. The following recovery story was written by Tammi Way, a 43-year old woman from Florida with lived experience of mental illness. We are grateful to Tammi for allowing us to share her powerful story of Recovery and Hope on rtor.org.
. – Jay Boll, Editor in Chief
In the beginning, help was slow to come. I was given fat woman medicine. I was told that it was all in my head. That if I looked at the world with rose colored glasses, I would be okay. It felt like no one understood me. I didn’t have the words to tell those educated in my condition where it hurt. I just felt like I was on fire with numbness over it. Three times my freedom was taken from me. I was put into small spaces where I couldn’t hurt myself. I wanted the walls to come down but had no means to collapse the barriers that kept me prisoner. The demon was shouting then. The demon knew that I was coming for it and that when the final battle was won I would come through scarred but alive.
The last time my freedom was taken it was a little different. There was a gregarious soul who came to my rescue. He remembered my pain and told me that I could do better, but with a great deal of work I could bathe in the light. I still felt helpless. I couldn’t handle anything. My father spent his days fixing things that I broke because I was lonely, and I was still actively trying to hurt myself. Seventy-five Risperdals… Okay. Cutting a 10- inch incision on my arm and continuing to cut until I almost passed out from blood loss… Fine. Stabbing myself over and over to dull the anguish… Good. I was my own worst enemy. I wanted just to stop and find rest, but in my carefully controlled world, I felt more and more out of control. It was like a sick merry-go-round and I just wanted to get off.
This time there was a new doctor who listened and made the pills work for me. He also asked me a question.
He said “Let me ask you this and I want you to think about this. Are you a victim, a survivor or a person with mental illness?” To be honest I was gob smacked. I had never looked at it that way.
I knew that I wasn’t a victim. No one actually did this to me. It was the way that I was born. I hate the word survivor, because I wasn’t planning to survive. I wanted to live. So I decided to be a person with mental illness. That being said, I had responsibilities. I was just as accountable as everyone else in my healing process. So I went with more help for myself and little by little I began to stand on my own two feet. It didn’t happen overnight, and I can’t say that I did everything right, but I would take small chances, like getting on a bus alone and making it to my appointments on time. I would sit and listen in classes where I was taught the skills to calm the demon’s voice. I learned to read and became patient enough to understand that when someone gave me a suggestion that they weren’t trying to be hurtful, they were trying to make me better. Soon I could listen to anyone and not take things personally. I could talk and I would make sense and I didn’t have to lie or make up a story to get people to like me.
It was five years before the demon began to soften its hateful expression. I decided to fight. It was NOT going to kill me, I was worth something and I knew it.
It was when I named the demon, and then I stopped giving it power. Daily I grew stronger and though the demon was still there, its voice began to grow softer. Now the walls I put in place blocked the savage voice that was trying to kill me. I gained the vernacular to tell those around me what was really hurting. It was wonderfully liberating. I could change a light bulb, I could go to the store, I could have friends, and I didn’t need to be a hermit.
I relearned how to enjoy art and to create it, though in an abstract way I could bleed my soul of the poison that was killing me and it would spill across the pages as I drew. I again took up writing and developed a fairly disciplined writing routine. I finally got myself into school and worked at it. I don’t at times have the best of grades, but I am now legitimately trying. I now don’t have to rely on my parents for company and conversation. I have friends who I cherish and who cherish me. I am striving to be well, every day, all day.
Now hope comes as a warm balm to soothe even my deepest wounds. It was by no means easy and I still have bad days, but they are fewer and farther between. I am slowly becoming a whole, a “form” with rights and responsibilities. I am finding solace in small things. Now I am beginning to know who and what I am. I believe I am worthy of love. I am still not completely formed, but I am NOT invisible any longer. I am no longer the kicking post in the room. My aura says kick me at your peril, because I am not going to give into your petty bullshit. I am Tammi and I am a sacred soul.
You can read the full version of Tammi’s story here… Tammi’s Story: My Life Began at 36
- Panic Attack versus Anxiety Attack: Understanding the Difference and How to Cope - May 29, 2023
- 5 Steps to Healing from Burnout - May 25, 2023
- Breaking the Stigma of Mental Health in the Workplace - May 22, 2023