The Prologue

**this is a heavy one but helps you understand a little bit of the "before." I promise all of your reads will not be on this level

Let’s take a look back several years and take a trip through memory lane.

Childhood:

I grew up in a neighborhood just outside of town. There were not a ton of kids around the neighborhood, and most of the ones who were there were boys. I’d probably look back to the elementary school age and determine that this was the start of Jocelyn: The Tomboy. I suddenly decided that my favorite color of pink, was no longer my favorite color. And never again would it be. I decided that I was going to play with the boys at recess more than the girls. I wanted to play with toy cars with my brother instead of playing with Barbie's with my friends. Instead of playing with my dolls, my brother and I would build block towns and shoot them down with our rubber-band guns, kindly made by my dad. I also started to see my parents’ dedication to a fit lifestyle, and the enjoyment that could come from it.

My parents supported us through all of our crazy whims growing up. The whims went from wanting to try gymnastics (I’m terrible by the way), to getting me enrolled into soccer, and making the phone call to the commission every year to make sure that I could stay with my friends on the rural team instead of the city teams that I technically belonged to, through my middle-school theatre phase, to dragging my crying bum home from an unsuccessful audition, to volleyball, to national honor society, to pole vault, to power-lifting, to choir and orchestra concerts, to more soccer for 14 years of my life, and finally—through becoming an adult. I guess that one wasn’t a whim, but that was probably the most difficult from a parent’s standpoint… and mine.

Adolescence:

But before we jump into the true growing-up moments, let’s just pause during high school. I. HATED. HIGH SCHOOL. Yes of course there were positives. I had many opportunities in the extra-curriculars I was involved in and I am so thankful for the experiences that I had. I even got to sing in Carnegie Hall—I wouldn’t trade that for any amount of money. However, you also couldn’t pay me to go back. Ever been so involved in so many things, that you feel like you don’t really belong to any of it? That was me. I was one of the girls who people knew by the name/face matching the activity they were familiar with. “Oh you’re that girl that does pole vault!” or “Oh you’re the girl dating ____ insert unspoken high school boyfriend’s name here.” But that kind of creates and identity crisis for the girl who doesn’t know which one she is supposed to be.

So, I turned to the gym. The gym became my best friend, and food became my enemy. I dissociated from people. I felt like everyone had their friend groups from the activity they were involved in. But I was involved in so many that I didn’t know which group I belonged to anymore. Which, side note, this is not a poor me story, because I am grateful for everything that has made me who I am today. By senior year, I got up every morning at 4:30am and went to the gym before school. I showered, ate a Greek yogurt, and went to school. For open lunch I either went out for a run or slept in the orchestra room. I ate half a protein bar and an apple. After school, I either went to soccer practice or track practice or during the winter fulfilled my duties of being a wrestling manager. And then after that, I went to the library to crank out a few hours of homework before I went back to the gym, again. Oh, and ate the other half of my protein bar. Maybe a snack when I finally got home at 9pm. Rinse and repeat on a daily basis.

By the end of senior year, I decided that I had a problem. I self-diagnosed myself with exercise addiction/exercise bulimia, printed out an article, and non-verbally asked my parents to help me seek counseling. I did not want to talk to them about it. I just wanted to “fix it.”

This was my first experience with counseling, and unfortunately it was a negative one. I found a good counselor, but she was not a good fit for what I needed at the time. I didn’t need someone to coddle me, much less want someone to do so. I cannot stress enough the importance of finding a good fit if you ever do step into the world of counseling. I went for a few sessions, and then tried to just continue healing myself on my own. I decided to channel my obsession with food and fitness into a career path—I would be attending Montana State University fall 2015 as a Dietetics major.

Young Adulthood:

Long story short—I got to Montana and had my first royal crash and burn. But not before I met my BEST friend. **Shoutout to her cuz LOVE YOU** So I am thankful for that. I ended up dropping out, having my parents haul my ass back to Sioux Falls, and checked myself into behavioral health. Honestly, my time there was beneficial only because I decided to go on my own accord, rather than someone forcing it on me. This was experience with therapist #2 who was not a good fit.

After BH, I got back into distance running with the family dogs and working a few odd jobs. While I was in Montana, I also had the opportunity to try out the jiu-jitsu club, and love was very much found in this. After running ‘til my little heart was content, I decided to look and see if we had anything martial arts around here. Sure enough, I found Next Edge Academy. I remember nervously rocking up to the counter to observe a class, and I fell in love. A couple guys who would later become some of my best friends were having a dance party between rounds on the mats. My coach joked around with me and made me feel comfortable. And one lovely lady greeted me before anyone else—before I knew that she would become my training partner and forever friend.

