imnotdarya

[imnotdarya]

rest has never come naturally to me.

even when i’m exhausted - bone-deep, soul-deep tired - there’s this voice in my head that says: "you haven’t earned it."

i grew up learning that stillness was laziness, that softness was weakness.

that if i stopped - even for a second -everything would fall apart, including me.

so i didn’t stop. not when i was breaking. not when i wanted to disappear. not even after i survived things that should have knocked the whole world off its axis.

instead, i pushed harder. kept busy. kept going. kept proving that i was okay - oh, especially when i wasn’t.

and when i did finally collapse, it wasn’t rest. it was escape. hours of scrolling. binge-watching anything that would drown out the noise. isolating, numbing...zoning out so far i couldn’t hear myself think.

that wasn’t rest. that was survival in a different costume.

and now that i’m trying to live more honestly, i’m learning to rest for real. not as a reward. not as a meltdown. just as something i’m allowed to do. and i’ll be honest: it still feels weird. sometimes it still feels wrong.

but i’m doing it anyway.

when you’ve lived in survival mode long enough, rest doesn’t feel like peace. it feels like risk.

rest means putting your guard down. and when your nervous system has been trained to expect danger around every corner - emotional, physical, spiritual - rest feels like exposure. like weakness. like setting yourself up to get hurt again.

i didn’t choose to be like that. it just… happened. after the trauma. after the betrayal. after the night i wasn’t sure i’d survive.

i didn’t have the luxury of relaxing. i had to stay alert, always. even when my body was still, my mind was scanning for threats. even asleep, i didn’t rest, not really. i was waiting. bracing.

so when people talk about rest like it’s this soft, easy thing - i don’t relate. for me, rest has been terrifying. because in the past, whenever i let myself feel safe, something bad followed. and my brain took note of that: don’t relax. don’t trust the quiet. don’t let go.

it’s taken everything in me to start unlearning that. to sit still and not jump; to take a slow breath and not expect the worst.

rest doesn’t come naturally to me. but i’m slowly learning that safety doesn’t always mean danger is next. sometimes, safety just means: i’m safe.

and that’s still a strange thing to sit with.

for a long time, what i called rest was really just disappearing.

i didn’t slow down to recharge. i shut down to survive. hours would slip by with me lying in bed, lights off, phone glowing in my face - scrolling endlessly, watching whatever could fill the silence. not because i was interested, and not because it helped, but just because being present felt unbearable.

i told myself it was downtime. self-care. whatever. but i wasn’t relaxing. i was avoiding - avoiding the memories. the anger. the grief. avoiding the ache of feeling like no one really saw how tired i was, how close i was to breaking.

some days, i’d isolate completely. no calls. no texts. just me and the heavy numbness that settles in when your body’s still but your mind is thrashing like it’s drowning.

i didn’t know how to rest without vanishing.

i didn’t know how to pause without spiralling. so i stopped calling it what it wasn’t. it wasn’t rest; it was escape.

and escape can feel like relief - at first.

but eventually, it just made the noise louder when i came back to reality. like turning off the volume for a while, only to realise the pain was never gone - it was just waiting.

i don’t think i’ve fully experienced guilt-free rest yet. not the kind that feels safe in my body. not the kind where my mind doesn’t jump in and tell me i’m lazy or falling behind or wasting time. but i’ve started imagining what it might feel like.

maybe it’s lying on the couch in the middle of the day with a book and not checking the clock. maybe it’s sleeping in without waking up in a panic. maybe it’s taking a walk just to enjoy the sun, not to escape something inside me.

maybe it’s stillness that doesn’t come from shutdown, but from peace.

i picture myself in a small quiet room, no noise, no screens. maybe my cats are curled up nearby. maybe there’s soft music playing. and i’m not thinking about what i 'should' be doing. i’m not guilt-tripping myself for not being productive. i’m just…being.

i imagine rest where i don’t have to earn it.

rest that isn’t a reward for suffering. rest that’s allowed - because i exist, and that’s reason enough.

i’m not there yet. but the more i picture it, the more real it starts to feel.

