a liar to my face. But thank the gods for my psychiatrist — who is honestly part god herself — because she helped me adjust my meds and reminded me that hey, I do in fact matter. (And also, maybe check in before I hit complete meltdown mode next time. Noted.)
I made a huge decision — regarding those people in my life. One I never would’ve made before. It was ignored. It’s still being ignored. But I made it, and I’ve decided that I get to move on, even if they don’t want me to.
In just the past couple weeks — especially the last one — something’s changed. I’m cleaning. I’m organizing. I’m back to helping. I’m doing things on my own. I’m out in the daylight like some emotionally exhausted vampire who finally cracked a window. I’m existing outside of ‘worm in a garden’ mode.
None of this would be happening without Jamison. He picked up 99% of everything when all I had was a heartbeat and the occasional self-deprecating quip. That man deserves a crown, or at least a nap and a new video game. I’m also endlessly thankful for the amazing friends I’ve made through a Facebook group I help run — two in particular who have shown up for me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
My support system has shrunk and refined itself down to exactly what I need: safe, solid, real people. My marriage is calm. My kids are thriving and full of joy. My home feels like it’s breathing again.
Yeah, I’m still heartbroken by what’s happened. But I’m also… weirdly thankful. Because it brought me back to the start of something real.
I’m excited to finally get to meet my true self for the first time in 35 years (well, 2 months short of 35 years).
Traumatized Viridimere 