I had held a whisper of a hurt from my childhood, and it had no name. Love, in my childhood, seemed conditional, and attention was granted only when I was well-behaved or when I stayed out of sight. I learned to survive by putting on a brave face for the world. Inside, though, it was empty. Neglect leaves its imprints, an invisible bruising, and I carried those marks all the way into adulthood-i.e., believing I had to do it all alone.
Weight of Pain
When it would all become unbearable that the weight of the pain could barely be contained within me, it was substances that came to my rescue. They numbed the sting of rejection, the loneliness, and those old memories that would haunt me in silence. The very first hit almost felt like relief-just a small escape from the storm raging in my head. In time, the relief became the prison: I was to keep the pain away as much as I could, while slowly losing myself.
I told myself I didn’t need any help; I was strong enough to quit on my own. But the word “strong” became a veil hiding my fear and shame. I was utterly petrified of being seen or admitting to anyone that under the covers, I was still that neglected children yearning to be held.
Then one morning, after yet another night of trying unsuccessfully to outrun my thoughts, I collapsed. I was tired-down to every fiber of my being, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I somehow managed to open my laptop and clicked the “join meeting” button at In The Rooms without quite thinking about it. My heart was racing as more and more faces appeared on the screen-strangers who for some reason felt like a long-lost family.
Then it was my time to speak. My voice shook as I said the words… I need help. I expected some judging glare, or a few people to pity me. Maybe, even a few moments of silence. Instead, a soft voice said to me, ‘You are welcome here.’ It was as if something in me had been set free. The shame which had sealed my mouth for years began to loosen.
What is Recovery?
Recovery, I’ve learned, isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being honest. My courage grew just a bit each time I asked for help. Slowly, I began to test the waters: messaging others, checking in, doing the listening. Slowly, I also realized the connection had been what I was after all along—the escape was an illusion—the feeling of being seen and understood.
Today, I still hold healing in one hand. I am learning that asking for help is not a sign of weakness but, rather, relinquishing the weight I should never have had to carry alone. To those too afraid to ask for help, please understand this: your first ask will not chain you to something; it will set you free.
Editor’s Note: If you’re looking for more support, inspiration, or stories that speak to your recovery experience, we invite you to explore our Blogs & Articles section. Stay connected with the In The Rooms community on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and twitter for daily encouragement, real voices, and reminders that healing happens one moment at a time.
We share real recovery stories while protecting the privacy of those who trust us with their experiences. Many personal details are adjusted or rewritten for clarity and to honor everyone’s voice, ensuring their truth is shared with care and respect.