and maybe that’s the first step: imagining the softness before i can fully live in it.

it still feels wrong sometimes. to sit still.

to let myself slow down without earning it.

to rest without guilt clawing at the back of my mind, whispering that i’m falling behind, that i haven’t done enough, that i don’t deserve it.

but i dream of giving myself permission anyway.

i dream of telling that voice: "i hear you, but you’re not in charge anymore."

i dream of the kind of rest that isn’t reactive. not collapsing. not checking out. just choosing to stop. to just breathe. to recover. to honour the part of me that’s still healing - even if no one else sees it.

because i’ve spent enough time proving i’m strong by never stopping. i want to be strong in softer ways now.

i want to learn to rest in the middle of the chaos - not just after it’s over. to pause before the crash. to soothe myself before i shatter.

and maybe i won’t get it right every time.

maybe i’ll still run, still numb, still feel that old guilt rise up.

but i’ll keep dreaming of that version of me who knows she’s allowed to rest. and one day, maybe i’ll be her.

[imnotdarya]

imagine this: you don’t talk about it much anymore, so people think you’re doing better. i mean, you look better. you sound stronger. you’ve quit the thing that was dragging you down, so that should be enough, right?

but then something - anything - hits you: an argument, a memory, the wrong kind of silence...and suddenly, your whole body aches for that old escape.

you know it won’t help. you know it’ll wreck everything you’ve worked so hard to rebuild. but you still want it.

well, this is the part of recovery no one likes to talk about, the part where you're technically sober, but still grieving the thing that used to soothe you. the part where all your new coping tools feel weak compared to what you really want to reach for. the part where you sit on your bed, clenched jaw, hands shaking, begging yourself not to slip.

honestly, i still get cravings. i still fantasise about disappearing for a weekend. and not to have fun - just to not feel. i still catch myself staring at the ceiling, thinking: just one time. one hit. one break. just one. but i don’t go back. and not because i’m strong, but because i’ve slowly built a list of things that hold me together when everything in me wants to fall apart.

none of them work as fast. none of them numb me. but what they do is keep me here - and right now, that’s enough.

let's be real here: cravings aren’t really about the thing itself. they’re about what you don’t want to feel.

mine usually show up when i’m overwhelmed, triggered, heartbroken, or just plain tired. they don’t whisper - oh, they scream. and they repeat the same thing every time: "make this stop."

it’s not really about what i used to reach for, but rather about what i’m trying to run from - grief, shame, emptiness, or even that crushing feeling that i’m too much for anyone to deal with, including myself. and when that wave hits, my brain doesn’t ask for calm. it asks for escape.

because escape is fast. escape doesn’t ask me to sit with my pain. it just pulls the plug and lets everything go quiet.

and for a while, that quiet used to feel like safety.

but what i’ve since learned is this: craving isn’t a weakness. it’s a signal. it’s your body begging for relief. it just forgot how to ask for it in a healthy way.

once i was able to understand that, i started asking a different question - not how do i stop craving, but what am i really needing right now?

and most of the time, the answer isn’t the thing i used to crave. it turns out to be comfort, stillness, touch, expression...rest.

it's a hug i can’t ask for. a scream i never let out. a tear i swallowed years ago.

craving is pain with nowhere to go. and i’m slowly learning how to give it somewhere safe to land.

i won't lie: some days, i still feel like i’m grasping in the dark. because nothing hits as fast as the old escape did. and when you’re in pain, slow comfort can feel like no comfort at all.

but i’ve found a few things that, while they don’t fix the pain, do hold me through it.

they don’t make it disappear, though, they just keep me from disappearing with it.

sometimes i write - not poetry, not journaling. just raw, messy thoughts: rage, grief, bitterness, despair. things i wouldn’t say out loud, but need to get out of my body. i don't even read it back! it’s not for reflection. it’s for release.

sometimes i take a scalding-hot shower and sit on the floor until the water runs cold. not because it solves anything, but because it reminds me i’m here - still breathing, still alive.

oftentimes  i pray - but not always the polished kind. i talk to god like i’m furious with him, like i don’t understand why i’m still hurting. and somehow, he still listens. even when all i can say is: "please get me through this night."

