On Recovery

Confession: I hate recovery. It’s hard. And scary. And hard.

Before I can explain why, I need to tell you a bit about what I’m recovering from. “Mental illness” is an expansive term, and even when I break it into words like “depression”, “anxiety” and “BPD”, the picture is vague. So here are the broad strokes of my story.

I was diagnosed a couple years ago, November 2015, but I’ve struggled with my mental health since I was about fifteen years old. High school was hard. University was harder. Bad days bled into bad weeks which became bad months and in my third year I dropped out because my ability to function extended not far beyond shuffling my way out of bed to the bathroom a couple times a day, and maybe a trip to the kitchen at 2 am to compulsively stuff myself with whatever I could find.

Ninety per cent of the time, I believed I was a terrible person. The things I struggled with were things a good person should not struggle with. Sleeping too much. Skipping classes. Procrastinating. Not keeping my room clean. Not keeping myself clean. Depending on others for stability. Self harm.

I couldn’t let myself accept that I might have a medical condition. That seemed too easy – a cop out. I was just lazy. I was just selfish, a drama queen. I was making a mountain out of a mole hill. I was pathetic. I was bad.

I lived with unrelenting guilt, which ushered me to the brink of suicide more times than I can count.

When it finally became apparent that there was something going on beyond lazy and pathetic, when I was finally hospitalized and diagnosed, I clung to my new labels for dear life. The validation of a clinical diagnosis was an unparalleled gift, an acquittal, an absolved identity. I was no longer bad; I was sick.

“Sick” has been my savior.

I finally have a name for why getting out of bed is so hard. There is a reason I’ve struggled with close relationships. My tendency to get overwhelmed and shut down at the smallest trigger is now explained by the confirmation of my mental illness. This diagnosis explains what, for the past seven or eight years, has been my life. It gives me terms with which to understand my history – terms beyond “failure” and “loser”. It provides a structure within which I have found support and community. My labels have given me a freedom of conscience I didn’t dare to hope for.

THIS is why recovery has been/is still so hard. One minute my struggle was validated and my name cleared of charges, the next I am expected to begin dismantling the disorder and, subsequently, this brand new gift: my character-clearing diagnosis.

Of course, hesitation here isn’t logical. If my disorders can be righted and my quality of life improved, I shouldn’t need the labels of a diagnosis to protect me. The enemies, my mental and emotional struggles, should be gone, or at least no longer unmanageable, and I should no longer need protecting.

But these struggles have been my reality for so long. I can’t quite believe in life without them. And even if I could, such a life scares me. Beyond the chronic existential battle and the milieu of unhealthy behaviours, I don’t really know who I am. I’ve never been an adult without these issues. I was never even a teenager without these issues. They’ve taken up so much time and energy, I haven’t had much left over to discover who I might be beyond them. Or how to even live like a normal person. The concept of a 9-5, Mon-Fri job scares the shit out of me. If I find myself able to get out of bed before noon and not spend the rest of the day under a storm of fatigue and anxiety, what will I do with myself?? Am I capable of this “adulting” thing people talk about?

Will it even matter if I am? For whatever reason, I seem, also, to have internalized an idea that if I am not sick, I don’t matter. I suspect this has something to do with feeling invisible when I was drowning, and how the desperate situations and labels that followed brought some dearly-needed attention. Whatever the cause, it makes me very protective of my disorders and very competitive with others who have mental illness. Because if worth is predicated on illness, the sicker you are the more worth you must have, right? (This does not apply to successful people in the “real world” – their worth is in what they contribute: the first standard I was unable to meet.)

So I guess at its root recovery needs to be about establishing my worth and identity in something else. Probably something spiritual.

Right. Good. I’ll just get on that, then.

Here’s the thing: the world is BIG. People are unpredictable. Life is complicated and scary. Crazy as it sounds, there are ways in which mental illness seems preferable to facing these challenges. Easier. My bed is, at least, safe.

But mental illness is NOT preferable. Not really.

I’m 22 years old. I have dreams. I want to complete my undergrad degree. I want to travel. I want to write. I want to backpack across Europe or Australia or … something. I want to live. Depression and anxiety and living in my room offer a small, dark safety, but the cost is so high. The cost is depression and anxiety and living in my room. The cost is misery. The cost is hopelessness.

