destinylaharris

Tag: mental health

  • Sunday Things

    Some weeks give you stories to tell.

    Some weeks give you little moments worth remembering.

    And some weeks leave you sitting there wondering what the actual fuck just happened.

    This was one of those weeks.

    Sunday Things is going to look a little different this time. Not because I planned it that way, but because I genuinely don’t remember enough of this week to tell you about it the way I normally would.

    And honestly?

    I’m not entirely sure I want to remember it.

    💭 The Days I Can’t Account For

    Monday morning started with an asthma attack.

    I woke up struggling to breathe, called off work, and made an appointment with my doctor. She prescribed a steroid and a new medication called Singulair to help manage my asthma and allergies, particularly the nighttime symptoms that were contributing to my morning attacks.

    I took my first dose Monday night.

    Tuesday morning?

    I felt phenomenal.

    I could breathe. I wasn’t waking up fighting for air. I genuinely thought we’d finally found something that was going to help me.

    Oh, how wrong I was.

    Tuesday night, I barely slept. I was waking up every two hours, and my period had decided to make an appearance with absolutely no consideration for anything else happening in my life.

    By Wednesday, I was exhausted.

    I forced myself to go to work because I needed to complete a recertification, but I spent most of the morning lying on the floor with my heating pad until I absolutely had to get up.

    I eventually told my manager I needed to leave.

    And that’s when things got really fucking weird.

    I got home around 9 AM and settled into my recliner.

    What felt like fifteen minutes later, my boyfriend’s mom was walking through the door.

    It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

    Six and a half hours had passed.

    I hadn’t been sleeping.

    I hadn’t gone anywhere.

    I’d just been sitting there.

    And I couldn’t account for the time.

    Apparently, I video-called my sister five different times that day. I remember two of those calls, and I couldn’t tell you what we talked about.

    I do remember looking at my own face on the screen during one of them.

    And watching it turn into a skeleton.

    Not a filter.

    Not something I was imagining for fun.

    I was genuinely watching my face change in front of me.

    And somehow, in my completely exhausted state, I decided I was probably just tired and needed to get off the phone.

    Looking back, that’s terrifying.

    At the time, I was too confused to recognize just how wrong things had gotten.

    I was losing track of time, forgetting conversations, and barely functioning. I was so out of it that I wasn’t even properly taking care of myself while dealing with an incredibly heavy period.

    That night, I couldn’t sleep.

    Again.

    At 3:30 in the morning, I messaged my doctor because I genuinely didn’t understand what was happening to me.

    I’d slept approximately one hour in two days.

    And when I finally did fall asleep?

    I had one of the worst night terrors I’ve ever experienced.

    I woke up absolutely terrified, ran straight into my boyfriend’s arms, and begged him not to go to work.

    I was shaking. My heart was racing. I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.

    I was scared.

    Really fucking scared.

    Thursday morning, I contacted my doctor’s office.

    I explained what had been happening, and they wanted me to come in.

    Great. When?

    October 20.

    Almost two weeks away.

    I made the appointment, but I also made it very clear that I wasn’t taking another dose of Singulair while waiting.

    I’d learned that the medication carries an FDA boxed warning for serious mental health side effects, and what I was experiencing was frightening enough that I wasn’t willing to continue taking it.

    The worsening depression, anxiety, insomnia, confusion, and hallucinations were more than I could handle.

    And I still had no idea how much of my week I’d lost.

    🖤 Finding My Way Back

    Friday morning, I slept straight through my alarm.

    Apparently, my boyfriend woke me up to turn it off.

    I don’t remember that.

    Apparently, I’d also promised my mom that I’d take my niece to school.

    Don’t remember that either.

    Needless to say, J was a little late. 😅

    Thankfully, my manager was incredibly understanding about everything happening.

    I finally got myself into the shower, changed out of the clothes I’d practically been living in all week, and started feeling a little more human.

    And then I called my sister.

    Immediately, I heard two familiar little voices yelling:

    “BLAHBLAH, UP!”

    Well.

    There went my child-free weekend. 😂

    I’d originally planned to attend a concert Saturday and have a date night with my boyfriend Sunday.

    But after the week I’d had, I decided the concert wasn’t happening.

    And since I was feeling considerably better than I had been, I went and picked up Doodoo and Pooh Boy.

    My boyfriend’s mom was off work Friday, so thankfully, I had plenty of help.

    Saturday has been wonderfully uneventful.

    We’ve stayed inside in our pajamas.

    The boys have played.

    I’ve occupied my usual spot on the couch.

    And I somehow convinced both toddlers to take a nap simply because I wanted a nap.

    Pooh Boy slept in the bedroom, and Doodoo curled up with me on the couch.

    No big adventures.

    No running around.

    No plans.

    Just a quiet day at home.

    And after everything that happened this week?

    I’ll take it.

    I usually end Sunday Things with some kind of reflection.

    Something I’ve learned. Something I’m grateful for. Some little moment that made the chaos worthwhile.