i hold my kittens. not because they understand, but because they don’t. and there’s something deeply grounding about being near something that doesn’t expect you to explain your pain.

i walk, too. sometimes in circles, sometimes for hours...sometimes with music blasting just to drown out my thoughts. i don’t walk to clear my head, though. i walk to let the storm inside me have somewhere to go.

none of this is a cure. none of it stops the craving completely. but it delays the decision long enough to survive the moment - and sometimes, that’s pretty  much all i need.

on good days, i catch the spiral early.

i notice the tight chest, the racing thoughts, the temptation to disappear - and i respond. i reach for the tools i’ve built. i write, i pray, i walk. i breathe through it. i remind myself: "you’ve made it through worse. you can make it through this, too."

on good days, the urge passes. not instantly, but clearly. kind of like a storm that hits and then slowly rolls on. i feel proud of myself - grounded, strong. not because the pain didn’t come, but because i didn’t run from it.

but then there are bad days.

on bad days, nothing helps, not really. everything feels useless, slow, fake...i try the tools and they don’t work - at least not in the way i wish they would. and that’s when it gets dangerous.

because bad days whisper things good days don’t - things like: "this is pointless.

you’re not strong enough.

just go back to what you know.

no one would blame you."

and sometimes, all i can do is not act.

not heal, not grow...just not give in.

i sit on my hands. i cry on the bathroom floor. i cancel plans. i wait and wait for the craving to pass - not because i feel strong, but because somewhere in me is a quiet voice that says: "you’ll regret it if you break now."

and that voice? it’s faint, but it’s faithful.

even on the worst days, it keeps me just far enough from the edge. and that's something.

[imnotdarya]

i used to think that speaking up would set me free. but every time i dared talk about what i’d been through, i was shut down, laughed at, told to get over it. my emotional state was ridiculed, and the few times i reached out for help, it backfired.

even the therapist i finally trusted enough to open up to told me, flatly, that i should have moved on—because the man who tried to kill me already had.

he said it like that. like my pain had an expiry date. i quit therapy right away.

it broke something in me. made me feel like my life, my worth, my right to grieve - none of it mattered anymore. i wasn’t seen as a person, just a problem people didn’t want to deal with.

so i stopped talking. instead, i turned everything into a joke. i made fun of the man who tried to kill me. called him a drugged-out psycho. mocked the police who dismissed me. laughed at how absurd it all was. it was easier to perform my trauma than to feel it. and people around me? they preferred it that way. they didn’t want the truth. they wanted me palatable, manageable and numb.

and it worked - for them, at least.

but inside, i was decaying. the more they laughed, the worse i felt. like i was making a parody of my own pain. so i started numbing again. not because i wanted to escape reality, but because i couldn’t stand the rage. the need for revenge. the suicidal thoughts. the silence that came from everyone who never bothered to ask how i was doing. not even once.

i wasn’t healing. i wasn’t moving on. i was just surviving, like a ghost in my own life. keeping myself alive while everyone else moved on.

now, i’m doing something terrifying:

i’m letting myself feel again.

and no, it’s not graceful. it’s not inspiring. it’s not some tidy, empowering 'emotional comeback.'

it’s rage. raw, ugly, primal rage. it’s dreams of revenge, even. dreams where i’m the one in control this time. it’s not healing, but it’s real. and after years of feeling nothing, real is a start.

numbing doesn't always look dramatic. sometimes, it just looks like getting through the day: brushing your teeth, going to work, pretending everything is fine while your insides are screaming. it looks like laughing at things that should make you cry. like people-pleasing, so no one asks what’s really going on.

for me, it started as a defence mechanism, a way to survive the unbearable. i didn’t want to feel terror or heartbreak or humiliation. i didn’t want to dream. i didn’t want to remember. so i did whatever i could to stay awake, stay distracted, stay disconnected.

but numbness has a cost.

it didn’t fix anything. it just flattened everything - joy, connection, creativity, peace. it turned me into someone who was able to function, but didn’t live. and sure, on the outside, i did seem okay. trust me, people were relieved when i stopped bringing it up. they didn’t want to see the bruises, physical or emotional. they wanted the version of me who could joke about it.

