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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Sun Aug 09, 2020 9:05 pm

The dating strategy is fun, and builds romance, but is exhausting. The countless hours writing... And it isn't always authentic. It doesn't capture the complexity, but it lets me escape reality for a fantastic journey into historical autobiographical fiction. I have over 20 files dedicated to this process over the past 8.5 years.

The settings vary...

M. experience:

I’ve been friends with M. for years. I first met when I took a business trip to Boston, MA. When we met, it wasn’t long before I stayed with him in his penthouse for a night or two while I was staying at my conference. M. and I are old friends. I care about him, but I wasn’t his type. He never trusted me, and he’d always say he was interested, then he’d fade away from anything real. So we text, I haven’t been with him since 2016.

Advanced stories

Example story: M. 2012

It was 4:00pm on Sunday afternoon when she arrived at the platform steps. The salty breeze danced with the hem of her white sundress. Her pale legs were exposed from the thigh to her yellow rubber flip flops. The Calibration was set to sail in less than 30 minutes. Her canvas bags were filled with everything she could imagine needing on the weekend tour of the coast. Before stepping up to board Ashley studied the magnificent ship. The tall mast was about two feet higher than the others waiting to depart from the Harbor Hotel.
Jill, Ashley’s editor, entered Ashley for the online auction to support the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston.
“Common, Ashley. You need time to remember the feeling of the sailing. Before I let you return to working on your manuscript about Ben Avery’s buried pirate treasure and the sacred serpentine necklace, you should really try this out.” Jill said as she handed her the printout with details about the tour. Jill hadn’t given her much choice. “Ashley I won’t read another word of cargo ship queen until you go on this trip.”
Ashley stood on the wooden dock looking up when she felt someone’s presence, and turned. Her eyes connected with a tall well formed man. She felt her pulse quicken as she felt him above her. So near. In his polo and khaki shorts with leather boat shoes, he looked like he belonged.
“Let me help you with that,” he said. His perfect Bostonian English and soft yet soothing intonation greeted her just inches from her ear as he reached for her bag, his hand brushed against hers. A magical spark emanated from the skin contact. This may be fun.
“Welcome to the Calibration,” he said.
“Hi, I’m Ashley, do you need these documents?” She asked. As she waved the printout in her hand.
“I trust you,” he said, smiling back at her.
“The question is, can I trust you,” she playfully bantered back. Talking more to herself than to him. He smiled in response. Letting it go.
“Call me M.,” he said. Holding out a hand for a handshake.
Ashley felt her tension build as she thought about calling out “M.” in a moment of passion with this man. She smiled to herself at her inability to control her thoughts around him.
Reaching out she felt him cover her hand with his own. He had a solid handshake which she met with her own presence, feeling him in that moment. She never had felt erotic during a handshake before, but her body was responding on it’s own. She knew she should spend more time dating and less time writing. She needed to have an outlet for all this sexual energy. It wasn’t right for a grown woman to deny her pleasure so much.
“Nice to meet you M.,” She said. She dug her toes into the flip flops hoping he didn’t notice her clinging onto her sandals as if they were a life raft from desire. She wanted so badly to have a man want her.
“Come on board and let’s get you situated. I thought we’d set sail just in time to watch the sunset. Full moon tonight... should be beautiful.” He said.
“M., I forgot to ask, is there a power source for charging my laptop?” She asked.
“The email said you are a writer, is that why you brought your laptop?” He asked.
“Yes I write, but not without a power source.” She said, only half joking.
“Well when the motor runs it powers the main cabin. But mostly you’ll be on battery. I do have these solar powered chargers, but that won’t help you tonight.” He said as he motioned to a cabinet above the table by the kitchenette.
The interior of the ship reminded her of the layout she remembered her friends family having. He placed her canvas bag in the front of the boat. There was a bedded area beneath the bow. In the back behind the cooking area was a wooden door that appeared to lead to his space.
