I recover out loud:
Threads of hope
“I recover out loud so those that suffer in silence can see the threads of hope woven among those of pain.”
~J.D. Lynn
I am an open-book. Not a private person at all.
And, I understand that for many people this seems dangerous. Because people can be evil and take information that I have posted or written and use it against me.
I get it. I’m not naive. And this has happened to me—
Like the student who claimed I was mentally unstable, after looking me up on online and finding my story of trauma, as a PTSD and [family] suicide survivor. (Trying to mask his own emotional wounds, PTSD and lack of accountability.)
But still: I write. I share.
And the above reason is why. For hope. For others who bear the load in silence, who feel alone.
It’s one thing to admit that we still have mental illness stigma and need to de-stigmatize conversations surrounding mental health.
It is another to live it out. To live it forth.
To say that, I too, have struggled with my mental health, and that this is my family’s story, rife with emotional inheritance, intergenerational trauma, and mental illness.
Coupled with all the suicides.
I do realize I make myself vulnerable, but I strive to be honest. About the struggles but also about the healing journey, being at another point, making it the other side.
Yes, I am resilient, but it has been challenging. Sometimes it gets worse before it gets better.
Sometimes we bear our story and act bravely, showing our humanity and scars, making ourselves vulnerably to heal.
We witness. Bear testimony.
When we do, the whole story is so much more interesting and relatable…it’s so much more real, than any trite BS that I was just strong enough, that I could just roll with the punches and not miss a beat after everyone died.
But that’s not the truth. It’s not what happened.
I did stumble. Several times. Sometimes it was quick. I knew how to mask. I could get up again, and press on, but in this race of life I often times limped, tripping time and time again.
Muddy knees.
Twisted ankles.
Keep going. Press on.
That’s what my life has felt like the past few years, trying to run the race with a sprained ankle.
I went looking for stories of other multiple suicides in one family, for someone’s survival story.
My story is not perfect, but may it offer threads of hope to those in pain, suffering in silence.