so i gave them that, but i paid for it in silence.

deep down, i knew something was wrong. i wasn’t building a life - instead, i was just buying time; waiting to feel safe enough, whole enough and human enough to be real again -  but that day never came. it doesn’t just appear, you know. you have to choose it. and for me, that choice came only after i realised that the numbness i used to protect myself was now suffocating me.

it was keeping me alive, yes. but it was also keeping me small. stuck. hollow.

feeling again is nothing like what i imagined. it’s not soft. it’s not all poetic, as they make it out to be. it’s not healing music and deep breaths and a warm cup of tea.

it’s messy. it’s shaking in the middle of the night because a random sound triggered a memory. it’s bursting into tears in the middle of folding laundry. it’s catching myself clenching my jaw so tight i give myself a headache - all because someone said something innocent and my body still thinks i’m in danger.

it’s letting rage show up. not performative anger. not the snarky jokes. the real kind, the kind that builds in your chest and makes your hands shake and your throat tighten and your mind race with thoughts you don’t want to admit you’re capable of having.

i’ve dreamed of revenge more than i’ve dreamed of healing. and for once, i’m not going to lie about that. because i’ve spent too long trying to be the “good victim.” the palatable one. the forgiving one. the quiet one.

but the truth is, feeling means letting it all rise. not just the tears. not just the heartbreak. but the fury, the despair, and the part of me that wants the people who hurt me to suffer, just so the scale feels balanced.

it’s not pretty. but it’s honest.

and i’m learning that honesty is part of healing.

i don’t act on all the anger. i don’t let it control me. but i also don’t pretend it’s not there. because if i keep swallowing it down, it turns into poison, and i’ve already lived too long with that sickness sitting under my skin.

for the longest time, i thought healing meant forgiveness. peace, grace and all those clean, polished things people expect from survivors. but no one ever tells you that before healing comes rage. deep, seething rage. not because you're bitter or dramatic, but because you were hurt. and your body remembers. oh, it remembers.

the truth is: i don’t always want peace. sometimes, i want justice. sometimes, i want someone to pay. and i’ve had to sit with that. not shame it. not suppress it. just witness it.

i'm allowed to be mad. i'm allowed to feel wronged. i'm allowed to carry rage in my chest and grief in my bones.

i don’t need to act on it, but i do need to feel it - because denying it doesn’t make it go away. it just buries it deeper.

the goal isn’t to get stuck in anger forever.

but you can’t move through it if you’re pretending it’s not there.

rage doesn’t make you dangerous. it makes you human. so let yourself feel it. scream into your pillow. cry in the shower. write it down. and when it’s time - you’ll know when - allow yourself to let it go.

but not before you’ve let it speak.

[imnotdarya]

first i was addicted to escaping; now i'm sober and scared. but i prefer it that way.

okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one before: you’re not addicted. you tell yourself that a lot. you hold a job, you look fine, you’re not spiralling - i mean, at least not publicly, right? you just use sometimes, when things get too heavy. when therapy can’t touch the ache. when you’d rather feel like you’re floating than feel like you’ve been broken up with and left alone in your own mind. bit it seems to happen way too often sometimes, right? at least to me, it's been happening way too frequently.

so you buy two bags. a 'goodbye,' you tell yourself. a soft landing before you get clean for real. this is it and no more. promise.

but then you drain both. and now you’re sweating, your heart’s punching through your chest, and suddenly it hits you: i might actually die right here, like this. in my case, i was one line away from being found by my mum, cold and twitching on the floor, and no amount of pretending this is normal could save me from that.

that was the moment it all snapped into focus.

not because i hit some big rock bottom.

but because i looked at myself and thought, i never want to feel this low again,  this dirty or this close to losing everything for nothing.

i’ve never been addicted to a single thing. but i have been addicted to escaping. to not feeling. to walking just far enough away from god that i don’t have to look him in the eyes. and, to be honest, i’m done with that. should have been ages ago.