She thought of tonight. She would be alone with this incredibly attractive man on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, beneath a full moon. She felt intense in that moment. Her fear mingled with desire at the idea of him. It had been too long. But she didn’t want just any man. She needed someone who could appreciate her, and understand her… After all she had been through, she wanted a man who wanted her, all of her.
***
When she came on deck, she felt his eyes caress her form. She knew the white sundress was a little bit translucent, and if you looked hard enough in direct sunlight the shadow of her areola was just visible. The spaghetti straps made wearing a bra impossible, but the dress was tight, and well formed to her body, so the fit was good. The crisp white linen made her pale skin seam less so. But wearing underwear was also an issue, so she wasn’t wearing any. She had second thoughts about the way she was dressed feeling his eyes on her. He smirked at her when her eyes went to greet him. He must have noticed.
“So what do you write about,” He asked.
“More like what don’t I write about,” She said.
“Ok, what don’t you write about,” He said.
“No horror, and no violence. Everything else goes in. I’m published in the scientific literature, but my passion is autobiographical fiction.” She said.
“Can you give me an example of autobiographical fiction?” He asked.
“Sure. Lets say you are a sea captain (as you are). The type of fiction I create is a story about my fantasy of what it would be like to have one of your adventures at sea.” She said.
“Ah, I get it. Sounds fun.” He said.
“It can be, but it can also be a torturous process, trying to express yourself about the things that happen in life before you understand yourself can be challenging.” She said.
“Interesting,” He said.
“What do you do? When you aren’t sailing around the coast…” She asked.
“I own a small business,” He said modestly.
“Is it a family business?” She asked.
“My dad started out owning a lab, but it grew from those days.” He said.
“Are you married?” She asked. She needed to know if he was off limits sooner rather than later.
“No,” He said.
“Have kids?” She asked.
“Nope,” He said. “What about you?” He asked.
“I have a daughter. She is with her dad this weekend,” She said.
“So, I’ve gotta ask, are you seeing anyone?” He said.
“Well, the short answer is no, but it is a long story.” She said.
“Well, I have all weekend to hear it,” He said with a smile.
She felt vibrant there with him as he smiled down at her. She felt intense about being on a boat with a man who listened to her story. What if he didn’t like it? They’d be stuck together for two days. On the other hand, if he responded well, it could be fun. She took the gamble.
“I say no, because technically I’m not seeing anyone, but I have a life online. I have a digital world of lovers that would shock you.” She paused waiting to look for signs of shock, there being none she continued. “It started with this experience I had with the birth of my daughter. I experienced an orgasmic labor. It changed me forever.” She said.
“So you wanted more kids.” He said.
“At first yes, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The story about my birthgasm, and the touch from The Physician… Most people don’t know what to think of it. I mean, that wasn’t the whole story. I got really sick after, I lost my mental health, it was all I could think about. I was a lotus eater. An addict. Only my addiction was the memory of his touch. I fantasized about it ALL THE TIME. It took years to recover from it.” She stopped to watch his reaction, unsure if she should continue.
“So, you wanted to have another kid?” He asked.
“Yes, then no. At first I wanted about 18 kids. Then I got the postpartum mental health problem. I thought I was at the center of a grand scheme. I became terrified and paranoid. I thought The Physician who touched me during my birth was sending me secret messages. I was so sick that I lost touch with reality, but I was a graduate student. I made straight A’s. Despite being hospitalized, I graduated on time with my class. I was lucky. I had early treatment and access to medical care. Two things happened that made me feel deeply unwanted. Being touched during the labor by a man who I was physically attracted to caused me to want him desperately, but it was clinical. That touch was like poison for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The second thing was that my husband didn’t want to help me. It was too kinky for him. I was trapped in this lonely isolated bubble for years. Now that I’m out of it, when I tell people my story it scares them. They think I’m just another crazy lady and they disappear. My problem is that I am honest, and I tell everyone. It is a double edged sword. If they don’t know, then they see me for who I am, they think I’m great. Once they know, they only see my weakness, and forget about how great I am. It is knowing that I take medication to be well that people don’t know what to do with. I feel like I have to teach everyone from scratch about me. I have to train them how to see me and frame my complexity.” She said. The feeling of bile crept up the back of her throat, the teardrops welled in her eyes. She felt a stinging in her nose.