    But I don’t have one of those this week.

    I don’t think every awful experience needs to become a lesson.

    Sometimes things are just awful.

    And this week was.

    There are entire conversations I don’t remember having. Hours I can’t account for. Moments that frightened me more than I realized at the time.

    I’m still not feeling completely like myself, but I’m getting a little better every day.

    And right now, that’s enough.

    Some weeks are worth remembering.

    This is one I’d rather forget.

    Until next time,

    — Destiny

  • Between the Lines #5: Monsters

    I used to think growing up meant learning that monsters weren’t real.

    Monsters

    As we got older,
    the monsters crept from under our beds
    to inside our heads.

    We stopped checking closets.

    Stopped leaving
    the hallway light on.

    Stopped pulling blankets
    over our faces
    because someone told us

    there was nothing there.

    And we believed them.

    For a while.

    We laughed
    at the children we used to be.

    Afraid of shadows.

    Afraid of footsteps.

    Afraid of something
    reaching from beneath the bed
    and grabbing our ankles.

    We didn’t know yet

    that monsters grow up too.

    They stop hiding
    beneath mattresses

    and start answering
    to ordinary names.

    Anxiety.

    Grief.

    Shame.

    Trauma.

    Loneliness.

    The voice that says
    everyone you love
    will eventually leave.

    The memory
    that waits until 2 a.m.
    to remind you
    it never really went anywhere.

    The fear
    that maybe you are difficult to love.

    The thought
    that everyone else
    was given instructions
    for being alive

    and somehow
    yours got lost.

    As children,

    we could run
    to another room.

    Climb into someone’s bed.

    Whisper,

    “I’m scared.”

    And sometimes
    that was enough.

    Someone would check the closet.

    Look beneath the bed.

    Turn on the light.

    Promise us

    nothing was there.

    God,

    I miss when fear
    could be proven wrong
    with a flashlight.

    Because now

    the monster knows my name.

    It knows my history.

    It knows exactly
    which memories
    to pull from the shelf

    when I am finally
    having a good day.

    It knows
    which insecurities
    still have teeth.

    It knows how to sound
    exactly like me.

    That’s the cruelest part.

    Eventually,

    you stop knowing

    which thoughts
    belong to you

    and which ones
    belong to the monster.

    So I became
    my own night-light.

    My own open door.

    My own voice
    in the darkness saying,

    “There’s nothing there.”

    Even when
    I wasn’t sure.

    Especially when
    I wasn’t sure.

    As we got older,

    the monsters crept
    from under our beds

    to inside our heads.

    And maybe growing up

    was never about
    discovering

    that monsters
    aren’t real.

    Maybe it was realizing

    no one else

    can check beneath the bed

    for us anymore.

    So now,

    when the darkness comes,

    I sit beside
    the frightened child
    still living inside me.

    I take her hand.

    I turn on the light.

    And together,

    we remind the monsters

    that this time—

    they’re the ones

    who should be afraid of us.

    Between the Lines

    When I was little, monsters were easy.

    Not necessarily less scary—but easier.

    They lived under beds.

    Inside closets.

    In dark hallways.

    Behind doors that looked completely harmless during the day but somehow became suspicious as hell once the lights went out.

    And when you were scared, you could call for someone.

    Someone bigger would come into the room, turn on the light, open the closet, look underneath the bed, and show you there was nothing there.

    Fear could be proven wrong.

    I think that’s what sits underneath this poem more than anything else.

    God, I miss when fear could be proven wrong with a flashlight.

    Because somewhere along the way, the monsters changed.

    They stopped having claws and shadows and glowing eyes.

    They became things like anxiety.

    Grief.

    Shame.

    Trauma.

    Loneliness.

    Memories.

    The things we tell ourselves when it’s late and everything feels heavier than it did during the day.

    And nobody can walk into the room and prove those things aren’t there.

    Nobody can shine a flashlight underneath your thoughts.

    That might be one of the cruelest parts of growing up.

    But while writing this poem, I realized something else.

    When I was a child, I needed someone else to turn on the light.

    Now I can do it myself.

    Not always.

    Not perfectly.

    And sometimes I turn it on with shaking hands.

    But I can sit beside the younger versions of myself who are still scared. I can remind them that we survived the things we once thought we wouldn’t. I can question the voice that tells me every fear is a fact simply because it sounds like my own.

    Maybe that’s part of growing up, too.

    Not becoming fearless.

    Not finally reaching some magical age where the monsters disappear.

    Just learning that when they come back, you don’t have to hide beneath the blankets anymore.

    You can turn on the light yourself.

    And maybe, eventually, the monsters learn to be afraid of you.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What was the thing you were most afraid of in the dark when you were a kid?

  • If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

    If I had a time machine and could send one message to my past self, I think I’d tell her:

    You make it.

    I know you don’t believe me.

    Actually, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at me right now because you’ve already decided you won’t.

