Finding Your Identity in Recovery

By: Casey Polka

I once had a passion for art- in all forms.

I was passionate about painting and writing, and after having two pieces of my writing published I knew I wanted to someday be a full-time writer. I was full of life and passion for creating. I was full of love for people who shared the same pain as I did.

My symptoms of mental illness became apparent at a very early age, and quickly snowballed into a problem that controlled my life. I had always felt empty or as if I didn’t belong- as if I had no real purpose for being alive. I found peace in the chaos through creating. I had a very, very small shimmer of hope inside me that maybe one day, I wouldn’t have to struggle with the things I did.

Until I got high for the first time.

Until I thought that drugs were a quicker and what seemed to be a more efficient way of numbing the pain I felt.

Soon I was no longer an artist.

I was no longer full of life, love, or anything purposeful.

Eventually, I was no longer me.

I bought the lie that my addiction sold me- which was as long as I am high, as long as I am numb, I will be just fine.

I bought the lie that drugs were my friend.

That they were there to heal every past hurt or pain from the past.

I remember thinking that being high was the real peace within the chaos.

My identity was gone- I was gone. With each failed attempt to become sober, I started to realize that I no longer held a spot for the things I once loved.

For the people I once loved.

I tried with every ounce of me to gain my true self back. I sat down to write and nothing came out. I sat down to paint and stared at an empty canvas.

After almost losing my life to my addiction, I decided to give sobriety a final try. I walked into an inpatient rehab facility with nothing but a suitcase, fear, and a spark of hope.

After my body had cleansed itself of all substances, I decided to take that spark of hope and ignite it.

I spent my spare time, when not in groups, reading and studying this thing that had taken full control over me. I spent my time learning what mental illness and addiction really is, and how it relates to me.

I started writing a sentence each morning which eventually led to my pen not leaving the paper for hours.

I began speaking again.

I began looking people in the eyes again.

I felt life springing its way back into me.

I felt purpose for the first time in years.

When it was time to leave treatment, I had a pit of anxiety in my stomach because I still didn’t know who I was supposed to be.