“You are right, sounds like you’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry that Doctor touched you when you were having an experience, then your husband felt his ego was bruised and couldn’t help you. I hear most women go through significant hormonal changes in the postpartum period, and I know some who even react to their monthly cycling. You need a hug,” He said pulling her into his arms.
She felt a single tear drop roll down her cheek as she turned into him. It had been so long since she had felt supported emotionally. While her digital support network kept her ok, it wasn’t the same as how she felt in the moment with M..
“M., we are still close to the shore, if you want to turn the boat around and head back to the dock, you should do it now,” She said.
“Ashley, I think you are trying to scare me away. I think you are afraid to let yourself feel desire.”
***
She felt breathless in that moment as he confronted her fear with reality. Her story was not the problem, it was her fear of intimacy that had her holding herself back. Pressing her cheek against his shoulder she tried to explain.
“I am afraid,” She said.
“Don’t be,” He said gently stroking her back. “We have all weekend on this boat, you don’t have to do anything. Just relax and enjoy the ride,” He said.
As his hand caressed her back she felt a warmth spread through her starting in her cheeks. She flushed beneath his touches, responding to him.
“You like that, don’t you,” he said.
“I’d like it even more if you’d press a little harder,” She smiled up at him. He looked down into her eyes and held her gaze steady as she felt his fingers work into her shoulders. Her knees felt weak, she couldn’t think of anything but being there with him in that moment.
He lowered his lips to her mouth and gave her a sweet kiss on the lips.
“You look so delicious standing here in my arms. Is it ok if I take the liberty of kissing you?” He asked.
She felt the heat rushing in her veins in response to his attention.
“Only if you promise me one thing,” She said.
“What is that?” He asked.
“You’ll let me write you as much as I wish, as long as I need to even if you change your mind, it is ok for me to write to you,” She said. She felt the tears well in her eyes at the thought of not being able to write to the physician. It felt heartbreaking to be isolated with her desire all those years ago after the physician touched her clit using the back and forth technic in an exam during the orgasmic labor. Then her husband wanted nothing to do with her story that she desired another man. He wouldn’t act out the scene and help her work through her issue of desire all those years ago. She never wanted to be isolated with her desire like that again.
“Yes, write to me as much as you like,” He said. “But I think I’m going to want more than just one kiss,” He said running his finger along the spaghetti strap of her dress, pulling down from her shoulder. Her nipples tightened beneath the dress. She swallowed in response to his attention.
She felt slick and tight between her thighs. She wanted to feel his hand against her clit, while his mouth explored her. He trailed his hand down the front of her dress tracing the outline of her nipple visible through the white linen.
“I like silk best,” He murmered as he lowered his head to hers. She arched into him, feeling the pleasure of his response to her. Her hand trailed down the front of his trousers to find his thick head pressing against the buttons of his shorts. She mindlessly unbuttoned the pants feeling for him, as he kissed her deeply. His tongue traced the rim of her lips, slowly exploring. She felt his soft breath mingle with her own as she gently suckled against his lower lip. She opened to him as he deepened the kiss. She liked feeling him explore her mouth with his tongue. She felt him harden beneath her touch.
She wanted to feel him penetrate her. She needed to feel him in her, but he was still caressing her breasts.
“I want you to touch me,” She said, commanding him to feel her.
She felt his fingers lift the hem of the linen. Slowly tracing up her thigh. She felt the boat sway a bit, and he moved her to press against the upper decking. His fingers slid over the slick hot enterance of her vagina, she felt him glide over her clit up and down. He moaned into her lips, and she felt his thick hard shaft quiver in response to her body’s communication to him.

