This is What Six Months Looks Like

Six months Cali sober. Since months since I chose to live. Here's what it looks like - in slippers, in softness, in survival.

This week, I hit six months Cali sober.

That also means six months since my last suicide attempt.

I wasn’t sure if I should talk about that part.

But it’s real. It’s part of the path that brought me here.

And I think it matters.

Right now, I’m wearing the same trackies and slippers I wore the week I spent in hospital. That version of me couldn’t imagine where I’d be now. Not just alive, but self-employed, running a trauma-informed home management service, building something of my own.

But this week has been hard.

Mentally, emotionally, financially -- all of it.

Trying to earn enough to live while managing CPTSD is its own full-time job. And when your nervous system is flaring, the simplest tasks can feel like hiking uphill with bricks strapped to your chest. I’m constantly chasing balance, craving calm, and yet still wondering when the next paycheck will come.

And when I melt down -- when I freeze, cry, dissociate -- life doesn’t stop.

It keeps moving. Bills still come in. Homes still need cleaning. Rent still needs to be paid.

And I still have to get up.

Six months ago, I was trying to show up for people who didn’t want me.

I’d been frozen out, excluded, punished for falling apart.

I was holding everything together by a thread, and still being told I wasn’t enough.

When I landed in hospital, it was the first time someone actually listened.

They medicated me. And within days, my brain started clearing.

I could focus. I finished a puzzle. I read a book.

It was like someone turned the lights on inside my head.

Since then, I’ve learned how to manage my trauma in ways I wish I’d known years ago.

Yoga. Medication. Meditation. Frequencies. Therapy.

It all adds up. It all works together to keep me here.

But healing isn’t linear.

The job I thought was perfect -- the one with flexible hours, physical work, and truck driving (something I’d dreamed of doing since I was a kid) gave me hope. It helped me rebuild my strength and reminded me I was capable.

And then, like a toxic boyfriend, it broke me all over again.

I still have anger about what happened.

Not just about losing the job, but about how it all fell apart.

I just wish someone had listened before I ended up in hospital.

And no, I don’t hold resentment.

Just grief. And still, a little love for the few people there who did see me.

That’s why I had to go out on my own.

Getting arrested. Losing my job. Being called crazy. Being harassed and ignored when I spoke up.

Being told I’m only good for my looks. That I’m unlovable. Even abusive.

It crushed my faith in systems that are supposed to protect people like me.

And in some ways, it forced me to save myself.

But when I finally reached out, this time, I didn’t hear crickets.

This past week, I called on the community for help.

And you pulled through.

I met five incredible women who let me into their homes to declutter and reset.

We sang Benson Boone, scrubbed out the week, made space for light to get back in.

I talked lizards with a tiny superhero.

I helped restore some sparkle to people who’ve been holding so much.

And I made enough to pay my rent and fill my pantry.

That’s not just income. That’s impact.

Yes, some people were Big Mad™️ about me asking for help.

I’ve been blocked. Ignored. Talked about.

But at this point, it’s not surprising. I’ve seen the pattern too many times.

Healing means change.

It means standing in the truth, even when it’s ugly.

Even when it makes other people uncomfortable.

I’ve made mistakes. I’ve reacted from pain. I’ve fallen apart publicly.

But I’ve never blamed anyone else for the way my story unfolded.

If my truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe ask yourself why.

I’m not crazy. I’m not too much.

I’m just a girl with complex trauma who wanted to be loved - and found a way to live instead.

I’m still here.

Still choosing.

Still healing.

Still in the same slippers.. but no longer the same girl.

If this letter speaks to something inside you, even if you don't know what yet, you're not alone.

Thank you for being here, in all your messy, powerful humanness.

- sarah m