Where’s the line between healthy pride in how far you’ve come and sinister pride that sneaks up and sabotages recovery?
When we took my son home, it didn’t take long for my insides to shed quickly to my outsides. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to shower, I didn’t want to clean, I just didn’t want to participate in life at all. I didn’t want to be a mom.
I wrote this poem in August of 2000. I was three months sober. Let me know if it means anything to you. ______________________________________________________________________ Emptiness fills the room. I alone sit quietly. Chest tight and eyes welling with tears,… Read More
The stigma associated with mental illness is a terrific one. I have struggled with depression and anxiety most of my life. I have battled both anorexia and bulimia, and participated in other self-injurious behaviors over the years…even in… Read More