my focus is somewhere else now. it’s about finally listening when god reaches out - again. it’s about saying goodbye to the behaviours that hollowed me out, and rebuilding from the inside. it’s about choosing purity, peace, and presence - not just survival.

this isn't to say that i never think of doing even a tiny bit of drugs anymore. of course i do. and it takes everything in me to stop myself from risking it all for a bump of whatever.

i should probably hurry up and share my story.

it was quiet, around 4 in the morning. that kind of dead-of-night silence where every sound feels amplified - your heartbeat, your thoughts, the sound of your life starting to feel like it’s slipping out of your control. which it probably is, but you're too high to care.

i had just done what i told myself would be my “last line.” a final farewell. one last trip down a road i swore i would never, ever - in my entire life - walk again. i thought i could keep it contained - just a little nod to the old me, a way to grieve the breakup, the depression, all the pain i didn’t want to sit with sober. because i'd been through it once before - same person, same feelings, only sober. it was hell.

but there was nothing contained about it.

i did more than i meant to, and faster than i meant to. and suddenly, my body felt like it was turning on me - heart pounding, fingers tingling, chest tight like something was sitting on it. it felt like the onset of an epileptic seizure, and those i tend to experience on the regular, only worse. i was fully aware of what was going on, yet had no way of stopping it.

i remember standing in my room, swaying slightly, thinking, i could drop right here. the walls felt too close. the light too sharp. i wasn’t high - i was terrified. terrified that i’d lose consciousness. that my mum would walk in the next morning and find me like that. that this would be the story of how i died.

and in that moment - real fear, not paranoia - i felt the weight of all the choices i’d brushed off. every time i told myself it was no big deal, every time i said: “i’ve got this under control.” every time i picked numbness over healing. all of it came crashing down in one dizzying wave. just one. all it took one was final wave of dizziness, after so many i had ignored over the years.

that was when it hit me: this isn’t just bad for me. this is destroying me. quietly, but thoroughly. and once it deals the final blow, it won't be this quiet.

this isn’t who i want to be. at all.

i'm serious about quitting for good, even though i was never addicted.

i’ve never been on the streets. never lost a job over this. never checked into rehab (okay, i've been a psych patient once before, but only because i voluntarily begged for help during a psychotic-depressive episode), and that made it easy to lie to myself; to say: "no, i’m fine, i’ve got this under control. i’m not one of those people."

but here’s the truth: this didn’t start as partying. it didn’t even start as escape.

it started as survival.

i began using to stay awake—because sleep meant nightmares, and nightmares meant reliving the trauma of being abused by someone i trusted. someone i loved. later, after surviving a murder attempt, the stakes got even higher. sleep stopped feeling like rest. it felt like giving up control. and when you’ve already had your life, your safety, your body violated, control starts to feel like everything.

so i found a workaround: don’t sleep, don’t dream. easy as that.

drugs became a way to take back the night.

a way to say, you don’t get to hurt me anymore - not even in my dreams.

i would stay awake for hours on end, careful not to wake up any other member of the household. no one even knew i was using at the time. it took me five whole years to admit to my family, because they had never once had a single suspicion before.

and maybe that would’ve been just a phase. but when you mix unresolved trauma with something that numbs your fear and keeps you functional, it’s not long before “just sometimes” becomes routine. not every day. not always the same drug, though there's always a go-to. but it's always the same reason: i don’t want to feel this.

it’s easy to fool yourself when the damage is invisible. when you’re not passed out on a bench somewhere, when pretty much no one knows. when you still show up for life, but you’re spiritually hollow.

but that final line—when my body felt like it was giving out—was my wake-up call. not because it was the worst thing i’ve ever been through, but because i finally saw it for what it was: a cheap fix for a deep wound i kept refusing to properly heal.

i’m quitting now, not because i’ve hit the stereotypical rock bottom, but because i’ve finally outgrown the lie that this is what strength looks like.

it’s not strong to avoid the pain. it’s strong to face it—and trust that god will walk you through it.

i’ve lost count of how many times i’ve felt god reaching out to me - through moments of clarity, through people he sent into my life, through the quiet voice inside that kept saying: "this is not where you belong," and every time, i’d reach back…only to turn away again when the shame crept in.