    You’ve spent so much of your life fighting with yourself. With food. With your body. With your own reflection. You’ve hurt yourself because sometimes physical pain felt easier to understand than whatever was happening inside your head.

    And there will come a point when you don’t just think about dying.

    You’ll make a plan.

    You’ll decide you’re not going to make it to 30.

    But you do.

    You’re 33 now.

    And, because apparently we like to overachieve, you’re about to spend the next several months in medically induced menopause. 😂☠️

    I know. I KNOW.

    Thirty-three and menopause was definitely not on the bingo card.

    But here’s the part I really wish you could see:

    You’re doing it because you’re trying to give yourself a better chance at having a baby.

    You.

    The girl who couldn’t picture herself making it to 30 is 33 years old and planning for a child.

    You’re planning a future.

    And there’s something else you’re definitely not going to believe.

    Remember that 18-year-old who walked out in the middle of his shift on a busy night?

    The one who, for some reason, you just knew was going to leave an impression on your life?

    Yeah.

    Him. 😂

    You’re both living completely different lives right now. You’re married. He’s engaged. And no, before your brain goes there, absolutely nothing is happening between the two of you.

    But you were right about one thing.

    He does leave an impression on your life.

    You just have absolutely no idea how big of one yet.

    Years from now, he’ll come back into your life permanently.

    He’ll become your best friend.

    And somewhere along the way, without either of you really realizing when it happened, that friendship will turn into something neither of you saw coming.

    And this is the part you’re really going to have trouble believing:

    You’re going to fall completely in love with him.

    Yes.

    A man. 😂

    I know.

    You’re still bisexual. You’re still ridiculously attracted to women. Apparently men, on the other hand, are going to have exactly one exception.

    Him.

    Turns out, you don’t fall in love with him because he’s a man.

    You fall in love with him because he’s him.

    And one day, that 18-year-old who walked out in the middle of his shift on a busy night—the one you somehow knew you weren’t going to forget—is going to be sitting beside you while you plan a life together.

    A home.

    A family.

    Even a child.

    And the craziest part?

    He’ll change your life without ever setting out to.

    He won’t rescue you.

    I need you to understand that part.

    Nobody swoops in and magically fixes everything that happened to you. The things you’ve survived don’t disappear. Some of them will follow you longer than you think they should.

    Even years later, you’ll occasionally see a woman in public who looks just enough like someone from your past that your body reacts before your brain can remind it that you’re safe.

    Healing doesn’t erase the past.

    But your life gets bigger than it.

    And that boy won’t save you.

    He’ll just be there.

    He’ll become your best friend. Your safe place. The person you laugh with, annoy, cuddle, build ridiculous little memories with, and eventually start imagining an entire future beside.

    And somewhere along the way, without either of you realizing it was happening, you’ll stop counting down the years you have left.

    You’ll start thinking about all the years you still want.

    You’ll start thinking about a baby.

    You’ll start thinking about growing older.

    You’ll start making plans that stretch years into the future.

    And someday you’re going to realize something that would probably make you cry if I told you right now:

    You didn’t just make it past 30.

    You built a life you actually want to stay for.

    So if I could tell you only one thing, I guess it wouldn’t actually be some profound piece of advice.

    I’d just tell you to stick around.

    Because I know you can’t see her yet—

    but 33-year-old you is waiting.

    And she has plans.

  • Between the Lines #1

    I wrote this before this blog ever existed.

    It was tucked away in one of my notebooks, waiting for the right place to live.

    I think it found that place here.

    Scars

    The gods always asked

    for sacrifices.

    Some were given lambs.

    Some were given daughters.

    I was given myself.

    No temple stood above me,

    no choir sang my name,

    yet something holy

    was taken all the same.

    Every pale line

    is another language

    my body learned

    instead of peace.

    The ones across my legs

    look like rivers

    on an old map—

    proof that even broken things

    search for somewhere

    to belong.

    People ask

    if I regret them.

    As if regret

    could erase history.

    As if skin

    ever forgets

    the knife,

    the fingernails,

    the hands that held too tightly,

    the nights that stole

    more than sleep.

    My skin is carved with scars

    that someone else earned.

    Not mine.

    Mine was only the body

    left behind

    after their hands,

    their words,

    their silence

    had already decided

    what would become of it.

    My skin was never sacred.

    It was only the altar.

    They called it survival.

    The gods

    would have called it

    an offering.

    Maybe that’s why

    I no longer pray

    for smooth skin.

    I pray instead

    for gentler hands,

    for quieter nights,

    for a body

    that no longer mistakes

    silence

    for safety.

    If the gods ever come looking

    for the pieces

    they abandoned,

    they’ll find them here—

    written beneath my skin,

    where every scar

    became a sentence,

    every sentence

    became a story,

    and somewhere along the way,

    I stopped being

    the sacrifice.

    I became

    the monument.

    Until next time,

    — Destiny

    P.S. Which line stayed with you the longest?