Managing the Bad Days After Mental Health Recovery

“The fight against yourself is such a fearful war.”
― Hannah Clayton, Until the Shadows Lengthen

I write a lot about my recovery from PTSD and schizophrenia. My message is that you’re never too broken to change your life, even if it takes decades, as it did for me.

But that’s not the whole story.

You might think life is plain sailing for me now if you read my articles. Once you recover from mental illness, you go back to how you were before, and pain is a thing of the past. But it doesn’t work like that.

The truth is, I still have bad days when I wonder what the point of it all is. I’ve recovered, yet I still struggle, and both of those things can be true at the same time.

On a bad day.

“Put simply, suicide happens when the outward pressures of life are greater than the inward ability to cope in that moment.” ― Karen Gibbs, STOP THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL

I’ve made huge strides in recovering from my PTSD. After 20 years, I can talk about any aspect of the incidents that caused my illness. I’ve shed the survivor guilt that hounded me for decades. I’m no longer limited in where I can go and what I can see. I don’t hide anymore.

But because I can confront my pain doesn’t mean it’s stopped haunting me. There’s not a single hour of the day or night that I don’t think about the horrors I’ve seen. Sometimes, the memories weigh me down, and it’s hard to move.

Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m still here.

I’m no longer suicidal, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about it. It’s like a deal I have where I’ll ask myself if life is still worth living every day. I’m now in a position where the answer is an emphatic yes. But “normal” people don’t have this covenant. They don’t get seduced by the ultimate escape.

But I realize I’m not “normal.” Recently, I heard some people discussing my writing on a coaching call I couldn’t attend. I heard someone say that my experiences were incredible and shocking. Of course, I know that’s true. Most people haven’t dealt with every kind of death, from suicide to murder, like I have as a police officer. But it always hits me hard when other people acknowledge it. I’ve always felt that I don’t “fit in.” I feel isolated from other people. Having such shocking experiences has only increased my sense of isolation. Other than soldiers coming back from a warzone, no one can relate. It’s a lonely place to be.

My biggest challenge has been overcoming schizophrenia, thanks to medication. I don’t hear voices anymore, and I don’t have delusions (as far as I know). But I do sometimes get an overwhelming fear in the pit of my stomach. This fear isn’t attached to anything, so there’s no way I can confront it and get the monkey off my back. It’s an unknowable existential fear that something terrible is happening. I just don’t know what.

I consider depression to have been the greatest threat to my life. Depression is a killer of hope, and when hope dies, life becomes torture. People can withstand any pain if they know it’ll end. Depression distorts thinking to the point that you see the pain lasting forever.

I used to wake up with a heaviness throughout my body. Getting to the shower was a Herculean feat that most people will never understand. The world looked grey, and I couldn’t feel any positive emotion or love from others. Nothing interested me, and everything hurt.

These days are past. Most days, I wake up glad to be alive and filled with purpose. I like to write, and I have people who love me. Most aspects of life are going well.

Yet even with all this positive news, I still have days where I’m not interested in anything. I look at a blank page and feel a fraud to put anything on it. I can’t be bothered to do anything, go anywhere, or even talk to people. My urge is to pull the curtains and hibernate in a dark room.

These episodes are short and nothing like the intensity of my past depression. But life now is nothing like it was before the bad times.

How I handle the bad times.

“There is a type of courage that cannot always be seen. It’s a bravery that you have to choose for yourself. You use it in the little, seemingly insignificant choices and decisions you make each day. Keep making these tiny, good choices over and over until you realize your whole life is different and the hero who saved you is yourself.” ― Brittany Burgunder

The main advantage I have now is that I’ve been here before. No matter how bad I feel, I know it won’t last. As long as I sleep enough, talk to my loved ones, and take my meds, things will turn out ok.

I can recognize now when my mind is playing tricks on me by catastrophizing or making me feel worthless. I’ve mastered the art of pushing forward when every fiber of my being is trying to hold me back. Most of all, I remember that I’d survived worse before.

So how does all this fit into “recovery”? Can I use that word when life still feels like a torturous roller coaster? Yes, I can.

Recovery doesn’t mean “cured,” and it doesn’t mean going back to how I was before I became ill. Recovery means that I’ve made the best of an awful situation, and I’ve become as strong as possible.

PTSD and schizophrenia haven’t made me stronger. They’ve nearly destroyed me. But I’m as strong as possible, and that’s enough. It’s like I can walk again but with a limp.

So, if you’re also having bad days, don’t beat yourself up that you aren’t “cured”. Marvel instead at how far you’ve come. You may always have residual mental health issues, but that doesn’t mean you can’t thrive.

Depression is often referred to as the “black dog.” I’ve managed to outrun it, but now and then, I feel its breath on my skin as it nips at my ankles. And that’s ok.

Because I’m recovered, not cured.

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