I'll try not to share all the "Dating After Difficulty" stories, because they are a bit much. They were written for mature adult audiences only. I shared, because I'm trying to learn, change, and grow. I don't think the section I wrote about what I've overcome is compelling. I'm still a work in progress, but I have hope for love. I hope that I can grow love in reality - Through work, beyond writing stories I hope to build emotional intimacy in real life, and trying to control my reaction through autobiographical fiction can be helpful when I struggle, but I'm hopeful that in time I can recognize the impossibility of anything beyond a spiritual connection that heals with the Physician. My wanting to have him marry me can't happen without a Cultural shift, and I trust in a higher power. The Mandela Effect gives me hope that maybe I'm not crazy, and maybe this is a training ground for the soul, and therefore my struggle has meaning and purpose. By learning to love in a less spectacular way, and giving my love continuously and with kindness, and patience - Maybe in time I can grow beyond my basic desire, and keep steering the boat when the waves of emotion from denying desire are a problem.

Writing has always been part of my pathway to growth, it allows me to capture my thoughts and hold them together on the page to solve the puzzling complexity. Writing stories is fun and effective. I just need to write a successful narrative that grows a lasting connection with someone who has the capacity to love me. I want a relationship in real life.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Tue Aug 11, 2020 5:02 pm

The other evening, I was playing Mariah Carey love songs and decided to message the man I’m working to build a connection with. Once I pressed send. The song skipped ahead to Macy Gray “I try.”


https://youtu.be/N2o30blVnpg
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Tue Aug 11, 2020 5:51 pm

As an important observation, I did not touch the iTunes app. It made me reflect on my struggle, and struggle I did.

The lyrics... to Macy Gray "I Try"

"I believe that fate has brought us here; And we should be together babe but were not; I play it off..."
...
I keep my cool but...
...
My world crumbles when you are not near...
...
I may appear to be free; but I'm just a prisoner of your love..."

So I told my manly friend I was struggling and sent the song... I think he understands and appreciates my issue.

Although he may question my music taste, however, I imagine he'd say if it inspires me to connect with him, then he approves.

Since then, I'm following my therapist's advice to go to the imaginary core of my strength as a being. To love that part of me that loves the Physician, and realize that it isn't the way forward to healing. I need to keep in self and love that I love the Physician, but I'm never going to enjoy that in reality. Frankly, I got a taste of the unrest when I saw the spoons on the lawyers twitter feed, and realized maybe the physician reads my threads ... snoops = spoons ... I didn't sleep well, and that reminded me of my hardship and struggle to regain my sense of self after the devastation of my former self by desire. Like a phoenix rises from the ashes... I don't want to go back to zero. The rebirthing in a single lifetime is too painful and I don't recommend it to anyone in isolation. So I'm gonna be on my prayer walk when I feel threatened by desire. I trust I can heal. If I can imagine myself better, then it will happen.

Now back to Mariah...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooRnlpHnOmg
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Wed Aug 12, 2020 4:03 am

On my walk home from the Prayer Walk the other evening, between a break in the tree line, I saw golfers playing the course that I forgot runs along the road across from the meadow where my prayer walk is entrenched. I laughed when I thought of one splicing a ball to land on the prayer stone marker.

So on one of my walks a few days ago, I decided to check to see if the ball was adhered to the marker. There was a furry white webbing hugging the stone where the ball rested. Like a butterfly, moth, or other insect nested beneath the ball.