So I’m working on my recovery. I’m making myself go out. I’m engaging with the world around me. I’m making friends and eating and taking on small responsibilities. I’m taking my meds. I’m working at balance. I’m showering (somewhat) more regularly and, on average, spending less time in bed. And this is just the stuff that shows.

I feel useful, you guys. I feel alive, like I maybe have a place in this world. I feel hope. I have aspirations again, beyond mere survival. When left alone, my thoughts don’t always meander into darkness. Sometimes I host ideas and fantasies that are actually nice.

And the spiritual part? The finding-worth-beyond-my-accomplishments-or-diagnosis part? It’s coming too. I know a few places NOT to find it, so that’s something, right? I’m not going to be any sort of spiritual guru anytime soon, but I’m learning mindfulness and self-compassion. And theology, which is a whole other thing. I’m just at the tip of theology and discovering how it works and where it intersects spirituality and what it all means.

It’s hard, though. It really is. Recovery. Life. It’s all just fucking HARD. Sometimes I hate it. The further I get into recovery, the further I feel from the safety of my old fall-backs. Which is terrifying. Sometimes I’m not sure it’s worth it.

Those days, I slow down.

Sometimes I relapse.

You thought I was leading to a deep, profound conclusion, didn’t you? Nope. I’m not sure what I’m trying to convey, honestly. Recovery is hard. (I sound like a broken record, I know.) It’s also amazing. But hard. But amazing.

But hard.

But amazing.

Thank goodness for small steps.

11 thoughts on “On Recovery”

  1. Thank you Ellyanne for this deeply true and articulate expression of your experience. It’s very personal, but you have also touched on something universal here- the need to be seen and understood, and the huge risk of loss involved in embracing.
    recovery. It’s an issue I think
    few people have articulated so clearly.


  2. hey there Ellyanne, thank you so much for sharing! wishing i could share this to my colleagues, while I sit here in my emergency psychiatric office at work, because I think amidst all the stuff we see here, we forget that inside that person is still someone with longing and hope, even if it is tiny and unable to look like something we call HOPE. my only small suggestion is a person i could connect you with, who is fabulous at tying the M.H stuff and the spiritual stuff together in a mysterious and marvelous way. let me know if you think you might want to explore that. I personally find that being out and with people who speak my language of the heart (IE: people like you) give me life and motivation, I’m praying you find some of those kinds everyday.


    1. Please DO feel free to share this with your colleagues. You’re absolutely right about that tiny ember of hope – it’s hard for those on the outside to see, and it’s often equally hard for those on the inside to feel. But it’s there. Thanks so much for your comment. I’ll reply further via fb messenger. 🙂


  3. Your a brave girl Ellyanne,—and a good writer! I read hope and a will to overcome. I read strength and progress.
    I pray that you will find the satisfaction of working hard, and then of healing and joy of living. You have so much going for you in family and friends, health workers and programs. I’m proud of you, and know that you will not give
    up. Stay strong and know there are lots of us praying you well. Love and tears from Grandma


  4. Ah, Ellyanne. You are a tender and courageous soul. Thank you for sharing your journey. My heart goes out to you as you write of your struggle. May it help to know that many are cheering you on, and believe you to be of infinite value. With love & prayers, Kathryn

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Thank you. I needed some understanding this morning and there were your open and eloquent words to provide it. Hope is a great thing. The small steps you refer to at the end are huge in my eyes.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. The truth shall set you free. Dear Lord, I bring Ellyanne before your throne of grace and mercy so she can bathe in Your presence and see herself as You see her. Your child, precious to You, perfect even at those times when darkness desires to consume, loved even during those times of struggle. Thank you that she is deeply honest, thank you that her heart is tender and searching and desiring and hopeful. Thank you for her articulate gift as she teaches through her writing and we are privileged to learn in her presence. I ask for the presence of Your Holy Spirit to speak to her of her worth and purpose and comfort and strengthen her while she is being courageous. I ask that Your angels will surround her and protect her. I ask These things in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, the protector, the healer, redeemer and friend. Amen. Love you Ellyanne. Did you know that Anne means grace?


    1. Thank you, Evangeline. (Do you mind being called Evangeline? I know everyone calls you Evange, but “Evangeline” has been my favourite name since I was a kid.) Yes, it’s funny, actually, because “El” means God and “Anne” means grace. So my first name can be loosely translated to mean “God’s grace”, and my middle name, Jeanette, means “grace of God”. Like someone knew from the beginning I was going to need a whole lot of this grace stuff 😉


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