Picture a kitchen garbage pail that is clearly full. You know you should take it out, but instead you press the trash down. Tomorrow, you think. Tomorrow comes, and you make more room. A week passes, and you avoid the pail entirely, letting trash pile beside it. Another week and the floor beneath it begins to rot. Then it caves, and one day you fall straight through, surrounded by everything you refused to deal with.
I grew up learning to push everything down: my parents separating, being told to lie, partners disrespecting me, and emotions that made me uncomfortable. I packed it all away until the floor finally gave out, and I fell into a manic episode. I barely remember it. All I had were the Snapchat videos I recorded, and they are still too painful to watch. I hurt my family, my friends, my exes, and myself.
I believe the episode happened because my younger self finally escaped. I had locked her away long ago for being too sensitive and too honest, but she had been pounding on that door for years. When she kicked it down, I fell into the hole, and she took over. I watched helplessly as she called exes, wandered the children’s museum, hallucinated, contacted hundreds of people, and proudly announced a backyard concert. It was like watching someone set my life on fire.
But she also did what I never had the courage to do. She confronted our mom. She stood up to the ex who cheated on us. She called our dad and told him the truth, that she loved and missed him. She drew, crafted, made friends, and lit up hospital art rooms. She lived without fear. She lived the way I once wanted to.
Eventually, I had a choice: acknowledge everything she had brought to the surface or shove it all back down. When someone told me a drink or a line would “fix” me, I took it. Slammed the door on her again. My emotions flattened. I dropped my medication and replaced it with whiskey and cigarettes. I went back to my boyfriend, went back to work, pretended everything was normal. Then he left for Texas, promised long distance, and cheated again. I was broken again.
I spiraled. I dated a man twice my age. I drank at work. I drove drunk. I lived in a spare bedroom littered with bottles. I told myself that this was what I deserved. If possible, I was more broken than before.
Then, one morning, I drove to work; even though my permit was suspended, and something in me shifted. I called the one friend I still had, and she told me to leave him. Minutes later, he showed up at my job, and I broke up with him in the car. It was rushed and messy, but it was the first piece of trash I picked up off the floor.
In the middle of all that chaos, one memory glowed: a coworker who always stopped to say hi. I had hugged him once, and it was the safest hug of my life. It glowed warm, white, yellow. Younger me noticed it too. I told myself that if he walked in that day, I would give him my number. And he did. It felt like something bigger had put him there.
That day became my last drink for five years. His sobriety opened a doorway for my own. He helped me clean the ruined room inside me. I got my license, saw a doctor, started therapy, and went back on medication for bipolar, anxiety, and depression. Slowly, the floor returned beneath my feet.
My journey didn’t end there. I relapsed later with weed and mushrooms, a small crack in comparison, and joined twelve-step meetings. I learned I have ADHD and an eating disorder. I left a toxic job for one that honors me. I am still cleaning the room, but now I have help: friends, family, coworkers, my therapist, and my fiancé. Soon, I will be Mrs. White Yellow Light.
You cannot clean the whole mess alone.
And you are not your garbage.
If you live with a dual diagnosis, you are not alone. Statistics show that about half of all people with a severe mental illness also have a substance use disorder, and conversely, over half of those with a substance use disorder also have a mental illness.
Consider joining us for our dual diagnosis support group, Wired Differently.
Beginning January 2nd, we’ll be meeting on the first Friday of the month.