When my dog, Honey, noticed the men swinging their clubs accross the grassy island mall, she growelled at them and froze. I watched the base of her tail puff up and the hair at her neck stand on end. She too is a trauma survivor (of what... we don't know. She's a rescue.) She freezes at the sight of men and strangers, and especially men playing golf... and growels and barks. She doesn't like sarcasm in our house, she even groweled at my kind hearted uncle who made a sarcastic joke while helping cook for us when my little one recovered from surgery last fall. At least she likes the gentleman I'm interested in. She's come a long way since she was a 5 month old and I had to carry her out over the threshold to go outside, she was too afraid to walk. Now at 15 months, she still freezes on the sidewalk when anyoone approaches, but she at least able to walk when nobody is around. And she'll respond to me when there are no distractions. But it's like she forgets everything when anyone is coming near. Her instincts take over, and she freezes and can't respond like her normal dog self. She'll even cower from me. I try to help her, I get down on her level, keep my voice soft, and hold my hand for her, but she is timid. Unlike Buddy, she isn't motivated by treats or toys. She only responds to relationships, and she struggles to stay in her dog brain when she'feels threatened she goes into her primitive self.

I miss my dog Winston "Houdini," but he wasn't meant to be a suburban dog. He was miserable in my house. He was brilliant, a Great Pyrenese. He could escape any situation, and learned to open the front door, as well as the garage door button. Turned on the stove with his noes, and decided to try eating the walls... The list goes on. So I activated the family network when the shelter said they couldn't take him back. I got scared about the stove, and for the mail man's safety, when he learned to open the front door to chase after the mailman while I was cooking a stew.

My aunt found a teacher with a farm near her, who wanted a farm dog, and they needed a companion for their shepard dog. They sent us a picture of their family with Winston, but I still miss him. Winston was a rescue too. He'd been returned a few times before us to the animal shelter in our community... I've made a rule, never to go to a shelter again. I always take home the saddest animal they've got, and not every rescue is compatible with my lifestyle and the safety of my dwelling. But Honey is a really great dog, and so is Buddy, but Buddy's dry eyes and the eye drops and eye ointment every day ... it's not my favorite responsibility, but I'm trying.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Sat Aug 15, 2020 1:16 am

I enjoyed the prayer walk at dusk tonight. It was a beautiful Midwestern evening. I’ve been struggling with my imagination lately. I wish I could go back and edit the sections I wrote because they weren’t spot on accurate and aren’t gonna stand the test of time. I don’t feel like a Phoenix. My rebirth is more of a spiritual reawakening at another level. Today for about ten minutes I got stuck in a cycle of imagining puffing like a phoenix every time I thought of the physician, totally unsustainable imagery. I just have to love my way to healing. This non loving garbage must go.

*mod edit- image removed for privacy*
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Sat Aug 22, 2020 10:58 am

I’ve been thinking. I usually post about feeling pain about not feeling loved through my trauma of wanting more of the physician’s touch than this universe allows. But the thought of him reading my posts is confusing. I don’t understand it—a mixed response of tears and longing for something I’m not supposed to have.

I’ve been thinking about what I want to say. If you read this, I want you to know I’m now thinking about the impact of my words with you. I’m attempting to be sensitive. Not sure how this will go, but –
• I’m sad that I got sick the way I did for you, but I’m feeling okay today.
• I’ve learned to live with it and am well most of the time.
• It’s just in those intimate moments in life that I struggle. And struggling makes it challenging to sustain a close relationship in real life. When I remember how that attraction felt when I get turned on, sometimes I can’t authentically show up with my partner.
• My therapist believes the only way to improve the trauma is in a relationship with a partner who’s willing to be there. I’m hopeful that in time I can completely heal. That’s the goal.
• When I struggle, it is helpful to think that you are sympathetic to this cause.
• The way I respond to the memory of you is intense. It is this cycle that is heartbreaking and very difficult to build a new connection with others as my friends say you are living “rent-free” in my imagination. But how else could I cope with the intensity of the attraction, the rejection from my then-husband, and you? The purpose of this post is not to blame you, shame you, hurt you, or anything like that. It is to say I’m doing the work to heal. You can be supportive – reading or not. Know that I chose to heal through love. Nothing less is worthy of me.

