Today marks the one year anniversary of my release from the hospital. I’m incredibly torn. Part of me feels frustrated and let down that ever since I left the hospital, my family has put in their best effort to pretend none of it ever happened. They don’t seem to understand how significant the day is for me, or that I might want to be open about how I am feeling in my own home. Over the year as well, my folks have made hurtful and ignorant generalizations about mental illness not seeming to have gained any understanding from what I’ve been through.
On the other hand, part of me wants to celebrate. The day I left the hospital marked a brand new beginning where I was much more equipped to tackle life on my terms rather than on my illnesses’ terms. I went through hell and emerged on the other side victorious. Why shouldn’t I celebrate that?
I wish I lived in a world where I could celebrate out loud and not be judged or feared, ridiculed or looked down upon, scorned or invalidated. I want to shout to the cosmos that one year ago today, I got a fresh start on life. For now, I’ll settle for a few words on the internet on an obscure blog. Chances are that only those who understand will ever read this, and that’s okay. I don’t need the world’s permission to be proud of who I am and how far I’ve come.
Ashes Dancing 