because shame is tricky like that, right?

it doesn’t just tell you that you’ve messed up. it tells you that you don’t deserve to be forgiven. that you’ve gone too far. that you’ve disappointed him one too many times. that you might as well keep fucking up, because it probably doesn't even matter anymore.

and when you’re already carrying the weight of trauma, regret, self-betrayal...it’s easy to believe it. and i did believe it, for far too long. for longer than i dared to admit.

i would use, then cry about it. pray, then go numb again. say i was done, only to end up repeating the same cycles. not because i didn’t believe in god - but because i didn’t believe he still wanted me. i thought i’d exhausted his patience. that he'd given up on me.

but i realise now, that was never god’s voice. that was shame. and shame is not the same as conviction. one pushes you deeper into hiding, and the other invites you to step into the light.

this time, i’m commited to choosing the light. it's time. i have every reason to.

not because i suddenly feel holy or healed.

but because i’m tired of breaking promises to myself...and to him.

i want to be clean not just for my body or my mind, but for my spirit. i want to be clear-headed enough to actually hear god when he speaks - and i know for a fact that he speaks to me all the time. i want to follow his path without the constant noise of chemicals and cravings and inner chaos.

this isn’t just sobriety, in a sense of forced abstinence it’s coming home, where he promises to keep me safe and protected from my demons.

in a month, i’ll turn 30. and for the first time in years, i’m not dreading it. i’m not panicking about how little i’ve done or how far i’ve fallen behind. i’m seeing it for what it is: a clean slate. a new chance at life, one void of risks of dying on my bedroom floor and ruining the lives of everyone around me.

thirty used to feel like a deadline. now, however, it feels more like a doorway.

i’ve made a promise to myself, one i actually intend to keep. i want to be sober, fully present, and at peace when that day arrives. i want to wake up on my birthday with a clear conscience and a clean heart, not dragging around the shame of another cycle i couldn’t break. i've been doing that for far too long, and in the process, lost so many precious years of my life, that i could have spent celebrating being alive, instead of trying to escape trauma by nearly dying in the process.

and even more than that - i’m preparing for my baptism.

that word used to scare me. it felt final, almost too sacred. like i had to have everything figured out before i could even consider it. not to mention that i never felt worthy of it before. but i see now that baptism isn’t the end of the journey - it’s only the beginning. it’s the declaration that says: "i’m choosing faith over fear. surrender over shame. grace over guilt."

getting baptised is how i reclaim my identity - not as a lost cause, not as someone broken beyond repair -but as someone who is deeply loved, deeply forgiven, and deeply committed to walking a new path.

so no, i’m not perfect. and yes, i’ve fallen short. but i’m ready to rise. and i’m walking into 30 not as the girl who barely survived her twenties, but as the woman who’s stepping into her healing, her purpose, and her peace.

for the longest time, i didn’t dare imagine a future...not a real one, anyway. i was too busy surviving. too used to disappointment. too familiar with that voice in my head saying: "what’s the point?"

but lately - slowly, gently - i’ve started dreaming again. not much; just enough to keep my mind busy and active.

i dream of a small town. not much happening, not much noise. just cobblestone streets, a cosy flat filled with light, and my two kittens curled up in sunbeams. i picture morning coffees on the balcony, evenings spent journaling, painting, praying. i imagine building a life that feels soft, sacred, and completely my own.

not like what i'm used to. not a life i want to escape from. not one i need drugs or distractions to tolerate, but a life where peace is the default, not the goal. where i'm finally living as my real, unmasked, god-centred self.

there’s something incredibly powerful about giving yourself permission to want that. to say: "sure, i’ve been through hell, but i still believe in heaven." not just the heaven waiting on the other side of this life, but the kind you get glimpses of right here - when you’re grounded, when you’re whole, when you’re clean.

that’s what i’m walking toward. and i just feel like it would be a good idea to document my journey as time goes by.

no filters. no fake positivity. just the real, messy, holy road to becoming someone i can finally be proud of.