I know I wish this world was different and that you had the desire to marry me, but if my old boss is right, and this world is the training ground for the soul, maybe I’m better for my struggle.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Mon Aug 24, 2020 1:27 am

So I had big plans this weekend. I coordinated the dogs, my daughter and took a road trip to see a friend. We went to a small vineyard and socially distanced, but it felt like the news of the pandemic had yet to reach this small outdoor setting. Nobody wore their masks, but us. It was a time warp weird scenario. He drove from St. Louis, I was driving from Kansas City, and we landed in a place that seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the pandemic.

I wish my mind was able to cooperate with my wish to heal. The new surroundings took my imagination back to the pioneer days and cowboy scenes. Taking I-70 does that to me, it reminds me of imagining taking the santa fe trail as a young woman in computer class. Anyway, I'm struggling to love my imagination. Why can't I think of better scenes? And why do I search for approval in my imagination? Why can't I relax and just let go with someone I care about, who I like? Why do I always ask for help and acceptance. It is so frustrating. I try to tell myself I've always struggled, I didn't know what to expect on this trip. I should have done more research and planned for a better setup. Now that I know the landscape, I will have an easier time setting it up in the future. I guess, I live and I learn.

So, next time, I'm planning a fully drafted story.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Tue Sep 01, 2020 11:34 pm

I filed my FOIA request. Had to submit an appeal. The spelling on my last name was wrong. In all my years, I can't believe I'd spell my last name wrong, twice in the application.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Fri Sep 04, 2020 1:22 am

I feel like I was just hit by a force of nature. I made the mistake of going on youtube...

It was the Beatles "Something" and Redbone "Come and Get Your Love" that pained me. I wish I didn't feel I trolled. When I listened to the lyrics the tears started rolling. I'm less sure about the intention of the song "Friends with the Devil"... The love song still makes my sinuses ache and my chest feel heavy.

I can't even speak. I had to let the phone go to voicemail. I don't understand. The lack of clear communicaiton it really isn't good for mental health. In fact, if I wasn't literally obsessed with the pleasure of the memory of that unreal event that left me traumatized, I wouldn't chose to play this way. I've struggled for too long.

What I do know is that the broken bit that thinks it's your reflection hasn't been around for a week or two. My therapist thinks that is a good thing. Somthing about a manager... Internal family systems theory.

One day I'll succeed at releasing the struggle. Eastern religions suggest "giving up the struggle." It's a little easier to say than it is to practice. I just need to stay in a healthy relationship to heal.

You are loved. I am loved. I want peace. In addition, I would like to know the FOIA results to learn if I'll ever have peace of mind about believing my phone and computer were hacked in 2011, before my ex's work was exposed. Nothing to do with you, but I'm curious.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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Re: therapeutic writing

Postby Sunnyg » Sun Sep 06, 2020 5:23 pm

Awareness of mental illness risk may be a protective factor to prevent substance use for teens.

I had a long conversation with my daughter recently and wanted to share a surprising blessing of being a mother with mental illness. Because SMI can be induced by substance use (in some cases) or at least increase susceptibility to mental illness, my daughter simply explains to her friends that she doesn't want to get sick, and her friends are supportive of her decision not to use drugs and alcohol.

I'd explained this reality to her years ago, and she apparently researched it on her own and believed it to be true - that she'd be more likely to develop a mental illness (especially concerned about psychosis) if she uses psychoactive drugs that aren't prescribed. Her knowledge of my mental illness is strangely a protective factor against her using drugs alcohol, and/or tobacco.

She is able to defend against peer pressure knowing she may have a genetic susceptibility to mental illness, and her friends are supportive of her decision not to use and abuse drugs and alcohol. She said they (her friends) are all aware of my mental health status, and that they support her wishes to avoid severe mental illness.

I was almost surprised that my honesty about how drug use can precipitate serious mental illness has been a protective force for her. But she didn't listen to me alone, she researched it on the internet and found my explanation to be valid. Not congratulating myself, but kinda surprised that a teenager would listen and make a smart choice. I'm proud of her for making informed health decisions.
"I trust that if I start to fall off the ladder of life again, others will pick me back up and put me back on."
-Sunnyg
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