I jumped into the gym full-force and 100% devoted. I spent every moment that I possibly could here, and it is what got me through the next few years. I found a community that I really felt I belonged to. And I felt empowered. I started to build a little semblance of self-confidence, and even started to like myself a little bit. I felt tougher physically, which made me feel tougher mentally. The people I was surrounded with helped me come out of my shell and to believe that there was a lot of good (and good people) in my future.

I decided to go back to school and pursued a degree in Respiratory Therapy. I got busy with school and neglected the gym. I started getting depressed again. I wasn’t eating much, sleeping much, or getting the gym time that I needed to take care of myself mentally. I was stressed to the max; school was difficult and then trying to do it while battling my own mentally health was even harder. I sought out another therapist, and this time, praise all that is good, I found the best fit I could ask for. However, more life shattering events took place, and I decided I couldn’t do it anymore.

I popped a cocktail of pills, wrote a note, and went to sleep for what I thought was going to be the last time.

It wasn’t.

I did not check myself into BH this time, and I still to this day do not remember how I got there. I know, but I do not remember at least 48 hours of my life.

When I woke up, I freaked out. I mean, I wasn’t supposed to wake up, so shit. What the heck am I supposed to do now? I was angry. I was angry at a lot of things and still under the influence, so I had no filter. I said some things that regrettably could have been said a little nicer had I been in my right mind. I panicked. I was never going to get out of this facility. I knew what happened when you were in there for an attempt. You became a ward of the state. There goes that independence I had worked so hard for. And school? Well shit, did someone tell my professors that I wasn’t just ditching class? But what did they tell them? Who knew where I was? Do I tell people? God how embarrassing. And the worst part? Now you have to try to explain to everyone that cares about you, why you did it when there really is no black and white reason, and try to make them trust that you’re not going to do it again. And then, you’ve gotta live with the guilt of having hurt the people you love. Hurting them really bad. Parents aren’t supposed to have to watch their kids die. Your brother isn’t supposed to have to receive that phone call.

So what do you do? Well, your choices are you try again so that you don’t have to deal with all of that, OR, you buck-up and make peace that you woke up for a reason. For goodness’ sake, I am by no means encouraging the former. But that is definitely the two options you think you have in that situation.

I remembered watching the movie The Wild and decided that that was going to me. I was going to pack my bags, pack my dog, and hike the PCT. But first I wanted to get my degree.

When I was released from BH, I emailed my professors and asked to meet. I had some ‘splainin to do. Bless their hearts and I will remember them forever, they listened. I told them everything. I asked them to be understanding if I seemed distant while in class. I explained that I wanted to be there, I wanted to get caught up, I wanted to try, and I wanted so badly to excel.

And I did. I sat through lectures, completed clinicals, practiced my labs, even presented my case study. I passed my exit exam on the first try. I scheduled my departure date for the PCT, and I scheduled my last board exam the Friday before the Monday I left town. I passed my practical and clinical boards and became a Registered Respiratory Therapist.

Now at this point, you are primarily caught up to the life before what the majority of my content will consist of—the attempt and forward.

So why did I tell you all of this?

I want you to have an insight to who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming. I will never ever stop growing as a person. I will never stop searching and exploring and trying to make myself the best version I can be.

Because life gave me another chance.

And I want to put my story out because I want everyone to have that chance. I want people to know that if they’re going through anything similar, they’re not alone, and they never have to be alone. I want to break the stigma; I want it to become socially acceptable to be able to talk to the people in their life about their mental health just as easily as they would about the dumb story behind how they broke their pinky toe. I want to encourage everyone to have hope because I didn’t. I hit rock bottom, and now I can honestly say that I’m happier than I ever have been. Even if you’re in the darkest pit you’ve been, you aren’t going to stay there.

And that doesn’t mean that one day you magically wake up “all better.” No, there’s a lot of hard work involved. But the hard work looks different every day. Some days, it is simply changing out of yesterday’s pajamas to today’s. Some days, it’s taking the shower you’ve neglected to take for 3 days. Some days, it’s going for a walk with a friend. Some days, you feel like you can conquer the whole world. Progress is not linear, much as life is not.

When in doubt, utilize the resources around you. Lean on your support system instead of pushing them away. Talk to someone you trust. Or better yet, go nap on your friend’s couch and don’t even talk, but simply just be alive in the presence of another human.

As cliché as it is, everything happens for a reason. And everything is going to be okay.