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I’ve overdosed 27 times.
That number never gets easier to say. But I say it anyway. Not to shock anyone. Not to be pitied. I say it because it’s the truth.
One of those times, I was in a coma for two weeks. The doctors didn’t think I’d come back. But somehow, I did.
People might call it luck. I call it unfinished business.
Pain has been the undercurrent of my life for as long as I can remember. Not just the physical kind—though there’s been plenty of that. Concussions. Accidents. Two traumatic brain injuries that left bleeds in my frontal cortex. But it was the emotional wounds that really dug in. The betrayals, the abandonment. People I gave my trust to broke it. People who promised to help left me bleeding. And that kind of hurt? No prescription fixes that.
I stuck by people who wouldn’t lift a finger for me. Gave everything I had, even when I had nothing left. When the noise in my head got too loud, I found ways to mute it. Drugs. Chaos. Numbness. Anything but facing it.
That was me trying to survive the only way I knew how.
Eventually, the labels started to stack up. GAD. Panic disorder. PTSD. MDD. ADHD. Addict. Felon. I got diagnosis after diagnosis, but nothing ever really stuck in terms of treatment. Pills didn’t help. Support came and went. And yet—I didn’t die.
There were long stretches where I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay alive. But even when I wished everything would just stop, something inside me—faint, but stubborn—kept whispering: not yet.
Coming out of that coma didn’t flip some magical switch. I didn’t wake up “healed.” But something was different. There wasn’t a bright light or some grand realization—just this quiet, steady sense that I had a choice to make. Go back to slowly dying, or try—for real—to learn how to live.
I chose to try. Messy. Imperfect. But honest.
Now, I’m studying psychology. I’ve made addiction and mental health my focus. I want to understand how the systems around me failed—and figure out how to make something better. I’m also working toward becoming a peer support specialist, trying to help while I heal. I want to be the person I didn’t have when I needed someone the most.
It’s still rough. I’m on probation. No driver’s license. Getting to class or appointments is an uphill battle. Not long ago, I was hit in a motorcycle accident. While I was in the hospital, someone I trusted stole from me—then turned around and blamed me, kicked me out, and left me without a place to go.
But I didn’t spiral. Not this time.
The old me would’ve unraveled. This version? I stayed on my feet.
I’m still picking up the pieces—emotionally, mentally, legally, physically. But I’m stacking those pieces into something solid. A foundation. There are a few people now who show up for real. And I’m learning how to let them. How to trust. How to grow.
I’ve lost so much—years, people, parts of myself. But I’m not stuck on the loss anymore. I’m locked in on what’s ahead. What I can build. Who I can help.
Because I know there are others out there feeling the way I used to—broken, alone, unseen. If they see me, maybe they’ll believe something better is possible.
I shouldn’t be alive. But I am. And I’m not wasting it.
~
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